Shatter (50 page)

‘What sort of question should I be asking?’

‘Torture is a complicated subject, Joe, a hel of a subject. Back in the fifties, the CIA ran a research project and spent over a bil ion dol ars to crack the code of human consciousness.

They had the most bril iant minds in the country working on it— people at Harvard, Princeton and Yale. They tried LSD, mescaline, electroshock, sodium pentothal. None of it worked.

‘The breakthrough came at McGil . They discovered that a person deprived of his or her senses wil begin to hal ucinate within forty-eight hours and ultimately break down. Stress positions accelerate the process, but there’s something even more effective.‘

Gideon pauses, wanting me to ask, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.

‘Imagine if you were blind, Joe, what would you prize most?’

‘My hearing.’

‘Exactly. Your weakest point.’

‘It’s sick.’

‘It’s creative.’ He laughs. ‘That’s what I do. I find the weakest point. I know yours, Joe. I know what keeps you awake at night.’

‘I’m not going to play games with you.’

‘Yes you wil .’

‘No.’

‘Choose.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I want you to choose between your whoring wife and your daughter. Which one would you save? Imagine they’re in a burning building, trapped inside. You dash in, through the flames, kick open the door. They’re both lying unconscious. You can’t carry two of them. Which one do you save?’

‘I’m not playing.’

‘It’s the perfect question, Joe. That’s why I know more about psychology than you’l ever know. I can break open a mind. I can take it apart. I can play with the bits. You know I once convinced a guy that he was rigged up to a power socket when al he had was a couple of wires in his ears. He was a would-be suicide bomber but his vest bomb didn’t blow up.

Thought he was going be a martyr and go straight to heaven. Thought he’d get blowjobs from the vestal virgins for the rest of eternity. By the time I was finished with him, I convinced him there was no Heaven. That’s when he started praying. Crazy, isn’t it. Convince a guy there’s no Heaven and the first thing he does is start praying to Al ah. He should have been praying to me. He didn’t even hate me in the end. Al he wanted to do was to die and to take something into death that wasn’t my voice or my face.

‘You see, Joe, there is a moment when al hope disappears, al pride is gone, al expectation, al faith, al desire. I own that moment. It’s mine. And that’s when I hear the sound.’

‘What sound?’

‘The sound of a mind breaking. It’s not a loud crack like when bones shatter or a spine fractures or a skul col apses. And it’s not something soft and wet like a broken heart. It’s a sound that makes you wonder how much hurt can be visited upon one person; a sound that shatters the strongest of wil s and makes the past leak into the present; a sound so high only the hounds of hel can hear it. Can you hear it?’

‘No.’

‘Someone is curled up in a tiny bal crying softly into an endless night. Isn’t that fucking poetic? I’m a poet and I don’t know it. Are you stil there, Joe? Are you with me? That’s what I’m going to do to Julianne. And when her mind breaks, so wil yours. I’l get two for the price of one. Maybe I’l give her a cal now.’

‘No! Please. Talk to me.’

‘I’m sick of talking to you.’

He’s going to hang up. I have to say something to stop him.

‘I’ve found Helen and Chloe,’ I blurt.

Silence. He waits. I can wait, too.

He speaks first. ‘You’ve talked to them?’

‘I know they’re alive.’

Another pause.

‘You get to see your daughter, when I get to see mine.’

‘It’s not that easy.’

‘It never is.’

He’s gone. I can hear the hol ow echo of my own breath in the emptiness of the bedroom and see my reflection in a mirror. My body is shaking. I don’t know if it’s the Parkinson’s or the cold or something more elemental and deep-seated. Rocking back and forth on her bed, clutching Charlie’s pyjamas in my fists, I howl without making a sound.

62

The service lift rises from the lower basement through the floors. A light floats through the numbers on the panel.

It is 5.10 a.m. and the corridor is deserted. I tug at the sleeves of my jacket. When was the last time I wore a suit? Months ago. It must have been when I visited the army chaplain
because my wife had been to see him. He told me that I could have all the love in the world but without trust, honesty and communication a marriage wouldn’t work. I asked him if
he’d ever been married. He said no.

