Shatter (49 page)

Ruiz takes hold of me. His other arm is around Darcy. Head down, he forces his way through like a rugby prop in a rol ing maul. The questions continue.

‘Has there been a ransom demand?’

‘What do you think he wants?’

Monk opens the front door and closes it again. TV spotlights are stil bathing the cottage in brightness, shining through cracks in the curtains and blinds.

‘They arrived an hour ago,’ says Monk. ‘I should have warned you.’

Publicity is a good thing, I tel myself. Maybe someone wil spot Charlie or Tyler and tip off the police.

‘Any news?’ I ask Monk.

He shakes his head. I look past him and see a stranger standing in my kitchen. Dressed in a dark suit and a crisp white shirt, he doesn’t look like a policeman or a reporter. His hair is the colour of polished cedar and silver cufflinks catch the light as he brushes his fingers through his fringe.

The stranger seems to stand at attention as I draw near, hands behind his back. It is a posture perfected on parade grounds. He introduces himself as Lieutenant Wil iam Greene and waits until my hand is offered for a handshake before he proffers his own.

‘What can I do for you, lieutenant?’

‘It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, sir,’ he says in a clipped public school accent. ‘My understanding is that you have been in contact with a Major Gideon Tyler. He is a person of interest.’

‘Of interest to whom?’

‘To the Ministry of Defence, sir.’

‘Join the queue,’ laughs Ruiz.

The lieutenant ignores him. ‘The army is cooperating with the police. We wish to locate Major Tyler and facilitate your daughter’s safe return.’

Ruiz mocks his language. ‘Facilitate? You bastards have done nothing so far except put obstacles in our way.’

Lieutenant Greene isn’t fazed. ‘There are certain issues that have prevented ful disclosure.’

‘Tyler worked for military intel igence?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘I’m afraid that information is classified.’

‘He was an interrogator.’

‘An intel igence gatherer.’

‘Why did he leave the military?’

‘He didn’t. He went AWOL after his wife left him. He faces a court martial.’

The lieutenant is no longer standing to attention. His feet are a dozen inches apart, polished shoes turned slightly outwards, and hands at his sides.

‘Why is Tyler’s service record classified?’ I ask.

‘The nature of his work was sensitive.’

‘That’s a bul shit answer,’ says Ruiz. ‘What did the guy do?’

‘He interrogated detainees,’ I say, second-guessing the lieutenant. ‘He tortured them.’

‘The British government doesn’t condone the use of torture. We abide by the rules set out by the Geneva Convention…’

‘You trained the bastard,’ interrupts Ruiz.

The lieutenant doesn’t respond.

‘We believe Major Tyler has suffered some form of breakdown. He is stil a serving British officer and my job is to liaise with the Avon and Somerset Police Service to facilitate his prompt arrest.’

‘In return for what?’

‘When Major Tyler is detained he wil be handed over to the military.’

‘He murdered two women,’ says Ruiz incredulously.

‘He wil be examined by army psychologists to see if he is fit to stand trial.’

‘This is bol ocks,’ says Ruiz.

Right now, I’m past caring. The MOD can have Gideon Tyler as long as I get Charlie back.

The lieutenant addresses me directly. ‘The military can bring certain resources and technology to a civilian investigation like this one. If I have your co-operation, I am authorised to provide this help.’

‘How am I meant to co-operate?’

‘Major Tyler had certain special duties. Did he talk to you about them?’

‘No.’

‘Did he mention any names?’

‘No.’

‘Did he mention any locations?’

‘No. He was a very quiet soldier.’

Lieutenant Greene pauses a moment, choosing his words careful y.

‘If he has revealed sensitive details to you, unauthorised disclosure of such information to a third person could result in you being charged under the Official Secrets Act. Penalties for such an offence include imprisonment.’

‘Are you threatening him?’ demands Ruiz.

The lieutenant has been wel trained. He maintains his composure. ‘As you can already appreciate, the media is taking an interest in Major Tyler. There are likely to be questions from reporters. There wil be inquests into the deaths of Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. You may be asked to give evidence. I advise you to be very careful about what statements you make.’

