The Helpdesk

by S.A. Dunphy

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

SHE TOOK CONTROL OF HIS COMPUTER. NOW HE'S LOST CONTROL OF HIS LIFE . . .

Someone is always watching

James Fitzpatrick is a high-profile lawyer at a successful City firm. He's married to Bella. She's beautiful and clever, a teacher at a prestigious private school.

They have the perfect lives.

But then, one night, James loses a file for a multi-million pound deal he's working on and in desperation contacts the company's IT helpdesk. A woman named Charlotte answers his call, setting in motion a series of events set to shatter James' and Bella's lives.

In the weeks after, James is accused of more mistakes at work, ones he doesn't remember making and can't explain. Meanwhile Bella finds herself the target of vicious rumours at school - and no one seems willing to believe her side of the story.

Everything started with that one phone call.

Who is the woman at the other side of the computer screen? And why do Bella and James suddenly find their privileged existence in peril?

Release date: January 19, 2023

Publisher: Hachette Books Ireland

Print pages: 320

Sample

It’s funny how everything can be going just perfectly and then, out of the blue, completely out of left field, comes a gut punch you really weren’t expecting, and everything is knocked arse over tit.

Okay, when I say things were going perfectly, that’s probably an exaggeration. I mean, I’d been working flat out for weeks, and was bloody exhausted.

I was barely sleeping, grabbing two or three hours at home before rushing back to the offices of London law firm Astley, Clifford and Kenworthy, where I was a senior associate on the Corporate and Mergers and Acquisitions team, to continue working. I’d creep in to our apartment in the small hours of the morning, anxious not to wake Bella, crash in the spare bedroom, with a 7 a.m. taxi pre-booked to take me back to the office before whatever meeting was due to begin.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not the ideal way to work, and it’s even less ideal for a marriage, but sometimes – like when you’re driving yourself hard in a bid to make partner – it’s necessary.

Partnership is so close I can smell it.

You can function pretty well on virtually no sleep for a day or so, but by the time you’re hitting the second night you’re more likely to make mistakes. This isn’t a physical job we lawyers do, so the issue with lack of sleep isn’t that you’re going to accidentally cut off a finger or drop something onto your toe or take a misstep and break your ankle. For a corporate lawyer, the problem is very much a mental one.

After a couple of nights with little to no sleep, your mind begins to get foggy. Information you can usually access instantaneously, brought to mind without thinking, seems to be a long way away, or, worst-case scenario, you can’t remember it at all. In a job where the ability to communicate is your most essential tool, you start to trip over words, and your speech can become slurred. When a person is really fucking exhausted, it can sound as if they’re drunk. And that’s not a good look for a lawyer.

I’d tried to get as much sleep as I could during the early days of the Fahlberg/Copping merger. But it all caught up on me.

In more ways than one.

I’d been there three nights in a row before the ‘incident’ occurred.

I don’t think my wife Bella even noticed I was gone, to be honest. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d headed off to work and only been back for a few hours here and there. But it was the first time I’d done so and not called to let her know. Interestingly, she hadn’t messaged me to find out where I was, either. Which says a lot, I think.

Bella and I used to be so tight, so together. In the early days, when she was a shit-hot doctoral student – a rising star in the field of psychology – and I was an up-and-coming lawyer, tipped to shake up the City, we’d make it our business to create time for one another. We would get together for lunch a few times a week, arrange date nights and book weekends away where we barely got out of bed.

It hasn’t been like that for a while. My career went stratospheric, and hers … well, her thesis research didn’t come to what she’d hoped, and she made the jump into teaching. So while she’s finished teaching the rich teenage students of Ashton Wood and at home by 5 p.m., I’m usually still at the office. It got harder and harder to find a free weekend, and I’m lucky if I even get to eat lunch at my desk these days.

I had to prioritise. Making partner would benefit us both, even if it meant we didn’t get to see one another as much as we’d like to.

I did get the impression Bella was losing patience with the whole thing, though. There had been a coldness there, a distance for a while now. I tried to tell myself it was that we were both tired – I mean, teaching teenagers can’t be easy, can it?

But I knew it was more than that.

I had been pulling a series of all-nighters on the Fahlberg/Copping merger, and it was on night four when I hit a serious bump in the road. This merger was the most significant – I would go so far as to say – the most historic deal my firm has ever handled.

