Déjà Vu: A Technothriller

by Hocking, Ian

  “A kick?” Saskia asked.

  “You know, a sidekick. He asks the hero dumb questions so that the audience knows what’s going on. The sidekick is also the first to die when there’s any trouble.”

  “Ah, I understand.” Saskia smiled. A memory – a precious jewel – glinted. “That happens on Enterprise, the TV show. You beam down with the captain. If you are wearing a red shirt you will be subject to a fatal special effect.”

  Hannah laughed heartily and clapped her on the back. It hurt. “You’d better call me Scottie, then. He never gets killed.”

  They came to a cloakroom. It was empty. Saskia could not understand why the cloakroom was so far from the main entrance. Garrel stepped to one side and she saw a splintered hole in the centre of the floor. She felt, simultaneously, a need to jump down the hole and a need to run away from it. Another discovery, then: she was scared of heights.

  “This room is where the scientists entered the research centre. The whole room would sink to the ground floor of the complex, twenty metres down. Proctor went down there last Sunday.” Garrel spoke like a tour guide.

  Hannah whistled. He stepped as close to the edge as he dared. Saskia remained in the doorway. Hannah stepped back. He said, “Are you saying there was a research centre down there?”

  “Yes. The corpse, anyway. It was operational from 1996 to 2003. It was bombed in May 2003. The structure was seriously weakened, but it didn’t collapse.”

  “So you just left it?” asked Saskia.

  “Not me. But yes, it was left. All of the access routes except for this one were capped. It was unusable. There was nothing else to do. Though, actually, I believe a good deal of reinforcement work was carried out to alleviate the threat of a cave-in.”

  Hannah nodded. “What kind of projects did they do here?”

  “Radical stuff. The kind that doesn’t normally get funding.”

  “For ethical reasons?”

  Garrel laughed. “For John Hartfield. Heard of him? He runs research centres all over the world.”

  “But he has government help.”

  “Yes. A public-private partnership. I’m sure that, as a new employee of the FIB, you’d appreciate that even better than me.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Saskia said. “I would like to view the crime scene.”

  Garrel led them out. “We can’t go down this way. It’s blocked. There was a cave-in ten minutes after Proctor went down with McWhirter.”

  They emerged from the rear of the hotel onto the enormous lawn. They headed towards one of the two circus-sized tents. It was eighty metres away on the uphill. They were silent for a while.

  “Who is McWhirter?” Saskia asked.

  “Head of security before me. He’s dead.”

  “I see. How did he die?”

  Garrel didn’t turn around. “We haven’t found the body yet. We only have Proctor’s statement. There was a cave-in. Convenient, perhaps. McWhirter believed that Proctor was responsible for the first bombing.”

  “In 2003.”

  “The same.” Garrel slowed down. He was sweating and so was Hannah. Garrel continued, pausing often: “There wasn’t much direct evidence, but plenty of clues. Proctor had put in a number of complaints about the new direction of his research. In this kind of place, the scientist doesn’t control his research programme – it is dictated by his superiors on the basis of his,” he glanced at Saskia, “or her, findings. If you don’t like it, you quit and don’t ask for a character reference.”

  “About the bombing,” urged Saskia.

  “Getting there.” He took a breath. “The afternoon it happened, there was a concert in the main hall. Proctor organised it. At one day’s notice, this is. In the intermission, the bomb went off. Most people were at the concert so casualties were minimized. The bomb was placed inside Proctor’s laboratory. Inside his locked work room. It should have destroyed the equipment in Proctor’s lab, and only that.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  “No. It started a fire, which soon spread. Ceilings collapsed. Eight people were killed. Six staff and two scientists.”

  Saskia pursed her lips. She was not sure if this information was relevant but she wanted to feed her instinct. “What about his research partners?”

  “He had only one. A man called Shimoda. He was ruled out because he was blind. Oh, he was fairly capable, but planting a bomb was beyond him. He also had a watertight alibi. Proctor, on the other hand, had the motive, the means and the opportunity. He had no account for whole portions of that day and the surveillance tapes for his laboratory were missing.”