Suddenly I’m angry. I’m tired of the whole pack of them: the military for their double-speak and secrets, Bryan and Claudia Chambers for their blind loyalty, Helen Chambers for her weakness, the reporters, the police and my own sense of helplessness.

For the second time tonight Ruiz wants to hit someone. I can see him squaring up to the younger man, who regards the threat with a weary inevitability. I try to defuse the situation.

‘Tel me this, lieutenant. How important is my daughter to you?’

He doesn’t understand the question.

‘You want Gideon Tyler. What if my daughter is in your way?’

‘Her safety is our primary concern.’

I want to believe that. I want to believe that Britain’s finest military minds and personnel wil do everything in their power to save Charlie. Unfortunately, Gideon Tyler was one of their best.

Look what happened to him.

I feel myself stumble slightly and catch a trembling hold of the table.

‘Thank you for your help, lieutenant, you can assure your superiors of my co-operation. I wil give them as much help as they have given me.’

Greene looks at me, unsure of how to interpret the statement.

‘Gideon Tyler’s wife and daughter are alive. They’re staying at her parents’ house.’

I study his reaction. Nothing. I get a tingling sensation in my fingertips. I haven’t revealed a secret. I’ve uncovered one. He knew already about Helen and Chloe.

In the waiting stil ness, the truth comes splattering like rain into my consciousness. The army is guarding the Stonebridge estate. Ruiz picked it on our first visit. He said Skipper was ex-military. Not ‘ex’; he’s current— a serving soldier. The cameras, motion detectors and the security lights are part of ongoing protection. The British army has been looking for Gideon Tyler for a lot longer than the police have.

Julianne is sedated and is sleeping according to Veronica Cray. The doctor thought it best that she wasn’t interrupted.

‘Where is she staying?’ I ask.

‘At a hotel.’

‘Where?’

‘Temple Circus. Don’t try to cal her, Professor. She real y does need to rest.’

‘Is anyone with her?’

‘She’s under guard.’

The DI breathes gently into the receiver. I can picture her square head, short hair and brown eyes. She feels sorry for me, but that’s not going to alter her decision. My marriage is not her concern.

‘If you see Julianne…’ I try to think of a message for her to pass on, but nothing comes to me. There aren’t any words. ‘Just check on her— make sure she’s OK.’

The cal ends. Darcy has gone to bed. Ruiz is studying me, his stare sliding loosely over everything.

‘You should get some sleep.’

‘I’m OK.’

‘Lie down. Close your eyes. I’l wake you in an hour.’

‘I won’t sleep.’

‘Try. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’

The stairs are steep. The bed is soft. I stare at the ceiling in a sort of conscious daze, exhausted yet frightened of closing my eyes. What if I do sleep? What if I wake in the morning and none of this has happened? Charlie wil be sitting at the kitchen table in her school uniform, half-awake, grumpy. She’l launch into a long story about a dream and I’l only be half-listening.

The content of Charlie’s stories is never the important thing. What’s important is that she’s a bright, singular and amazing girl. What a girl.

I close my eyes and lie stil . I have no expectation of sleep but hope the world might leave me alone for just a few moments and let me rest.

A phone is ringing somewhere. I look at the digital clock on the bedside table. It’s 3.12 a.m. My whole body is trembling as if struck like a tuning fork.

The cottage phone has been diverted to Trinity Road and it’s not the ringtone for my mobile. Maybe Darcy’s mobile is ringing in the guest room. No, it’s coming from somewhere closer. I slip out of bed and step across cold floorboards.

The ringing has stopped. It starts again. The sound is coming from Charlie’s room… her chest of drawers. I pul open the top drawer and rifle through socks and school tights rol ed into bal s. I feel something vibrating inside a pair of striped footbal socks: a mobile phone. I pul it free and flip it open.

‘Hey, Joe, did I wake you? How can you sleep at a time like this? Man, you’re cold.’

I groan Charlie’s name. Her mattress sinks beneath me. Gideon must have planted the mobile when he broke into the cottage. The police looked for fingerprints and fibres, not mobile phones.

‘Listen, Joe, I’ve been thinking you must know a hel of a lot about whores— being married to one. ‘

‘My wife’s not a whore.’

‘I’ve talked to her. I’ve watched her. She’s hot to trot. She would have fucked me. She told me so. She was begging me to bang her. “Take me, take me,” she said.’

