The Pattern Maker

by Nicholas Lim

“Jason?”

  Chapter 23

  “I said I’d call didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you?”

  Garrett glanced down at her arm. “Fine.”

  There was silence on the line. Garrett remembered a time when Jason talking was an incessant twitter chasing her around the house like a trapped bird. Mummy, I show you… Daddy can I… Mummy, I want… Dad, I’m going to…

  “Good to hear your voice,” Garrett said. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  Silence again.

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Today? Oh, nothing much. A bit of cooking. Reading. You?”

  Garrett glanced at the body of Christmas. Other uniformed police officers were approaching. She manoeuvred her way out of the cell. “Work mainly.”

  “It sounds noisy. Where are you?”

  “Oh, it’s just, hang on, I’ll go somewhere quieter.” Garrett walked down the corridor, away from the cells, aware of Cherry following. “What have you been cooking?”

  “Oh this and that.”

  “Yes?”

  “A curry. Some breads.”

  Again that silence. Garrett waited for more crumbs from his life. She thought about what Prenderville had said. Just listen. Don’t offer him anything.

  “Listen mum. I’d like to speak to you about something.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not easy to talk about on the phone. I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you come down here?”

  “To – Wales?”

  “Yes. Look, don’t worry if you’re too busy! It was just a thought. I–”

  If there is any indication he wishes to leave Asari you can be supportive.

  “Of course I’ll come. Are you alright? Is there anything–”

  “Let’s speak when you get here. How soon can you come?”

  Garrett glanced down the corridor towards the cells and the scrum of officers. Cherry was watching her.

  “I’m actually free today. Why don’t I come this afternoon?”

  “Great. Okay. See you later.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  ***

  It took two hours for the police to finish their questioning and paperwork, and another hour for Garrett to persuade them to release the body to Porton for immediate autopsy. Major Skinner helped, speaking uniform to uniform over the phone. With Garrett he had been brief, surprised and concerned but harassed; Cuito and Guangdong were worse, and Zahra had been off sick that morning.

  A patrol car dropped them back at the festival. Garrett spoke little on the ride over. She thought about her car; it was an automatic, no trouble for her to drive. They crossed fields of churned-up grass. Pain from the cut in Garrett’s arm gnawed at her through the analgesics.

  “So are all your cases like this?”

  Garrett grimaced and shook her head.

  “So what now?” When Garrett did not reply Cherry said, “If you like I could drive you back. Happy to.”

  Garrett watched the festival goers queuing on the paths around them. A young man wearing a cotton pyjama suit stood close by; tattoos patterned his neck. Garrett felt suddenly apprehensive. “Thank you but I can drive. And I’d rather be alone right now.”

  “That call was from your son wasn't it?”

  “Cherry, it’s been a long night. For all of us. Go home. Get some rest.”

  “What did he say? Was it about Christmas?”

  “I've got to go.” Garrett turned away.

  “What?” Cherry said, suddenly angry. “That’s it? Just like that? Don’t you think I deserve to know what’s going on, what happened to Spy?”

  Garrett stopped. She turned back. “There is something I have to do.”

  “What is it?” Cherry demanded.

  “It doesn't concern–”

  “You know it does!”

  Garrett stared at Cherry a moment then said, “Not in the way you think.”

  “How then?”

  Garrett saw the suspicion in Cherry's eyes. She sighed. “Jason has asked to meet me.”

  Cherry heard the excitement and hope in Garrett’s voice. She frowned. “Where?”

  “Wales.”

  “Is that where he was calling from? Asari Valley?”

  Garrett nodded. Cherry’s chin lifted.

  “That doesn't sound right.”

  Garrett began to walk around the car to the driver's side. Cherry followed her. “The Asari don't invite people, not unless they want to convert them.”

  “This is Jason you’re talking about.”

  “I know Christine. But I’ve been to that place. I know them. They–”

  “Not everyone’s the same.”