  “It does point to him,” agreed Hannah.

  “Plus,” said Garrel, “he was evasive during his initial interrogation and then again to the panel who carried out a confidential inquiry into the bombing. In their report they mention their suspicions, but there was never enough evidence. He slipped through the net.”

  “Until now,” said Saskia. “When he slipped through the net again.”

  Garrel grunted.

  They had reached the tent. It was nearly ten metres in diameter. A man in civilian clothing stood next to its entrance. He had a long machine gun cradled in his arms. He saw Garrel, saluted, and the three of them walked inside. In the gloom, men and women wearing army fatigues steadily and silently packed office equipment into large, green crates.

  Garrel turned around. “Lucky you came today. We would have been gone by this evening.”

  Saskia and Hannah ignored him. They were staring at the centre of the tent. The structure did not have a pole because it was self-supporting, which left room for a crane-like rig to hang suspended over a hole large enough to swallow a car. Three or four ropes dangled into the shaft.

  Hannah walked gingerly to the hole and peered down. Then he looked at the rig. From his expression, Saskia could tell that he was not impressed by the method of transportation. “You were going to tell us more about Proctor,” he prompted.

  “Indeed.” Garrel folded his arms and stared at the loading operation. He clearly had faith in the discretion of these people, because he began to talk freely. “Proctor was invited to come here on Sunday and help with some consultation. It appeared that his former research partner, Dr Bruce Shimoda, had broken into the research centre and connected Project New World to the hotel power supply. New World was the codename for their research programme. I know very few details. It seems to be some kind of virtual reality computer. A user enters it as though it were a game.”

  Saskia produced her notebook. Proctor’s movements were critical to her understanding. “How did Shimoda enter the complex? You said it was sealed.”

  “Good question. We don’t know. And now that he’s been blown to smithereens, there’s a good chance we’ll never know.”

  “He was blown up?” asked Hannah.

  “Yes, remotely. Proctor detonated the bomb from where you’re standing.”

  “Hang on,” said Hannah. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Proctor arrived for the consultation and then what?”

  Garrel related the events of the previous weekend. He did not seem to mind that Saskia recorded his words in shorthand. Her scribbles were a mixture of broken German, Greek maths-like symbols, and pictograms. Her hand produced the script quite automatically. P for Proctor. WL for West Lothian Centre. Sam for Saturday, Son for Sunday. C for computer.

  As Garrel paused to order his thoughts, Saskia chewed her pen. “The miniature computer contained the bomb.”

  “Exactly. He managed to sneak it past security because McWhirter underestimated him. He did not insist on a body search. This personal computer contained enough explosive to bring down a small building, if put in the right place and given a little luck. Proctor left his bomb haphazardly. It was near enough to the computer for it to be destroyed but it did very little structural damage. Apparently that was due to its proximity to the shaft we sunk over there. It acted like an open pressure valve.”

  “What evidence is there,�
� asked Saskia, “that Proctor killed this soldier called –” she consulted her notes – “Caroline?”

  Garrel shook his head. “If you’re looking for a smoking gun, you’re not going to find it. It’s not how this guy works. He’s a thinker. A professor, remember.” He tapped his temple. “But Proctor must have lured her into the computer. Why else would she have gone in? She was under orders to protect the computer and Shimoda, nothing more. Guard duty is not the kind of job that you interrupt for a quick game of Scrabble.”

  Saskia smiled. “I am sorry. Sometimes you talk too fast. Could you repeat this evidence?”

  Garrel became still. His eyes took on the hawkish look of the man they had met in the foyer of the hotel. “Your job, Detective Brandt, is to find this man, not advocate his innocence.”

  Saskia took a deep breath. It was counter-productive to antagonise him, even if she felt good doing it. She needed more facts. “I apologise. Proctor is clearly a criminal who should be apprehended at the earliest opportunity. I only wish to gauge the extent of this criminality.”

