by Jem Tugwell
Martin and I nodded our agreement.
‘So how can he be wearing a Suppressor and still have a signal?’
‘You can’t,’ Martin said. ‘You just said the Suppressor blocks the signal.’
‘Come on. Think.’ Clive’s frustration was clear. He stared at me, willing me to understand what he was talking about.
There was a far-fetched explanation. ‘Perhaps, if you could somehow have a copy of your signal somewhere else,’ I said.
‘Exactly, Zoe.’ Clive beamed at me like I was now his star pupil. ‘Let’s say you have something that can mimic your signal. You could leave it at home, go and kidnap Karina, and iMe would give you a guaranteed alibi.’
I squirmed in my seat. It didn’t feel right to be praised by Clive anymore. Not after Mary.
Suppressors should have been science fiction, but they existed. I had seen them. Now he wanted me to believe in a device that could somehow duplicate a signal?
‘Yeah, but that would mean you’ve done the impossible and broken the iMe encryption algorithm,’ I said.
‘You don’t need to break the algorithm if you work at iMe and have access to the system,’ Clive said.
***
I stood in Bhatt’s office.
‘Do you believe him?’ she asked, still using her gentle voice with me.
Clive had moaned about his ex-wife, but I hadn’t really sensed the hate necessary to inflict this sort of suffering. I wondered if he had hidden it, the years of suppressing his feelings, and the pressure building and building until he finally popped. Don’t men block out their feelings? I lived with mine every moment.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, emphasising my doubt with a shrug. I couldn’t wipe away my faith in iMe so easily. ‘It’s plausible I guess, but the simpler answer is that he did it and now he’s trying to get away with it.’
Bhatt steepled her hands as she turned it all over in her head. She seemed to decide.
‘I’ve known Clive a long time, so look into it. We can give him that.’
***
Back at my desk at PCU, it seemed strange to have Clive’s empty chair opposite me. The crew couldn’t take it in, and any discussion on the subject stilled when they saw the photos from Mary’s bedroom. A few of them rubbed their necks in subconscious empathy.
Martin lay on the floor. The prolonged hours spent in a crappy chair during the interviews had done his back again, and he was trying to ease the pressure before an emergency appointment with his specialist.
It was down to me to check Clive’s theory, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to try too hard. I couldn’t live with getting Clive off if he had done it. I would have to sit and talk to him every day. Every smile would feel like he was gloating. Worse, if he patched it up with Mum.
If they went out, I would be frantic the whole time worrying that Mum would be next.
51
DC Zoe Jordan
I tried to suspend my natural scepticism, keep an open mind and think it through, but all this talk of Suppressors and mimicking signals made my head spin. Until last week, iMe always worked. Now Karina and Alan were dead, and if I shut my eyes I could still see Mary in her last seconds as her twitching muscles screamed enough.
I needed a break so headed to the vending machine. As I approached, its synthesised human voice said, ‘How can I serve you, Zoe?’
I scanned the array of food and drinks, not sure what to have.
‘Your iMe reports: you are inside all of your Freedom Unit allowances. You may choose anything.’
My eyes settled on a Mars bar, but the FU tax was too big, so I said, ‘Give me the low-calorie nutrition bar, please.’
‘Certainly.’ The machine whirred, arms moved, and a flap opened. My nutrition bar appeared, and I took it. ‘A pleasure to serve you, Zoe.’
I chewed on the bar as I headed back to the office thinking about Clive. His defence was that someone was able to generate his signal. They had drugged him, left him in his bedroom while they went off and killed Mary as an elaborate frame.
We were also meant to believe that because Clive had a dream where his neck was warm, the killer had put a Suppressor on him. The small bruise on Clive’s wrist where he said the drugs went in could have been anything. OK, there was a puncture mark you could see in an extreme close-up of the forensic photos, but he could have done it while killing Mary.
I replayed Clive’s signal from last night. A smooth track to Mary’s flat and back again, with no gaps and nothing out of the ordinary.
I checked the others, all at home watching different films. Esteban and Dave chose generic pulp, but why did Manu watch the fourth re-imagining of Blade Runner when the original was way better? I couldn’t forgive Emma for Legally Blonde 8 and 9, and as for Art watching the new version of 1984, what was that – guilt, irony or research?
Even if I didn’t believe Clive’s words, his vomiting at Mary’s photos was real.
I thought about it for a long time: Was Clive a killer? Should I even try and save him?
***
It wasn’t about feelings or belief, I decided. It was about the truth and being the best cop I could be. I would find all the facts and then decide. So, I started with the blood test.
The forensic drone took the blood as a ‘tick the box’ procedural thing. We didn’t usually need it as we knew the amount of alcohol, tobacco, cannabis, cocaine and all the other legal drugs from the iMe readings. Tax rules meant that they were all measured accurately and stored.
I composed a full toxicology request on Clive’s blood, sent it off and made a call.
‘Hi, Bella,’ I said.
‘Zoe, how’s tricks,’ she said, knowing it was me from the caller ID.