  Cherry’s suspicion reminded Garrett of the limping Oxford professor and his circling cats.

  “You don't know what you might be getting into!” Cherry said. “Know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like a setup.”

  “Think what you want. Jason asked to see me. I'm going.”

  Garrett was angry now. She began to search for her key, one-handed.

  Cherry walked around to face her. “Of course you have to go. But you don't have to do it alone.”

  Garrett shook her head.

  “Look, Spy’s dead. Nothing can bring him back, I know that.” Cherry blinked hard. “But what killed him – whatever Christmas had – is connected with Asari. You think that don’t you?

  Garrett said nothing.

  “I need to understand how Spy died. Why he died. I deserve to know!” Cherry stood square to Garrett. “Let me come with you.”

  Trust is an act of faith, not a logical exercise or an each-way bet. The two women stared at each other over three feet of churned grass. Garrett turned away first. She unlocked the car doors.

  “Get in then.”

  Chapter 24

  “Simon Kirkpatrick?”

  “Speaking.” Kirkpatrick adjusted his headset, settled his hips. Elbows in, shoulders relaxed. Lucky six.

  “Hello, it’s Sanjit Patel here, duty watch officer from Colindale. Yes. That's right. I’ve been trying to reach you. Sorry to call on a Sunday, only we’ve had some calls and there’re a lot of open alerts against one of your projects. It’s gone red.”

  “Red? Impossible. I would have got Sentinel alerts on this phone.” Kirkpatrick shifted his weight from foot to foot and squinted down at the ball. No more Mr Nice Guy.

  “Yes but–”

  “I’ve had no texts, emails, calls–” Behind him Kirkpatrick heard his partner give a patient sigh.

  “I think there’s been a glitch in the system.”

  “So raise a support ticket with IT.”

  Why had this man had interrupted his weekend to tell him about some bug? Kirkpatrick looked down at his hands. Concentrate. Don’t get distracted. Just the one shot adrift now. And this his favourite hole. He squinted at a distant flag. That double or quits had been a bit rash. Now they were talking real money. Watch the bracken, left of the fairway. A hundred and forty yards. Six iron. Yes. Payback time.

  “Come on Simon, get on with it. Be Christmas soon.”

  His partner was so impatient. Kirkpatrick adjusted his grip then addressed the ball again.

  “I did some checking while I was trying to reach you.”

  Christ. Officious sounding little man, this Sanjit. “Oh yes?”

  “It appears for the last two days all alerts for one project have been forwarded to Clarice Pearson and she’s on leave.”

  “What alerts? And which project?”

  “The Brighton malaria cluster. First report came in day before yesterday from the Brighton General Hospital.”

  “The Brighton Royal you mean,” Kirkpatrick corrected. Just can’t get the staff. He swayed his upper torso and shoulders like a dancer. The voice behind him made another suggestion to play the ball.

  “No, it was definitely the General. The Royal called yesterday. I saw the
ir messages looking back through the alert log. I guess you didn't see those reports either.”

  “I think you should pay attention Simon. Not sure you can afford not to.”

  Was that meant to be gamesmanship? Pathetic. Kirkpatrick glared at ball and club head. Okay, focus. He paused, wound back to his full extension, swung...

  “–They reported five new cases, one fatality–”

  The ball rose into cloudless blue. The white speck arced up high then left, left, left…

  “Then later, in the second message, three more cases, two more fatalities.”

  “Oh bad luck!”

  The ball floated down into the bracken.

  “I beg your pardon?” Kirkpatrick reached up and touched the side of his headset. “What was that? What did you say?”

  “Yesterday. Looks like a total of three fatalities from the Royal, two from the General.”

  “Did you say fatalities?” Kirkpatrick gazed out across the fairway at the offending patch of rough.

  “Yes. And you've had a dozen messages from hospitals all over Sussex. Unfortunately for some reason I can't access them. There are also related reports coming in from London, Gloucestershire and Ceredigion in Wales. Do you know who set up the Sentinel project? That’s where the mistakes were made.”