  “Fine,” Garrel said. His expression softened. “All I’m saying is, this guy is dangerous. I debriefed him after the event. I read his file. I know him. I am in no doubt he killed that guard. No doubt.” He paused to direct some packing. Saskia wrote G P V: Garrel interrogated Proctor. “As I was saying, Proctor was injured during the evacuation and slept it off in the medical tent. Next morning, he woke up and persuaded the doctor to let him go for a walk. At that point, you understand, he was not really under suspicion. He was still in the role of ‘consultant’. He walked into this tent, sent a radio message to his discarded personal computer, which started a fire to clear remaining personnel from the research centre. It was a prelude to the bomb.”

  “But Shimoda remained down there?” asked Saskia.

  “Had to. If we disconnected him, he would have died from strokes.”

  “And then the bomb went off.”

  “Indeed. It killed Shimoda.”

  Hannah asked Garrel about Proctor’s escape from custody. He spoke at length. Saskia did not take any more notes. She had read the police report on the flight to Edinburgh. She was impressed by Garrel’s innocence. The blame could be attributed to every object and process in the known universe that was not called Garrel. He was particularly piqued by the funeral. “God only knows whose idea that was, to send a terrorist to the funeral of one of his victims.” He went on. An expert lawyer and sympathetic judge – combined with the lamentable fact that the closest Japanese translator was in Leeds – meant that the entire family were now en route to Osaka.

  Saskia smiled. This was an interesting case. She did not mention that it was her first. There were many fascinating aspects. Someone had helped David Proctor. They had made sure he attended that funeral, even made sure that there was a funeral. They had arranged a complicated escape. Was the fake priest behind everything? Or the family?

  “What about the priest?” Saskia asked.

  “Her description narrows the search to about five million suspects. She’s aged between late thirties and early fifties. Bit of a looker. Long brown hair. English. That’s it. We would have her in custody if it wasn’t for the local police. They had a WPC and a jailer on David, plus a guy driving the van. This priest tied them up with their own handcuffs before disappearing. All of this was watched, of course, by the cast of The Mikado. As for a photofit, you should ask DI Hannah. His friends are taking care of the plodwork.”

  Hannah smiled as though receiving a compliment. “We like to be useful.”

  Saskia put the notebook in her pocket. She removed her coat, handed it to Hannah, and removed her suit jacket. Both men stared at her. “What do you think you’re doing?” Garrel asked.

  “I came here to see the crime scene.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Garrel said quickly.

  “Me either,” said Hannah.

  Saskia removed her earrings and put them in a trouser pocket. “Colonel Garrel, or whatever your rank is, I am not asking for your advice. Just your cooperation.”

  “Listen, Brandt,” Garrel said. His face was close to hers. “I need this hole capped, soiled and turfed by six p.m. That gives me,” and Saskia noted he did not check his watch, because that would have involved looking away, “just over an hour.”

  “Then we should proceed immediately.”

  Garrel held her stare for while and then threw up his arms in resignation. “Splendid. Why not? We’ll call it ‘The Magical Mystery Tour’ and charge at the gate.” He looked at Hannah in exasperation, but the DI ignored him. “We’ll need some equipment.” He found an open crate and began to dig inside.

  Saskia gave Hannah her suit jacket. He draped it across one arm, solemnly as a butler, but as she reached to remove her pancake holster, his hand clamped hers. She read his eyes and nodded. The gun stayed.

  “Take this,” Garrel said. He passed her a harness and a climbing helmet, complete with lamp. She fed her legs through the seat and locked the pelvis connection. She watched her hands as they manipulated the ropes and double-sprocket mechanism with considerable expertise. Lucky. These motor actions – abseiling, weapon handling, shorthand – were probably implanted skills.

  “What are you waiting for, Brandt?” Garrel stepped over the yellow cordon and attached his harness to one of the ropes. Each rope was a different colour. “Twenty metres. I’m on the blue rope.” He tapped his helmet and the lamp shone. Then he jumped into the blackness and fell like a dead weight. The rope whistled through his decelerator.

  Saskia wandered over to the hole. Her palms were slick with sweat. “You want to come down too, Scottie?”

  Hannah smiled. “No thanks. A friend of mine was paralysed using one of those decelerators. Anyway,” he said, hefting her coat and jacket, “I’m being useful.”

