Free Fatal Error by Michael Ridpath Page B

opinionated in others, every piece was concise, clear and interesting.
    ‘This guy knows his stuff,’ I said. ‘That is, assuming it is all one guy.’
    ‘Oh, it is.’
    ‘What’s his name? Gaz?’ I said, peering at the screen.
    ‘His full name is Gary Morris and he lives in Hemel Hempstead.’
    ‘But who’s behind it?’
    ‘No one. Just him. It’s an unofficial site. He probably has a day job, but spends the rest of his waking life watching football and reading and writing about it.’
    ‘So what do we do?’
    ‘It’s our first corporate acquisition, Mr Bigshot. We’re going to buy Sick As A Parrot.’
    ‘For how much?’
    ‘I don’t know. A pint of lager and a packet of peanuts? We won’t find out until we meet Gaz.’
    ‘And when are we going to do that?’
    Guy looked at his watch. ‘In about two hours.’
    Number 26 Paget Close was a white pebbledashed terraced house in a row of white pebbledashed terraced houses. We opened the low wooden gate and stepped carefully through a tiny, immaculately kept front garden. A plastic ginger cat guarded the door. Guy rang the bell. It chimed sweetly.
    A small but stout woman with tight grey curls appeared.
    Guy hesitated for a moment, but he recovered quickly. ‘Mrs Morris?’ he asked with his best smile, which was generally recognized as a pretty good smile.

    The woman glowed. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Is your son in?’
    ‘You’re the people from the internet company, aren’t you?’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Guy. ‘I’m Guy Jourdan, Chief Executive, and this is my Finance Director, David Lane.’
    ‘Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home. Gary’s still at work, but he should be back any minute now.’ She led us through to a small living room. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ And then hastily, to make sure we hadn’t misunderstood her: ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’
    Guy and I sank into a deep chintz-covered sofa while Mrs Morris busied herself in the kitchen. Then we heard the front door open and close and a male voice call ‘Hi, Mum!’
    ‘Those internet people are here to see you, dear.’
    Gaz appeared. He was a thin man in his early twenties, dressed in light blue shirt and blue trousers with red piping. A postman. Guy was wearing black jeans and a lightweight black polo-necked jersey. I was in an old denim shirt and crumpled green trousers. We all sat down on the three-piece suite and the takeover battle began.
    He was no fool, Gaz. Guy started on some spiel about how ninetyminutes.com was a leading European internet holding company, when Gaz stopped him.
    ‘You’re just two blokes with some bullshit, aren’t you? I know all the footie websites, and ninetyminutes.com isn’t one of them.’ He had a prominent Adam’s apple that wobbled up and down as he talked, and he spoke with a sub-cockney accent. But he was right. ‘So how much will you pay me for Sick As A Parrot? Cash on the table.’
    Guy smiled. ‘I discussed this with my finance man this morning, and we’ve got an opening offer.’ He looked across to me. We had discussed a price on the way, but I thought it was far too early to put it on the table. I decided to give Guy the benefit of the doubt and nodded sagely.

    ‘A pint of lager and a packet of peanuts,’ Guy said, with a smile. ‘That’s just a down payment, of course. There’s more to follow.’
    Gaz frowned, then returned the smile. ‘That’ll get you to the table. Let’s go and discuss this properly.’ He stood up and called down the hallway. ‘We’re just going out, Mum!’
    Mrs Morris rushed to the door to hold it open for us, and fluttered her eyelashes at Guy.
    ‘Nice cat, Mrs Morris,’ said Guy as he passed the plastic mog.
    ‘Oh, thank you. I do like cats. We’d have a real one, but Gary’s allergic.’
    ‘Bye, Mum,’ said Gaz, escaping through the wooden gate.
    We continued the discussion in the pub around the corner. Guy bought Gaz his promised pint of lager, and he got one for himself and his Finance