‘Favour to ask.’ We had met on the ten-week intern programme run by the Justice and Rehabilitation Service and become good friends. She had chosen forensics when I chose the police.
‘Go for it,’ she said. ‘You want to hassle some guy with a drone?’
‘Nooo.’
We both laughed at the memory of the prank when we used a drone to buzz all the sleeping beds in the men’s dorm at the training centre. How did men make such a mess and not care?
‘Look, I’ve just sent a blood tox request. It’s urgent. Can you push it through?’
‘OK, give me a couple of hours. Still on for Friday?’
A night out with the girls was what I needed. I’d missed so many recently.
I crossed my fingers. ‘Obviously.’
***
Next was Clive’s duplicate signal story. When we had first met, he had gone on and on about old-school policing. He had said ‘think like the criminal’. What would I need if I was the killer?
I would need Clive’s DNA to generate his signal. Clive had drinks at Esteban’s home, Art’s office, and in the other meetings. Dave had made us tea.
OK, assuming I knew how to get the DNA off a cup or glass, then I could get Clive’s DNA. But then I would need something that took the DNA and generated a valid iMe signal.
How would you do that? Who would be able to do it?
An iMe employee made the most sense, but that just took me back full circle to the suspect list. I made some notes on the wall and pushed a little yellow flag next to the notes as a reminder to come back to it.
Next, the killer would need to get through both the outside door of Clive’s block and the door into his apartment. Clive’s signal, real or fake, would open the doors.
I searched through the menus on my HUD. Under ‘Locks’ I could see how to give myself access to unlock a lock and disable a lock, but no way of seeing if a door had been opened.
I called Tech Support.
‘Hi, Zoe. It’s Rob. What’s up today?’
I had called him so many times during the investigation that he was treating me like part of the team.
‘I need the detailed history of a lock opening and closing,’ I said.
‘Sure, I’d need the address and when. All that data get
s stored for the manufacturers in case there’s a claim.’
I told him Clive’s address and asked for all of yesterday’s data from Clive’s apartment door.
‘It’s not like I don’t have anything else to do.’ I caught the impatience in his voice.
‘Please, Rob.’
‘That’s the guy who killed his wife, right. He’s a sick bastard.’
‘Looks that way,’ I said. ‘But I need the data to make sure.’
‘OK, no probs. I’ll message you the results.’
***
By the time the report arrived, the day had darkened to dusk and the PCU office was empty. I shivered. It felt creepy to be in there on my own.
I created a new file on the crime wall and threw the report onto it. It was easier to see on the big screen.
The report was simple, with one row for every time the door opened and only two columns: Time and User. The nine rows displayed in chronological order.
Time
User
08:27
18:52
Clive
19:17
Clive
19:25
21:07
Clive
21:15
21:25
PCU Override
21:33
PCU Override
22:02
The time of the first row had to be Clive leaving in the morning at 08:27. I frowned at the empty ‘User’ column. The last row also had no user data but the time of 22:02 matched when Bhatt and I left with Clive in handcuffs. The two rows showing the user data as ‘PCU Override’ matched the times of the forensic team’s arrival to scan Clive’s flat and then when Bhatt and I had arrived. The meaning of these rows seemed obvious and didn’t help me with Clive’s guilt or innocence.
If I discounted these rows and had five remaining data rows: three rows showed Clive as the user, two had no user data.
I touched my jaw to make another call.
‘Zoe,’ Rob said. ‘That’s quick even for you. Just a sec.’ I heard clicks then huffing. ‘OK, what?’
‘What does it mean when there’s no data in the user column?’ I asked.
‘Because the doors are never locked from the inside, there’s no user data going out. It’s a fire safety thing, so people can always get out. The last thing you need in a fire is a lock with a technical fault trapping everyone inside.’
‘So, you get user data when it unlocks going in but no user data going out?’
‘Exactly.’
I said, ‘Thanks.’ Rob repeated his usual ‘no probs’ as I hung up.
I checked the report again. Five rows.
Five made no sense. Two rows had User data as Clive. That meant Clive went into his flat at 18:52 and twenty-five minutes later he went in again, without having first gone back out of the door. That wasn’t possible unless he’d jumped out of the window, and his flat was too high for the safety rules to allow it.
I scanned the rows again, struggling to see a pattern. I shook my head and added my thoughts to the display wall to help to get the whole thing straight.
Time
What Does It Mean?
08:27
Clive going to office in the morning
18:52
Clive coming home from work?
19:17
Clive going in again. How can he go in twice?
19:25
Clive going to restaurant then Mary
21:07
Clive coming home
21:15
Clive going out, but he was still there when we got there
21:25
Forensic team going in
21:33
DCS Bhatt and me going in
22:02
All leaving with Clive in handcuffs
I looked again at the first time Clive went in and furrowed my brows. 18:52. I double-checked my signal trace from yesterday evening. Clive and I were still in the car together at 18:52. We didn’t arrive until just after 19:00.
‘Zoe,’ Rob said again, more than a little exasperation in his voice at my next call.