‘So God didn’t marry, Jesus didn’t marry and you’ve never been married.’

‘That’s not the issue,’ he said.

‘Well, it fucking well should be,’ I replied.

He wanted to argue. The thing with chaplains and priests and religious fuckers is that every lesson you get is about marriage and the importance of family. You could be discussing
artificial grass, global warming or who killed Princess Diana and they would still bring it round to some crazy lesson about family being the bedrock of domestic bliss, racial
tolerance and world peace.

Turning into another passageway, I notice the emergency door and check the stairwell. Empty. At the far end of the passage there is a small lobby where the main lift doors open.

Two armchairs are arranged one each side of a small polished table with a lamp. A detective is sitting in one of the armchairs, reading a magazine.

My fingers slide easily into the loops of a brass knuckleduster in my trouser pocket. The metal has grown warm against my thigh.

He looks up as I approach and unfolds his legs. His right hand is out of sight.

‘Long night.’

He nods.

‘Is she ready?’

‘I was told not to wake her.’

‘Boss wants her at the station.’

He doesn’t recognise me. ‘Who are you?’

‘Detective Sergeant Harris. Four of us drove up last night from Truro.’

‘Where’s your badge?’

His right hand is still hidden. I drive my fist into his throat and he subsides again, sucking bubbles of blood through a crushed windpipe. I slip the knuckleduster back into my pocket
and take his gun, tucking it into the waistband of my trousers.

‘Breathe long and slow,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll live longer.’ He can’t speak. I take the radio from his pocket. He has an entry card for her room. A weak groan and brittle breath signal
unconsciousness. His head drops. Opening the magazine, I rest it over his face, crossing his legs again. He could be sleeping.

Then I knock on the door. She takes a moment to answer. The door opens a crack. She is silhouetted against a haze of white light from the bathroom behind her.

‘Mrs O’Loughlin, I’ve come to take you to the station.’

She blinks at me. ‘Has something happened? Have they found her?’

‘Are you dressed? We have to leave.’

‘I’ll get my bag.’

I hold my foot against the door to stop it closing as she disappears, her bare feet making little slapping sounds on the tiled bathroom floor. I want to follow her inside to make sure
she isn’t calling someone. I glance up and down the passage. What’s taking her so long?

She reappears. Little things about her appearance show that she’s struggling. Her movements are slow and exaggerated. Her hair hasn’t been brushed. The sleeves of her cardigan
are stretched and bunched in her fists.

‘Is it cold outside?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She looks at me. ‘Did we meet yesterday?’

‘I don’t think so.’

I hold the lift door open for her. She glances at the sleeping detective and steps inside. The doors close.

Holding her handbag to her stomach, she doesn’t look at her reflection in the mirrored walls.

‘Has he called again?’ she asks.

‘Yes, he has.’

‘Who did he call?’

‘Your husband.’

‘Is Charlie all right?’

‘I have no information.’

We emerge in the hotel foyer. I hold my right hand an inch from the small of her back and point my left hand towards the glass revolving door. The foyer is empty except for a
receptionist and a cleaner who is polishing the marble floor with a machine.

The Range Rover is parked on the corner. She’s moving too slowly. I have to keep stopping and waiting for her. I open the car door.

‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? Your voice sounds very familiar.’

‘We may have talked on the phone.’

63

Trinity Road police station sleeps with one eye open. The lower floors are deserted but the lights remain on in the incident room where a dozen detectives have worked through the night.

Veronica Cray’s office door is closed. She’s sleeping.

It’s stil dark outside. I woke Ruiz and told him to bring me here. First I took a cold shower and put on my clothes and took my medication. It stil took me twenty minutes to get dressed.

The death photos of Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness are watching from the whiteboards. There are aerial photographs of the murder scenes, post mortem reports and a tangle of black lines drawing links between mutual friends and business contacts.

