IMOGEN Beeley had, perhaps, been a little over-effusive in her endorsement of Hector’s compliments. Jacqui was no screen idol or fashion goddess, yet she had a charm and attractiveness which was all her own. Fairly slim, with small features surrounded by a bushy mop of short, light brown hair, a nose which verged on the aquiline, and hazel eyes spaced fairly wide apart beneath prominent eyebrows, she nevertheless took care of her appearance and used makeup effectively. She had met Paul when they were both students, and had been attracted to his somewhat careless, phlegmatic approach to matters that she, on the other hand, felt to be of great importance and interest. This character trait of Paul enabled her to exert some control over him, which acted as a counter to his habit of often teasing or patronising her.

She had become endowed with a very searching, enquiring person­ality, probably due in some measure to her childhood conversations with Gavin. Indeed, while she was occupied as a crime reporter on the local paper, the Mercury, she had taken on hand some personal investigations into local crimes, and written up her inferences—something which had earned the paper the displeasure of the Chief Constable and had led to her being transferred to the Sports pages. But she knew that the ‘detective’ bent was in her makeup. She fancied herself almost as a Sherlock Holmes—Sherlock Holmes in a skirt!

*

In bed that evening, Paul was asleep and snoring almost at once, but it was some time before Jacqui could nod off. Tossing and turning in the bed, she was going over in her mind all possible interpretations of the mysterious words There is no key. Was there, perhaps, a secret locked room in the Hartmead house—a house long since sold? Jacqui couldn’t remember any. Or even just a cupboard, or a desk? If there was ‘no key’, were the words an instruction to force entry into something or somewhere? But almost all of Gavin’s furniture had been sold, along with the house, when he moved into the care home. Jacqui couldn’t remember any suspicious or inaccessible items. And the smaller mementos amongst his personal possessions—mostly photographs—Jacqui and Paul had most of them in their house—apart from those which Grandad had kept by his side. There was nothing amongst them which could offer any sort of clue.

Jacqui ran over in her mind the checklist of every item which they had brought back when the house was sold, as well as she could recall—plus everything by Grandad’s bedside. There was nothing to shed any light. Eventually she drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, before breakfast, Jacqui insisted on searching through the family photographs—some of them dating back to Gavin’s National Service days. Amongst them, she discovered, was a snapshot of a youthful Gavin in sergeant’s uniform with another sergeant beside him. Scrutinising the second man closely, she could just about make out a resemblance to the aged Hector Beeley she had met yesterday. So that part of Hector’s story was confirmed, at any rate: he and Gavin had served together in the Army.

Paul was sceptical about the mystery message: he’d concluded that it was just an old man’s rambling and meant nothing. But he remind­ed Jacqui that she must ring the solicitor’s without delay. According­ly, as soon as she arrived at work, Jacqui called the number on the card, and an appointment was duly arranged for them to visit Mr Peters the following day. Jacqui was asked to bring along her birth and marriage certificates.

Jacqui had much on her mind that day and found it hard to concentrate on her work: fortunately, her current work on the sports page was more or less a sinecure—provided she got the goal scorers’ names right!

*

Promptly the following day, Paul and Jacqui presented themselves in Mr Peters’ rather untidy and dingy little office. He invited them to sit down.

“First of all, Mrs Coombes, may I see the documents I asked you to bring?” he began. Jacqui passed them over, and Mr Peters examined them for a while.

“Ah, I see on your birth certificate that your birth surname was ‘Law’. But it appears to have been changed to your maternal grand­father’s name, Hartmead. Can you explain the circumstances?”

“No problem,” replied Jacqui. “After my father, John Law, left us, when I was still a small child, my mother took back her maiden name—and I was given the same surname. The Deed Polls should be there somewhere,” pointing to the documents on the desk. Jacqui did not want to relate the circumstances: how her drunken and violent father had abused both her mother and herself, and how it was a great relief to both of them when he finally disappeared without trace.

“Ah, I see now. That is satisfactory,” continued Mr Peters, after looking through the documents. “As you’ve probably guessed, Mrs Coombes, it’s about your Grandfather’s Will. Well, from your perspective, it’s good news and some not-so-good news. The Will is moderately straightforward. It was drawn up before Mrs June Hart­mead’s decease, and stipulated that should she still be alive, she should receive for the rest of her life the interest on his estate which would be placed in trust for you, to inherit upon her decease. But the Will also stipulated that should Mrs Hartmead die first (as was indeed the case), the whole estate should pass to you, with the exception of a charity bequest of £1,000 made out to a somewhat obscure children’s hospice. Can you shed any light on the reason for that bequest?”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“No,” replied Jacqui. “I didn’t think Grandad had any sort of connection with children’s charities. But there are episodes in his life which he was very secretive about: he never told me. He may have told my mother, but not me.”