  “What mistakes?”

  “Well, to alert Clarice Liu for one. As I said, she’s abroad on leave. It’s in her calendar.”

  Something colder than a clubhouse breezer settled into Kirkpatrick’s stomach as he remembered his last moments in the office.

  “And it seems your project was not correctly set up on the status board.” Christ. In the rush to leave, had he forgotten to do that too? “So we couldn’t see the red light till I started digging. In the last hour we’ve got calls in person: a Captain Skinner from Porton Down, and James Hanratty, from MI6? And just now, the Head of Sussex Emergency Response. To be honest, if I hadn’t got through to you, I was going to escalate.”

  Kirkpatrick turned and walked back to the golf cart. He climbed in and stared at the wheel as though trying to work out what it did.

  “But I wanted to reach you first if possible. We need an escalation decision.”

  Kirkpatrick shook his head. “Yes okay Sanjit. Don’t do anything. I’m coming in.”

  “Simon? What the hell are you doing?”

  Kirkpatrick pressed the ignition switch. “Gotta go.”

  “That’s pathetic! Are you worse at playing or losing? I can’t decide. Even you–”

  Kirkpatrick wrenched at the wheel of the cart, accelerating, swinging round towards the clubhouse. “Something’s come up.”

  The cart sped away. His partner was left empty hands raised in a disbelieving question. Behind him on the edge of the tee the six iron lay forgotten in the long grass.

  Chapter 25

  They stopped at a service station for petrol. When Garrett went to pay she saw Cherry wandering the aisles, her arms full.

  Back at the car Garrett put her phone on charge. She opened a packet of unsalted cashews and raisins, took a bite out of an apple, started the engine.

  Cherry stared. “You like that stuff?”

  Garrett considered. “Yes.”

  Cherry took a swig from a plastic bottle of chocolate milk. She popped a handful of bright orange cheesy puffs into her mouth, followed by a mini-pork pie. Garrett watched.

  “You like that stuff?”

  “Yep, tastes good and fills you up.” Cherry slapped the round of her tummy. “I’m lucky. Never stays.” Cherry noticed Garrett indicate to pull out, steering with the same hand. “Oh sorry, I’ll drive if you like.”

  They switched seats. Garrett was grateful. She explained the gearbox as Cherry pulled away. Cherry drove with relaxed aggression, faster but without Garrett’s accuracy. When she manual-selected second for an overtake, Garrett relaxed too. Cherry glanced across at Garrett.

  “Have a mini pork pie.”

  Garrett tried one. She smiled. “Not bad.”

  “They’re bloody brilliant. Spy got me hooked on them last summer.” Cherry wound down a window, lit a cigarette. “So what was your David like then?” She barely paused for a reply. “Spyder was a gent. Took care of me. Was there when things got rough. Always gave the bike a once-over after I worked on it.” She flicked ash out of the window. “And he loved to hold a door for me; he'd say, ‘Mi’lady’,” Cherry snorted smoke. Garrett remembered the strong young body on the autopsy table. “He wasn’t sexist–”

  “David was a journalist.”

  “Does that make you sexist?”

  Garrett laughed. “Can do.”

  Cherry opened a packet of crisps in her lap one-handed. She ate between drags.

  “I mean don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t no angel. He could be a selfish son of a–”

  “David could be selfish too,” Garrett said.

  “Let's face it,” Cherry said, “Men usually come first.”

  Garrett glanced at Cherry then barked a laugh. Cherry began laughing too. They laughed hard until they saw each other’s tired faces, laughing out of need.

  Cherry overtook a string of lorries. She drove with increasing restlessness, switching lanes in swerves. Garrett offered her an apple. She took it reluctantly.

  “Haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.” She took a bite. She smiled. “Not bad.” She took another bite and spoke between chews. “So do you have any idea what your son wants to talk to you about?”