  “Right.” Saskia clipped her harness to the rope. She chose the red one. She unhinged the decelerator and fitted the rope around the two sprockets. She closed it firmly and checked, with a tug, that the rope was gripped tight. There was a disc attached to a sprocket axle. She pulled it out and turned the dial to twenty metres. Then she snapped it back, checked it was locked, and jumped.

  Dinner At McCabe’s

  David pulled into a narrow alleyway. The engine faltered and stopped. He dug for the kick-stand and eased it to a stable tilt. He slid off. He removed the key and the dull glow of the windscreen’s display faded to nothing. The suspension sank and the windscreen slipped into the steering column.

  He stepped back and flexed his arms. His wrists cracked arthritically. His vertebra settled.

  “Oi, sunshine,” said a voice.

  David looked up. An old woman was leaning into the alley from her window, her ample bosom resting on her white folded arms. He could hear a TV babbling behind her. Her hair was in curlers. A cigarette wagged in the corner of her mouth when she spoke: “You. That. You can’t stop here.”

  He flipped open the visor on his helmet. “Firstly, I am not your sunshine. Secondly, this bike will stay here, undisturbed by you, for the entire night. And if I find so much as a scratch in the morning, we can talk about it down the station.”

  The old woman was a dark silhouette. There was a pause of several seconds. “My Barry would sort yous out.”

  David gave her a tired, tired look.

  She snorted and wriggled back inside. The single-glazed window slammed down. David sagged against the wall and tried to ignore the drumming in his ears.

  It was nearly 6 p.m. He had been on the road since eight. A total of nine hours with an hour for lunch in little town called Cramlington. Behind the counter in the chip shop there had been a picture of him. A very old picture, thankfully, with more, darker hair and a smiling face. He had frozen, mid-chew, but the owner had not given him a second look. David left immediately. He could not mimic accents, but he could produce the Scottish “Aye,” “No,” and “Is it not?” well enough. He had not disguised his voice for the old bag at the w
indow and if she didn’t buy his story then, well, perhaps her Barry would soon sort him out and so bloody what. He was tired.

  On the road he had watched the sun climb, ridden through rain, seen a rainbow, swerved around road kill. His body was near exhaustion. His shoulders and neck hurt from the constant hunch. His kidneys felt bruised from the vibration. Same story with the wrists.

  Now he was finished for the day. He had washed up in Northallerton. A few miles to the north was Middlesborough. A few more to south was Leeds. He was still hours from his England.

  He emerged from the alley. It was dusk. Parked cars lined each side. Across the way was a pub called The Horse ’n Groom. Multicoloured lights flashed from its windows. Music played so loudly that it transformed from sound to dull touch.

  He walked a little further down the road. He still wore the bike helmet but he didn’t want to remove it until it was necessary. A few metres on was the Mulberry Guesthouse. It was a converted semi. Not a palace. Perfect. Next to the door was a box with a plastic front. Inside, a visible bulb illuminated a piece of paper with the words, ‘We have Vaccancies’.

  David slid his helmet upwards. His ears had somehow grown into it. He breathed a huge gulp of cold air and ruffled the cowlick that used to be his hair. His neck had lost some movement. He restrained his urge to twist his head and loosen the cartilage with a crack.

  The helmet was surprisingly heavy. He reached to press the doorbell when a voice said: “Yen’t a coppeh, man.”

  There was somebody there. He looked hard. A boy stood in the shadows, hands in pockets. He stepped into the light. David could tell immediately that he was homeless. He wore a woollen cap, an eskimo-style jacket with the hood down, jeans, and bright white trainers. They were scuffed to hell. He was skinny and birdlike in his movements. His eyes were red-ringed.

  “What?” David had barely understood his words. He had no grip on the Northallerton accent. It sounded Geordie, but no doubt the boy would be offended by the comparison.

  “I said, you aren’t a copper. On holiday?”

  David shrugged as the words came into focus. His finger still hovered over the doorbell. “Business. Yourself?” He wanted to wrap up the conversation quickly, get inside, have a bath.