And this bump threatened to derail all the work we’d done.

Let me explain.

Fahlberg Financials, a banking and investment company, and Copping International Insurance (which does exactly as their name suggests) were both large and extremely successful multinational companies who had, in a bid to widen their profit margins, decided to come together.

My firm was acting for Fahlberg Financials, which brought more headaches with it than you could imagine. While on the face of it Fahlberg was simply your standard massive banking corporation, those of us privy to the behind-the-scenes antics were aware there was a shady side to their dealings. We also had to contend with the fact that the CEO of their parent company had a rather colourful reputation – one that left a bad taste in my mouth, if I stopped to think about it.

But all of that comes with the job. Lawyers are trained to push aside their personal scruples and just do what they’re paid to do, within the confines of the law. So that is exactly what I did. I didn’t like the guy. But I didn’t have to have much to do with him.

I, and several other grey-faced associates from various other practice groups around the firm, had spent long days, and even longer nights, trawling through documentation in a data room as part of an intense due diligence process. We had to carefully examine and inspect every single aspect of Copping’s affairs – from its assets, liabilities, intellectual property right down to shareholder information and employment contracts. We had to ensure Fahlberg knew exactly what they were taking on, and also, and most importantly, to determine the price to be paid.

I had been given the responsibility of collating all the information and drafting the due diligence report. This was a big deal for me, and I had been grateful when Kenworthy had barged into my office a few weeks ago to bestow this honour upon me. I knew partnership was within my grasp and I couldn’t fuck this up. This report was critical as to whether the merger would go ahead or not. Everything could literally fall apart on the basis of this report and, if this deal didn’t go ahead, my bid to make partner would stall.

And finally, at one in the morning, after weeks of arduous work, I finished the report. It was ready to be sent to Fahlberg’s senior management. Once this document was read and accepted, a meeting would be called in which Fahlberg would formally initiate their side of the merger, and ideally things could move to the next stage.

I had uploaded the document to a secure folder in the company cloud and attached a link to the email. Everything now in order, I was about to click ‘send’, when, just to be sure, I decided to check the link to be certain it would bring me to the correct file.

And the link didn’t work.

I hit the left-side button on the mouse three times, each with increasing levels of annoyance and panic, and then right-clicked instead. The first option in the drop-down window this produced was: ‘Open link in new tab.’

With some relief I clicked on this, but rather than revealing the folder containing the report I had spent the day writing, to my horror the screen froze momentarily before showing a message window:

Error executing script _import_not found

Swearing, I forced myself to remain calm. I had uploaded everything to the system, so it had to be there, and even if it wasn’t, I still had the original file, so could go right back to square one, which would be really fucking annoying, but if I had to …

Taking a deep breath, I held the on/off button on my laptop for ten seconds, causing it to power down. I left it for a bit, getting up and pacing my small office for a couple of minutes, then switched it back on again.

‘Right, James, let’s not get over excited,’ I said to myself, and opened my email account, going directly to the Drafts folder.

The text of the email was there, but without the attached link.

Staving off panic, I logged onto the OneDrive that was the company’s little corner of the cloud.

There was no sign of the file there, either.

I’d like to say I dealt with the issue with stoic good humour, but that would be a lie. I was, in fact, beginning to freak out. This was a perfect fucking example of how working yourself into a state of exhaustion is a really bad idea. Slowly and deliberately, I went to the flash drive I use, a 30GB affair that is only for transferring large files from one computer to another. It’s purely a transport device, and as soon as I’m finished with it, I delete what’s on there.

I plugged it into the USB port, and then clicked on the respective icon that emerged on my laptop’s toolbar.

It, too, was empty. I must have, unconsciously, as a matter of routine, deleted everything as soon as the file uploaded.

This was not good.

I had somehow lost the due diligence report, which contained commercially sensitive and highly privileged information, somewhere in Astley, Clifford and Kenworthy’s company cloud.

I knew I had uploaded the files. So they were definitely there. But where exactly? That was my problem. Where? And what the fuck even is the cloud anyway? I always imagine some kind of ethereal filing cabinet floating about somewhere in space, but I have no idea if this is accurate. I’m not a tech head and won’t apologise for it.