  “I hope he wants help to leave.”

  Cherry glanced at Garrett. “Usually they want to convert you. That'd be my guess. I say we go in with our eyes open, wait for a chance to snatch him, start deprogramming – you know about that right?”

  “Yes but I don’t want–”

  “Sort of what I did with Spy, except he was already losing the faith. He was willing to leave.” Cherry shrugged. “Maybe it'll be the same.”

  “I wouldn't force him against his will.”

  “These people don't play fair, Christine. They're bastards. You've got to fight fire with fire.”

  Garrett remembered Prenderville's words and said, “He must be free to choose.”

  After a moment Cherry nodded. They drove in silence for a while. “Was he always religious?”

  “I brought him up a Catholic.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. It was how I was brought up. My parents sent me to a convent school.”

  “With real nuns?”

  “Yes. I almost became one myself. “

  “You?” Cherry barked a laugh, “A nun?”

  “It seemed logical at the time. At school I had fallen in love with both science and God. I thought I could combine them.”

  “What was it like?”

  Garrett settled back in her seat. She felt tired and sore but comfortable. She was going to see Jason soon. “From the first day you realise how your life will change. You are given your habit: a black skirt, hat, cross, ring... You are expected to practice silence from nine at night to seven in the morning, also each day to take the Eucharist, spend time in personal meditation and join in community prayers with other sisters at the canonical hours.”

  Cherry snorted. “Sounds like Spyder’s first days at Asari. Why did you leave?”

  “I became frustrated with all the devotions. I was doing maths and biochemistry degrees by distance learning and it seemed pointless to spend so many hours contemplating statues when there were tangible, real problems to solve.”

  “Are you still religious?”

  “Not since David died,” Garrett said quietly. After a moment she added, “I'm a medical researcher and a doctor first. That makes it difficult to be Catholic on ethical grounds.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The Vatican actively campaigns against stem cell research, genetic therapies, contraceptives in HIV programmes–”

  Cherry flicked her cigarette out of the window. “Can't stand religion myself.”

  Garrett smiled. �
��David used to say religions were fairy stories for grown-ups.” She registered the pleasure of using David’s name out loud. “He hated it all too. He said he could understand the mistakes – we're all human – it was the morality he couldn't accept.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “As a journalist he’d covered stories of the deliberate cover-up of child rape.”

  “I see.”

  “They had horrified him.”

  “Of course.”

  “He came to think that the very idea of the resurrection and absolution of your sins was immoral, was the exact opposite of what you teach a child: that no-one can or should take away your responsibilities. And he thought a moral act was corrupted if done not for its own sake but out of fear of punishment or for reward in some hereafter.”

  “Sounds right to me.”

  “He thought the Old Testament was even worse. He said the God Yahweh was a pro-slavery, sexist, homophobic, ethnic-cleansing racist.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said he paid attention to the wrong things.”

  “After what happened to Spy I hate all that mumbo jumbo.”

  “David used to say, ‘Don’t you wish the parables had included simple instructions for making penicillin and quinine? Or a draft declaration of human rights?’”

  Cherry smiled. “You wanna hear a joke?”

  Garrett nodded.

  “Okay, so there’s this family in Rome.” Cherry crammed a handful of crisps into her mouth. “It’s two hundred AD, and Mum and Dad are taking their little boy to the games. In the interval the son begins to cry.”

  Garrett pulled out to overtake a convoy of camper vans.

  “His parents give him Roman ice cream to try to cheer him up. ‘You’ve wanted to come to the Games for ages. Didn’t you like the gladiators? And the bears?’ The little boy nods his head, sobs and says, ‘But didn’t you see the lions, at the end?” Cherry gave two loud sniffs. “There was one, all alone in the corner; he was the only one without a Christian.’”

  Cherry glanced at Garrett and grinned. A mobile began to ring.

  “Christine?” It was a man’s voice, hesitant and distant.

  “Oh. Rheinnalt.”