I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

be a library full of unread leather-bound classics.
    “Anatole, mate,” Daz greeted him enthusiastically. His pupils looked a little uneven: so it was one of those parties, eh?
    His eyes wandered over me and he said dismissively, “Servants are downstairs, mate.”
    Yuri gave me a superior look. I doffed an imaginary cap, and ambled towards the kitchen to find myself a bottle of beer.
    I wasn’t planning on drinking the beer. But it’s a hell of a useful prop.
    A week or two before, an SO17 operative, posing as a glossy gossip mag journalist, had obtained access to Daz’s home and security systems. She’d provided me with a floor plan and computer codes for the system which ran everything from his automatic lights to the burglar alarm.
    Beer in hand, I passed a couple of rooms where tattooed premier league footballers danced, shirtless, on tables, while their painfully thin, bleached’n’tanned, over-manicured, over-exposed wives and girlfriends lolled about drinking Cristal and gossiping about each others’ boob jobs. Daz’s office was on the upper floor, which was officially off limits to the party-goers. This rule was enforced by a door hidden by the turn of the grand staircase, which could only be opened by means of a swipe card and keypad code.
    But I wasn’t headed there yet. Security cameras whirred in every room, and it occurred to me that if I could sell their contents to the tabloids, I could make a fortune.
    I made my way down the driveway, breath making clouds in the cold, damp air, to the guards hut at the entrance to the grounds. There were a couple of men on duty here, checking invitations and watching C-list celebs making fools of themselves on the CCTV. In the corner, a tacky soap opera was airing yet another Christmas special on a TV so small and tinny it was almost unwatchable.
    I clinked together a couple of beer bottles. They were unopened, but the sleeping pills in my pocket could be added in the blink of an eye.
    “Hey lads, thought you might fancy a…” I pushed the door open, and trailed off. Both men were fast asleep, lolling in their chairs, snoring loudly. One of them was covered in tea from the mug he’d dropped on the floor.
    Someone had already been here.
    Shit.
    I sniffed at the spilt tea, but it didn’t yield any special secrets to me. There was a sweet smell in the air, but it wasn’t anything that had been added to the guards’ drinks. Setting down my bottles, I glanced around for a security camera and saw one pointed at the computer bank.
    Well, that was helpful.
    Tapping into the system, I started to check the records of the guards hut camera, only to discover that it hadn’t recorded anything for the last half hour…and that the preceding ten minutes had been wiped from the system’s memory.
    When I checked the rest of the circuit, I found that while every camera was displaying an image on the screens, none of it was being recorded.
    Curiouser and curiouser. I logged into the system memory to see who had switched off the recording. And discovered that it had been done by Daz King.
    Or, at least, someone with Daz’s security code.
    I sniffed the air again. That sweet smell was a little bit like perfume. Actually, a lot like perfume.
    Well well, I thought. Looks like we have a femme fatale on our hands here, Nate. And three guesses as to who it is?
     
    Luke thinks it’s hilarious that I named my gun, but I know for a fact that he talks to his. Anyway, I like my gun. It’s been very helpful to me in tight spots. It’s called Belinda, after the girl who helped me pass English when I was 16.
    I had Belinda—the gun, this time, not the girl—in a brace under my jacket, and my hand hovered ready to draw her as I made my way to Daz’s study. But the room appeared empty, the only light coming from the computer screen which made everything look green and rather spooky.
    But being a big strong scary spy, I wasn’t scared. Much.
    A quick sweep of the room revealed no one hiding in a darkened corner, so I set down my gun and checked out the computer. There were no programs open, so if anyone had been here before me, I didn’t know what they were looking for. And I wasn’t sure I had the luxury of hanging around to find out.
    I stuck a USB stick into the computer, and started downloading files. I didn’t check their contents, just got everything from the hard drive, as well as an internet cache and list of bookmarks. I could check them all out later. It’d be