That’s if it even was still in our cloud, of course. It might not be.

And now, the report on which the whole deal rested was lost. It would take me days to redraft it, which would make both me and the firm look hugely incompetent. We could lose not only the client, and the huge fees that were set to run into the millions, but I would lose any chance of partnership.

I was in trouble. Serious trouble.

And I knew it.

For a few seconds, I just sat at my desk, gazing blankly at the screen. I didn’t know what to do.

My mind froze. It just locked.

I got up, paced the few steps it took to traverse the length of my office, and then back again, but that didn’t seem to bring any fresh solutions to mind, so I opened the door and half-ran/half-walked the long corridor outside, trying to just shake myself back into some semblance of calm. I thought the exercise might burn off some adrenaline and permit me to think.

It half worked.

I’d done maybe three laps of the space when my knees came unhinged and I sank into a heap on the floor, panting heavily. For what felt like an eternity I just lay there, gazing at the ceiling through the darkness, wondering if I was having a stroke. When enough time had passed and I could still feel both sides of my face and had full use of all my limbs, I realised I was, in fact, having a panic attack, and slowly dragged myself upright.

I took long, deep breaths and told myself that, yes, I was deeply in the shit, but I was also a smart guy, and I’d been up to my neck in it before and survived. I would this time too.

I just needed to work out what to do.

I stiffly made my way back to the office and sat down, gazing at the screen of my laptop, which seemed to be peering back at me with an accusing eye. I pulled over a legal pad and began to compile a list of options:

1.Turn my computer off and on again – which seems to be the panacea for all computer ills.

I’d already tried this, though, and it hadn’t worked. It struck me that trying a second time was unlikely to end in a different result.

2.Put the file names into the ‘Search’ facility on my computer menu. Maybe they were on my hard drive somewhere.

I did, but to no effect. Wherever they were, they weren’t on my computer.

3.Search my email folders. Maybe I had somehow, without realising it, attached the link to another email, or sent it to myself rather than the client.

I gave this a go and drew another blank.

4.Admit I know nothing about fucking computers, and ask someone who does.

I wrote that sentence on the pad, and stopped for a moment, looking at it.

The reality is that I do know very, very little about the inner workings of a computer or how the internet does what it does or what the cloud is or any of that. I have a Facebook page and an Instagram account, neither of which I really use, and Twitter scares me – why would anyone want to spend their leisure time on something so toxic?

As far as I’m concerned, computers are tools for my work, and I don’t have a lot to do with them other than that.

I was out of my depth, and I knew it.

But who could I ask?

There’s an associate on our team called William Sullivan who has a reputation for knowing a thing or two about computers, and I wondered if he might be working late. But that seemed a dim hope, and would I want to admit to a lowly junior associate that I had screwed up to this level?

I got up again and stretched, walked around my desk and leaned in the open doorway, feeling the coolness of the almost empty building. I could go and see who else was working late, I supposed. See if there was a friendly face among them. Someone might take pity on me.

I dismissed that idea almost immediately. Would I have taken pity on someone in a similar circumstance? I had to admit there was no fucking way I would. I’d see it for the opportunity it was and bide my time before feeding the poor unfortunate to the wolves, hoping I’d step into whichever part of the gap they left that benefitted me the most.

What I needed was technical support, but I had no idea which firm our company was using, and I didn’t know anyone I trusted enough to ask.

I was about to give in to despair when my eyes fell on my laptop. My gaze fixed on something stuck to the back of the screen. There, right in the middle of the laptop cover, was a sticker with red lettering on it, and below the lettering what looked to be a number, in black digits. I walked over quickly, and saw this:

For 24hr assistance, call the Tech Helpdesk at: 020 4366 7811

Could this number solve my plight, or just confirm that I had royally screwed up? I decided there was no harm in dialling it just to see who answered and if they could help. The assistance the firm offered might be only to fix hardware malfunctions, for instance, and therefore be of little benefit in my current dire straits. And who knew, with the rapid turnover of staff in phone support, there may be no one on the other end when I called anyway.

I picked up the office line and dialled. It rang once. Twice. And then a very clear, confident ‘Hello?’

‘Hello,’ I said, all business, ‘is this Tech Helpdesk?’