‘Can you look at the report you sent me,’ I said.
‘You owe me, Zoe. Wait a sec…’ I heard sighing and clicking as Rob searched for the report. ‘OK, got it.’
‘Look at the second and third rows. They don’t make sense.’
‘Clive went in,’ Rob said as he read the lines. ‘And then – weird. Then he went in again.’
‘Exactly. I knew I didn’t misunderstand.’
‘No.’
I hung up and went back to the problem of making a second signal for Clive, a duplicate signal. Mimic… duplicate… copy… signal… shit. I slapped my palm against my forehead in frustration, then settled myself, trying to think clearly.
As I scanned the empty office, bathed in the glow of the display wall, I caught myself muttering. ‘Mimic. Same as copy, simulate, duplicate. How can you duplicate a signal?’
‘Was that the answer?’ I said, testing the idea with the dusty desks. I said it again, louder and clearer. ‘How can you duplicate a signal?’
It wasn’t a new thought, but somehow saying it out loud made me hear a second meaning. When I said it next, I changed the emphasis and it all fell into place. ‘If I duplicated Clive’s signal, then I might get a duplicate signal as well. One real signal and a fake one from the duplicate.’
I called Rob again. The excitement surged in me, then got swamped with doubt. You can’t have duplicates. iMe works.
‘Zoe, I do have other stuff to do, you know.’ Rob sounded even more pissed off than before.
‘Yes, sorry, but I need to test an idea. You told me at the beginning that gaps in signals automatically generate an alert, right?’
‘Yes. And?’
‘You didn’t get an alert from Clive last night?’
‘No.’
‘Do you ever get duplicate signals?’
‘Sometimes an echo from a building in the right weather conditions can show up as a duplicate.’
My excitement fought back against my doubt. ‘Do they generate an alert?’
‘No. We only care that you have a signal.’
‘Please tell me that you keep the duplicates?’ I held my breath. I couldn’t prove anything without the data.
‘Zoe, you should know by now that we keep everything.’
‘Can you send me a report for Clive showing if he had any duplicates yesterday?’
‘Sure, but the search isn’t optimised to find duplicates. It will take a while.’
I hung up again, churning possibilities. If Clive’s story had any truth, then there would be duplicate data for him.
The process of working this out was exhilarating. Clive was always saying it and, reluctantly, I realised that he was right.
***
My fingers tapped an impatient beat on the desk as I waited for the report.
Finally, my HUD binged, and I threw the report up on the wall and opened it. Clive’s signal was duplicated four times.
The time of the first two duplicate signals were when he was still in the car with me. These could be when the killer got into his building and then his apartment.
Then Clive got home, and the next duplicate was seven minutes later. Again, it matched the timings of his story of being drugged, his real signal being hidden by a Suppressor signal and his fake signal being generated. Then Clive’s signal left, travelled to Mary’s and back and re-entered the apartment.
The final duplicate was just before the last time the door opened from the inside. It could match Mary’s killer turning the fake signal and the Suppressor off before leaving.
I crossed things out, moved things around and scribbled on the wall until I had the duplicate data mixed in with the door data. I stood back to look at the sequence and reran it in my head.
Time
What Does It Mean?
08:27
Clive going to office in the morning
18:46
&nbs
p; Duplicate - Is the Killer mimicking Clive’s signal to get in the building door?
18:48
Duplicate - Is the Killer mimicking Clive’s signal to get in the apartment door?
18:52
Clive was in the car. Is this the Killer?
19:17
Is this Clive really getting home?
19:24
Duplicate - Is the Killer putting Suppressor on Clive and turning a duplicate on?
19:25
Clive or Killer going to restaurant then Mary
21:07
Clive or Killer coming home
21:13
Duplicate - Taking Suppressor off Clive and turning a duplicate off?
21:15
Clive was still there when we got there. Is this the Killer leaving??
21:25
Forensic team going in
21:33
DCS Bhatt and me going in
22:02
All leaving with Clive in handcuffs
The data said that maybe Clive was telling the truth. Yet everything inside me was still screaming that I should believe iMe. The obvious answer is that Clive is lying, and the signal is right. All this could just be data errors.
But I had worn a Suppressor. It had shut my signal and HUD down.
There weren’t meant to be errors.
52
Thief
Lying back in my chair, I was comfortable, re-watching Karina and Two in a highlights movie. I could lose myself in them again and again.
I had downloaded the images from my old digital camera onto my similar vintage laptop. Connections to the outside world would risk exposing the content. I definitely wasn’t going to use the camera on my HUD.
Even in the old days, I had never put data into the Cloud. Why would I be that stupid? The marketing, I had to admit was brilliant. People imagined a soft and fluffy place that their files lived, floating above them safe from hackers and misuse, not an industrial data centre. Sure, your files were safe if the hard disk in your computer failed, but they were scanned by Microsoft, Apple, Google and all the others and turned into data. If the hosting company could sell the information, why not the employee they treated like shit? Organised crime infiltrated the data centres and went digging for the gold: the files with your bank details, your passwords, your credit cards.