“If he has revealed sensitive details to you, unauthorized disclosure of such information to a third person could result in you being charged under the Official Secrets Act. Penalties for such an offense include imprisonment.”
“Are you threatening him?” demands Ruiz.
The lieutenant has been well 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 will 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.
“Tell 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 will 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 cooperation. I will 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 stillness, 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 call her, Professor. She really 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 call 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’ll 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 will be sitting at the kitchen table in her school uniform, half-awake, grumpy. She’ll launch into a long story about a dream and I’ll 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 still. 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 ring tone 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 pull open the top drawer and rifle through socks and school tights rolled into balls. I feel something vibrating inside a pair of striped football socks: a mobile phone. I pull 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 fibers, not mobile phones.
“Listen, Joe, I’ve been thinking you must know a hell 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-checks, 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 called 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 pajamas are spilling out from beneath her pillow, 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 intelligence. They want you back.”
“It’s nice to be wanted.”
“Why are they so keen to get you?”
“Can’t tell you that, Joe, or I might have to kill 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 challenge.
“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? Till death do us part, isn’t that what you both promised.”<
br />
“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 hell out of there—left you running down the driveway, trying to put on your pants.”
“Who told you that? Did she tell you that? Do you know where she is?” He’s yelling at me now. “You really 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 hell…”
“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 tell me what to do. You miss your daughter, Joe; 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 still 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 all 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 bullshit 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 call yourself professionals don’t know how to ask the right questions.”
“What sort of question should I be asking?”
“Torture is a complicated subject, Joe, a hell of a subject. Back in the fifties, the CIA ran a research project and spent over a billion dollars to crack the code of human consciousness. They had the most brilliant 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 McGill. They discovered that a person deprived of his or her senses will begin to hallucinate 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 will.”
“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’ll 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 all 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 to be a martyr and go straight to Heaven. Thought he’d get blow jobs from 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 Allah. He should have been praying to me. He didn’t even hate me in the end. All 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 all hope disappears, all pride is gone, all expectation, all faith, all 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 skull collapses. 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 wills and makes the past leak into the present; a sound so high only the hounds of hell can hear it. Can you hear it?”
“No.”
“Someone is curled up in a tiny ball crying softly into an endless night. Isn’t that fucking poetic? I’m a poet and I don’t know it. Are you still there, Joe? Are you with me? That’s what I’m going to do to Julianne. And when her mind breaks, so will yours. I’ll get two for the price of one. Maybe I’ll give her a call 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 hollow 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 pajamas 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 w
orld 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 recognize 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.
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