‘Yes, this is Tech Helpdesk,’ the voice said, and I could hear it was a young woman. And one who spoke English with a mild London accent. ‘Can you please provide me with the name of your company?’

‘I’m with Astley, Clifford and Kenworthy.’

‘Thank you. And your name is?’

‘James Fitzpatrick.’

‘Hold on, Mr Fitzpatrick. I’m Charlotte, and I’ll be on your system in just a second. Once I’m in, I’ll be able to help you.’

‘Okay.’

I could hear computer keys rattling, and her gentle breathing.

‘So what can I do for you this morning, Mr Fitzpatrick?’

‘I’ve lost a file.’

‘Could you clarify what you mean by lost?’

‘I uploaded it to the cloud, tried to attach a link to an email, and when I went to check the link was operational, it all seemed to disappear.’

‘So, you accidentally deleted it?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said, probably with more annoyance in my tone than she deserved. ‘All I know is that the folder disappeared.’

‘I understand. Could you tell me the name of the folder?’

‘FahlCoppInt,’ I said, spelling it for her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, keys clattering the whole time. ‘Now. Let me walk you through this, and let’s see if we can get your folder back.’

‘Can you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I think so,’ she said soothingly, and in that moment I think I felt a rush of love for Charlotte on the Helpdesk.

It’s irrational, I know. But I think I did.

I would remember that, later.

‘Your company is using an IaaS system.’

‘I don’t know that that means.’

‘Astley, Clifford and Kenworthy rents the server and the storage. You’re using something called OpenStack, which is very common. Lots of companies utilise it and it has very thorough and reliable backup systems.’

‘That sounds positive,’ I said.

‘It is. I can see your firm uses something called Triliovault.’

‘Which is?’

She laughed.

‘It’s a mechanism for backing up everything that goes on to the cloud. You can think of it as a series of safety nets, one hung below the others, so even if something slips through the first, or even the second, it’ll get caught on the third. It’s virtually foolproof.’

‘How do I access the backed-up files?’

‘Okay, are you on your OneDrive?’

She talked me through it, step-by-step. Her commands were always clear and precise, and even when I fluffed things occasionally, she was patient and went right back to the point where I’d gotten confused and did it all over again, never losing her cool.

It took us two and a half hours to retrieve the folder that contained my file. The backup system involved a sequence of tiers, each of which had countless directories into which different types of data were stored. It was hugely confusing, and I realised quite quickly that I would never excel in the field of IT, but Charlotte patiently went through the process of retrieving the file, and by 4 a.m. I had located the missing file and it was ready to be uploaded again.

By this stage, Charlotte and I were chatting away as if we’d known one another for years. It’s funny – as soon as I realised she was confident in what she was doing, I relaxed. I knew I was in safe hands.

And she was funny in a nerdy kind of way. Not uproariously so, but, yeah funny, and she was clever.

At one stage, for instance, we were painstakingly scrolling through a User file, looking for the file name.

‘It feels like I’m on a cop show,’ I said to her. I was talking because I felt a bit helpless. I was there, but she was doing all the work, and that bothered me. I hated it, being so useless.

‘Hunting for clues,’ she agreed.

‘Yeah,’ I went on. ‘Except it’s not one of those glamorous shows. It’s one where the detectives have to put on surgical gloves and climb into a dumpster to look for DNA the killer might have left on a scrap of tissue paper. They have to pick through every gross piece of garbage to get what they need. This feels like the digital equivalent of picking our way through rubbish. I mean, what even is all this stuff?’

She laughed.

‘This isn’t the bin we’re in. It’s the inner workings of the drive system. We are inside the machine, looking at all the things that make it tick. Have you ever seen the movie Fantastic Voyage? It’s a nineteen sixty-six film with Donald Pleasence and Raquel Welch.’

I had to tell her I hadn’t.

‘It’s about a group of medics and soldiers who are miniaturised and injected into the body of a comatose scientist who has defected from the Soviet Union. The unconscious man has information that might stop the Cold War, and they have to remove a clot from his brain so he can live and pass on his secrets. The team encounter all kinds of wonders and obstacles on their way to complete their mission, seeing all the amazing things that make the body function.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said.

‘It is. It’s a wonderful film.’ She hesitated. ‘Sorry, am I boring you? I can be a bit of a nerd.’

‘The only nerdy stuff I li. . .