Free Those We Left Behind by Stuart Neville Page B

be able to look down on the Waterfront Hall, and across to the crystal dome of the Victoria Square shopping mall. Further in the distance, the high rise of the Divis Tower to the west of the city, the mountains beyond.
    But he did not look out of the windows. Instead, his attention remained fixed on his monitor.
    Another notification popped up on the display: a name, telephone number, a link to open the customer’s details. Someone who had only a few moments before supplied their personal information to a website that provided car insurance quotes. If he clicked on the link, the person’s details would appear on his screen and he would hear a ringtone in the earpiece of his headset as the system called the customer, and he would ask them if the quotes they’d received had met their expectations, and could he clarify any of the deals, perhaps see if he could better any of them?
    As often as not, the customer would be annoyed at the intrusion, tell him firmly but politely that they had only wanted a price and hadn’t expected to be bothered with a phone call. Sometimes the customer would swear and hang up. But occasionally, enough times to make the exercise worthwhile, the customer would feel pressured into agreeing to a purchase and he would take the long number on the face of their debit card, please, thank you, I’ll get that organised for you right now if you’ll hold for just a moment.
    But Daniel did not click the link. After a few seconds, the notification would disappear and reappear on another member of staff’s screen. He was well ahead of his calls-per-hour quota so he could afford to ignore a few sales leads for the moment.
    He entered the car’s registration number into the form and waited while the circle spun in front of his eyes, telling him the system was working, digging for the information he had requested.
    There.
    Name: Paula Jessica Cunningham.
    Daniel checked the date of birth, counted in his head. She’d turned thirty-six four months ago.
    Single. No other drivers named on her policy; she’d removed an Alexandra Stephanie Pierson when she’d last renewed. Claimed for a windscreen replacement two years ago. Three points for a speeding offence that were about to expire. Clean apart from that.
    Profession: Civil servant. Probation officer. Daniel had guessed that much as he lay awake thinking about her the night before.
    Two telephone numbers, a landline and a mobile. He checked her address. East of the city, Sydenham, the warren of two-up-two-down terraced houses that stood beneath the airport’s flight path. He imagined the glasses rattling in her cupboards as jets descended overhead.
    Daniel grabbed his notebook from the backpack that sat tucked under his desk, began scribbling down the information. He could have sent the page to the printer at the far side of the office, but the risk was too great. Taking data off the premises meant instant dismissal.
    Next, he opened the credit history page, copied and pasted her name and address across. A few seconds of processing, and he had her financial life laid out before him.
    Two credit cards, three store cards, accounts at two different banks, and a mortgage at a third. A year ago she’d allowed her cards to ride close to their limits, then a late payment on her mortgage, before she’d got it under control and began chipping away at the balances. Nothing unusual. Almost every credit report he looked at showed something similar. Certainly not enough to prevent her getting a monthly payment plan for her car insurance, which she had.
    A new notification appeared on his screen. Not a sales lead this time, but a note from the company’s internal messaging system. He clicked the link to open the message.
    Melanie Sherry, the Human Resources manager, asking if he could pop into her office when he had a free minute.
    Daniel said, ‘Shit.’
    He took off his headset, packed his notebook away, and changed his system status to say he was away from his