“Now we come to the not-so-good news, which I think will not really surprise you,” continued Mr Peters. “As you must surely know, the cost of your grandfather’s stay in the private care home swallowed up most of his savings, as well as the proceeds from the sale of the family residence. This is not uncommon, I’m afraid: elderly people who need constant care towards the end of their lives often see their life savings disappear in this way.

“But I estimate that your share of the estate, after deductions of fees etc., will come to a little over £18,000.”

Paul gave a low whistle. “Eighteen grand? That’s not so bad? It’ll go part way towards the new motor I’m thinking of getting…”

“May I remind you, Mr Coombes, that the bequest goes to Mrs Coombes, not to you?” said Mr Peters, rather testily.

“Sorry—I was only joking. Perhaps, Jacqui my dear, of course you’ll lend me enough for some new roller-skates?” They all laughed.

“Now, there’s one other thing I need to explain to you. Mr Hart­mead left express instructions that one of his possessions, a laptop computer, was to be handed over to you immediately—and further­more he asked that we should keep the laptop in our safe. He passed it to me before he was moved to the care home. He said it was important. Normally I would require that we wait for probate before disposing of any property, but since the laptop is evidently an old model of little or no value, I am willing to make an exception.” He picked up the phone. “Joan, could you bring me the laptop from the safe? The late Mr Hartmead’s?”

At this unexpected turn of events, both Jacqui and Paul were perplexed. Did the laptop contain unfinished Works which Gavin had expected Jacqui to complete? But, even had she possessed the skill, Jacqui had neither the time nor the inclination to carry out such a task. Perhaps the intention was to pass the work on to a competent Sci-fi author.

In a few minutes the laptop was brought in. It was indeed a model of well over ten years’ vintage. Paul asked if he could try booting it up, but he had no luck: the battery was completely flat.

“Did Mr Hartmead leave a charger, along with the laptop?” he asked.

“No. Just the laptop. And I’m afraid we’re unlikely to have a charger here in the office that will fit. You’ll have to try and obtain one yourself. I wish you luck.”

The rest of the appointment was spent going through paperwork and signing forms, and finally Jacqui and Paul took their leave of Mr Peters, and returned home bearing the mysterious laptop.

*

Once at home, they tried various chargers lying around the house, but none of them would fit. In the end, at Jacqui’s insistence, Paul agreed to set out for a small computer shop he knew of, that offered support for old hardware.

Within a couple of hours he was back. “No joy on the charger, and the man said the battery would also most likely be shot and beyond recovery—and replacements no longer obtainable. But he said he’d try to get the hard drive out and transfer it to another, secondhand laptop he could offer me—assuming all I was interested in was the data on it. So I’ve left it with him. Will still cost a small packet, I’m afraid.”

The next day Paul called in at the shop once again. “Well, I’ve managed to get this computer to boot up with your hard drive,” was the report, “but it’s asking for a password: the drive is encrypted. Without that I can’t go any further, sorry.”

“I don’t have it either, but perhaps my wife has the password,” said Paul, as he thanked the man, paid up, and left with the replacement laptop.

In the evening, when Jacqui came home, she admitted that she had no idea what password her Grandad might have used. They tried everything they could think of: June, Beatrice, or Jacqueline, obviously, with various permutations of upper and lower case. They tried typing in the names backwards: enuj, ecirtaeb, enileuqcaj, also without result. They tried Gavin’s date of birth, and June’s, and their wedding date, also Beatrice’s birthday. The street where they had lived, with and without the house number, telephone number, places in New Zealand, Gavin’s various car number plates such as they could remember; all fruitless.

“Grandad can’t have made the password totally obscure, can he?” observed Jacqui. “I mean: not a random jumble of letters and digits, like those ‘strong’ passwords the banks force you to use. He must surely have wanted me to guess it somehow—otherwise why bother to leave me the laptop in the first place? So it’s around somewhere—but I’m stumped.”

“So am I,” agreed Paul. “Look, Jacqui, we’ve been hours trying to get into this wretched thing, and I’m tired. Let’s sleep on it. Maybe something will occur to you in the morning…”

*

But once again, Jacqui found it hard to sleep. What could that infuriating password possibly be? Had Grandad dropped any hint? As she lay in bed wide-awake, it occurred to Jacqui that this was the second time in three nights that she had taken a long time to go to sleep. What was it that had kept her awake that time? Not the laptop, obviously: they hadn’t yet been given it. No, it was something she’d been told: some mysterious words—

“Paul!” she cried out, causing him to wake with a start and sit up. “Paul! That strange message: the one we got from old Mr Beeley, you remember? ‘There is no key’. What if, by ‘key’, Grandad meant ‘password’? ‘There is no password’! But no—what’s the use of a computer that’s encrypted, if there’s no password to unlock it?”

“Leave it till morning,” replied Paul, wearily. “Maybe you are on the right track, but I can’t concentrate on it now. Nor can you. Now try and get some sleep.”