‘That’s the only way you can get a woman— by kidnapping her daughter.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Her boss is banging her. He signs her pay cheques, so I guess that makes her a whore.’

‘It’s not true.’

‘Where was she Friday night?’

‘In Rome.’

‘Funny. I could have sworn I saw her in London. She stayed at a house in Hampstead Heath. Arrived at eight, left next morning at eight. Owned by a rich guy cal ed Eugene Franklin. Nice place. Cheap locks.’

My chest tightens. Is this another one of Gideon’s lies? He does it so effortlessly, mixing in just enough truth to create doubts and sow confusion. Suddenly I feel like a stranger in my own marriage. I want to defend Julianne. I want to produce evidence that he’s wrong. But my arguments sound puny and my excuses taste bad even before they leave my lips.

Charlie’s pyjamas are spil ing out from beneath her pil ow, a pink vest and flannelette trousers. I rub the brushed cotton between my thumb and forefinger, almost trying to conjure her up, every detail.

‘Where’s Charlie?’

‘Right here.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘She’s tied up right now. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Ready for the stuffing.’

‘Why did you take her?’

‘Work it out.’

‘I know about you, Gideon. You’re AWOL from the army. You worked in military intel igence. They want you back.’

‘It’s nice to be wanted.’

‘Why are they so keen to get you?’

‘Can’t tel you that, Joe, or I might have to kil you. I put the word secret into secret service. I’m one of those soldiers that isn’t supposed to exist.’

‘You’re an interrogator.’

‘I know how to ask the right questions.’

He’s getting bored with the conversation. He expects more of me. I’m supposed to provide him with a chal enge.

‘Why did your wife leave you?’

I can hear the slow, relentless sound of his breathing.

‘You frightened her away,’ I continue. ‘You tried to lock her up like a princess in a tower. Why were you so convinced she was having an affair?’

‘What is this— a fucking therapy session.’

‘She left you. You couldn’t keep her happy. How did that make you feel? Til death do us part, isn’t that what you both promised.’

‘That bitch walked out. She stole my daughter.’

‘The way I hear it, she didn’t walk— she ran. She punched that accelerator and got the hel out of there— left you running down the driveway, trying to put on your pants.’

‘Who told you that? Did she tel you that? Do you know where she is?’ He’s yel ing at me now. ‘You real y want to know what happened? I gave her a child. I built her a house. I gave her everything she wanted. And do you know how she showed her gratitude? She left me and she stole my Chloe. May she piss red-hot pokers, may she rot in hel …’

‘You hit her.’

‘No.’

‘You threatened her.’

‘She’s a liar.’

‘You terrified her.’

‘SHE‘S A WHORE!’

‘Take a deep breath, Gideon. Calm down.’

‘Don’t tel me what to do. You miss your daughter, Joe, wel I haven’t seen mine in five months. I once had a heart, a soul, but a woman tore it out. She shattered me into a thousand pieces and left nothing but a glowing filament, but it’s stil burning, Joe. I’m nursing that light. I keep it burning against the whores.’

‘Maybe we should talk about that light.’

‘And how much do you charge for a session, Joe?’

‘For you it’s free. Where do you want to meet?’

‘How does someone become a Professor of psychology?’

‘It’s just a title.’

‘But you use it. Is that because it makes you sound clever?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think you’re cleverer than I am, Joe?’

‘No.’

‘Yes you do. You think you know al about me. You think I’m a coward— that’s what you told the police. You drew up a profile on me.’

‘That was before I knew who you were.’

‘Was it wrong?’

‘I know you better now.’

His laugh is spiteful. ‘That’s the bul shit thing about psychologists. Guys like you never come down off the fence and give an opinion. Everything is couched in parenthesis and inverted commas. Either that or you turn everything into a question. It’s like your own opinion isn’t good enough. You want to hear what everyone else has to say. I can picture you banging your wife, hammering away between her legs, and saying, “Obviously, it’s good for you, dear, but how is it for me?”’

‘You seem to know a lot about psychology.’

‘I’m an expert.’

‘Did you study it?’

‘In the field.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, Joe, that fuckers like you who cal yourself professionals don’t know how to ask the right questions.’