I don’t need to look at the faces. I turn my head away and notice a new whiteboard, a new photograph— this one of Charlie. It’s a school portrait with her hair pul ed back and an enigmatic smile on her face. She hadn’t wanted the photograph taken.

‘We get one every year,’ Julianne had said.

‘Which means we don’t need another one,’ countered Charlie.

‘But I like to compare them.’

‘To see how much I’ve grown.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you need a
photograph
for that?’

‘Where did you learn to be so sarcastic?’ At this point, Julianne had looked at me.

Monk arrives with the morning papers. There’s a picture of me on the front page, holding my hand up to the cameras as though reaching to rip it from the photographers’ hands. There’s also a picture of Charlie, a different one, taken from the family album. Julianne must have chosen it.

Someone has ordered croissants and pastries. The fresh coffee smel is enough to wake the DI, who emerges from her office in rumpled clothes. Her hair is cut so short it doesn’t need a comb. She reminds me of a carthorse, heavy footed, slow to anger but immensely powerful.

Monk briefs her on what happened at the cottage. It doesn’t improve her mood. She wants the house searched properly this time, every cupboard and crawl space in case there are more surprises.

The DI has summoned Oliver Rabb, wanting him to trace the cal . He arrives in the incident room in the same baggy trousers and bow tie as yesterday, complemented by a muffler to keep his neck warm. He stops suddenly, frowning and patting his pockets as though he’s lost something on his way upstairs.

‘I had an office yesterday. I seem to have misplaced it.’

‘End of the corridor,’ answers Veronica Cray. ‘You have a new partner. Don’t let him boss you around.’

Lieutenant Wil iam Greene is already at work behind panes of glass in a booth-like office alongside the radio room.

‘I’m not very good at working with people,’ says Oliver glumly.

‘Sure you are. Ask nicely and the lieutenant wil let you play with his military satel ites.’

Oliver bucks up and straightens his glasses before heading off down the corridor.

I want to talk to Veronica Cray before Julianne arrives. She closes her office door and sips a coffee, grimacing as though nursing a toothache. Outside I can see gul s wheeling above the distant docks and a chink of light opening on the horizon. Helen and Chloe Chambers are alive, I tel her. They’re home.

The information washes over the DI seemingly without effect.

She puts two tubes of sugar in her coffee, hesitates and adds a third. Then she picks up the cup and looks at me over the steaming lip, regarding me with a level stare.

‘What do you want me to do? I can’t arrest them.’

‘They’ve conspired to fake two deaths.’

‘Right now I’m more interested in finding
your
daughter, Professor. One case at a time.’

‘It’s the same case. That’s why Tyler is doing this. We can use Helen and Chloe to negotiate with him.’

‘We’re not swapping your daughter for his.’

‘I know that, but we can use her to draw him out into the open.’

She strikes a match and lights a cigarette. ‘Worry about your own daughter, Professor, she’s been missing since lunchtime yesterday.’ A coil of smoke curls from her fist. ‘I can’t force Helen Chambers to co-operate but I’l send someone to the house to talk to her.’

She walks to the door of her office. Opens it. Her voice booms across the incident room: ‘Ful briefing at 7.00 a.m. I want answers, people.’

Julianne wil be here soon. What am I going to say to her? There are no words she wants to hear unless they come from Charlie’s mouth, whispered in her ear, with her arms embracing her.

I find an empty office and sit in the dark. The sun is beginning to show, putting drops of colour into the water of the world. Until a few days ago, I had never heard of Gideon Tyler, but now I feel as though he has been watching me for years, standing in the darkness, staring down at my sleeping family, blood dripping from his fingers to the floor.

Although not physical y powerful, not a bodybuilder or a strong man, Gideon’s strength lies in his intel ect and his planning and his wil ingness to do what others cannot comprehend.

He is an observer, a cataloguer of human characteristics; a col ector of clues that can tel him about a person. The way they walk and stand and talk. What car they drive. What clothes they wear. Do they make eye contact when they talk? Are they open, trusting, flirtatious or more enclosed and introspective? I do the same— observe people— but in Tyler’s case it’s a prelude to harm.