He looked up, panic bleaching his skin. ‘I’ve been sabotaged. Somebody’s been in here.’

Kirsty went over and closed the door, saying to Brian, ‘You’d better call back later.’

‘But my computer…’

‘Later.’

She sat and held Jamie as he shook, his face buried against her chest. Eventually, he looked up and said, ‘I’ve got some phone calls to make.’

It wasn’t just that the computer was knackered. He had been violated, and his name was attached to the virus, which might have been sent to dozens, hundreds or thousands of people. God yes, he had been violated.

Somebody had been in the flat.

And he knew who.

Somebody had violated him.

Oh yes, he knew who it was.

But what are you going to do about it?

He stood up and looked at the monitor. As he stood there, a shaft of sunlight illuminated the screen. The dust on the screen twinkled and, horrified, Jamie saw a word etched in the dust, drawn with somebody’s fingertip. A single word:

danger

He spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone to Norton Anti-Virus.. He had been right – the virus was brand new, so his own virus checker software, and the virus checkers of anyone else who might have downloaded it, wouldn’t have detected the virus. He was going to have to rebuild his hard drive, and any work saved on the system was lost.

Still, that was the least of his worries.

He drove into work with dread in his heart. As soon as he walked into the office he knew his fears weren’t unfounded. People looked at him then looked away quickly, their gazes burning his back as he walked to his desk. He sat down opposite Mike.

‘I hate to say this, Jamie, but you’re in deep shit. George Banks wants to see you.’

George Banks was the manager of Jamie’s section. Jamie had never been called in to see him before. As he walked towards Mr Banks’s office he felt like a Death Row prisoner walking towards the electric chair. His colleagues stared at him; he thought he could hear them whispering as he passed by.

He’s going to get the sack. He’s going to get the sack.

‘Jamie.’ George Banks leaned forward across the desk. He was in his late forties but, with his bald head and bloodshot eyes, looked older: a good advert, Jamie had thought before, for staying below managerial level. ‘Do you know what I like to do on Saturday afternoons?’

Jamie shook his head.