by Stav Sherez
‘Where did you get them from?’
‘Where do you think? I stole them off someone else’s computer.’
44
‘You claimed her?’
‘Claimed? What do you mean?’
Carrigan studied the boy’s face. There was no discernible reaction to the word claimed. ‘Whose computer did you steal the clips from?’
‘How am I supposed to know? It’s all automated. I have a program set up to do that for me.’
‘What kind of program?’
‘I told you. When I downloaded the RAT software off the web, I immediately saw it was shit. Just basic Ratting tools with a few add-ons – no one had taken the time to refine it. That pissed me off. I started fiddling with the code. I had to rewrite the entire program. It was clunky and inelegant. It had too many glitches and vulnerabilities. It wouldn’t let me do what I wanted. I streamlined it and added all sorts of tools to make it more fun.’
‘Like what?’
‘A button that makes your start menu disappear or one that pops open your CD tray. That’s always good for a scare.’
‘Nice to know your high IQ is being put to good use.’
‘You’re so backwards.’ Hugo shook his head in mock dismay.
‘That I may be,’ Carrigan replied. ‘But you’re the one in trouble here, not me, and you still haven’t answered my question – how did you get hold of these clips?’
Hugo rubbed his shoes against one another. ‘When I finished developing my Ratting program I posted it as freeware on the forum. But I also put in a backdoor so anyone who downloaded the program, I could sneak into their computers.’
‘Why would you do that? I thought you were only interested in live girls.’
‘I wanted the things people didn’t post. The stuff they keep to themselves, the interesting stuff. So, I created an algorithm. Every morning it automatically searches through all the hard drives that have downloaded my Ratting program, trolling for image and video files and saving them onto my server. That’s how I got the Anna videos. You pick up so much junk doing a data trawl but I could tell immediately this was different, that whoever Ratted her, his work was far superior to anything else on the board.’
‘And so you pretended it was your own?’
Hugo’s smile flickered. ‘It got me some good trades. I thought it’d be cool.’
‘Cool? Do you realise how much of our time you’ve wasted? Fuck.’ Carrigan punched the table.
Hugo flinched and moved his chair back. ‘There’ll be a record.’
Carrigan looked over at the boy. ‘What kind of record?’
‘On my laptop, if I can access my server. It keeps a log of all the IPs it snatches data from.’
‘I need you to find it.’
Hugo asked for his laptop. As soon as he got it, he became transformed, all the awkward edges of the past few hours tunnelled into an intense engagement with numbers and code. They watched as he ran a program through his hard drive. They saw him smile as he turned to Neilson and pointed to a long string of numbers.
Neilson copied the numbers down and plugged them into her system. Hugo had accessed the Anna clips from this IP address. Neilson converted the numbers into a real-world location. She read out the street name and number and saw Carrigan and Geneva exchanging glances.
‘What?’
Geneva double-checked the screen to be certain. She turned to Neilson and said, ‘That’s the address of the cleaning agency Anna worked for.’
45
There was nothing to be gained by holding Hugo any longer and they released him once he’d signed his statement. Carrigan went to his office, flicked on the coffee machine, and let his mind empty to the sound of hissing water. He closed his eyes and saw Anna on hands and knees, her body starred in supplication. He remembered the martyred penitents and combustible saints of his youth, their faces bathed in ecstatic torment. He drained the coffee in one gulp, made another, and escaped to the roof as the phones began ringing.
He stared out at a landscape obliterated by mist and drizzle, the mere suggestion of a city, and thought about the recent list of reversals and revelations. They’d double-checked the IP address on a different database but the result was the same. Hugo had downloaded the Anna clips from a computer located in the offices of Sparta Employment Agency. Carrigan had skimmed Geneva’s report of the Eleanor Harper interview but there was frustratingly little to go on. Could a woman have done it? Hoffmann had ruled it out and, for once, Carrigan had to agree. This was a man’s crime and Madison had seen a man carry Anna away. Carrigan shivered and pushed his hands deep into his pockets, a part of him welcoming the cold and soaked fabric, the way temperature can snap you back into your body, and made his way back downstairs.
*
Geneva was waiting in his office when he got there.
He switched on the overhead lights, dissipating the late-afternoon gloom, and headed straight for the coffee machine. ‘You want one?’
Geneva nodded. ‘We need to send a team over to Sparta as soon as possible.’
Carrigan passed her a cup. ‘I read your notes. But they don’t say much. Tell me, how did Eleanor Harper strike you?’
Geneva started to speak, then realised what he meant. Facts and theories came tumbling down and collapsed into one singularity. ‘She was rude and stand-offish but I didn’t get any vibe off her if that’s what you mean?’
Carrigan nodded and wrote something down. ‘Which is exactly why sending in a full team could be counter-productive. Someone like her will only clam up.’ Carrigan sipped his coffee. ‘We don’t know for certain that she has anything to do with this. We know the killer is good with computers, he could have sat in the Sparta waiting room and piggy-backed their IP or he could have done it remotely.’
‘Let me come with you. If she lied to me, I want to be there.’
‘If she lied to you, she’ll find it that much harder to change her story in front of you.’
Geneva nodded, realising he was right. ‘I’d love to know what Hoffmann makes of this.’
Carrigan snorted and Geneva decided she’d had enough of these games, the petty boundaries men erect between themselves and the world. ‘I need to know, Jack. Who is he to you? And please, don’t lie to me this time. Not again. You know you can trust me.’
Carrigan squeezed the coffee cup between his hands. He didn’t answer for a long time. Finally, he put the cup on the table and cradled his head. ‘He was my wife’s lover.’
Geneva tried not to let the surprise show on her face. Then something else struck her. ‘That’s one hell of a coincidence.’
‘It’s not a coincidence,’ Carrigan replied. ‘Hoffmann’s golf buddies with Quinn. It’s why he gets all the top assignments. He probably told Quinn he fucked my wife and Quinn couldn’t resist.’
Geneva shook her head. ‘Shit. Was he still seeing Louise at the end?’
Carrigan saw his own face dimly reflected in the porcelain curve of the cup. ‘I was going to leave her. I had it all prepared and then she came back from the doctor and everything had changed. Suddenly the affair didn’t mean anything – not in the light of what was coming and the years we’d spent together. I fell in love with her all over again and I don’t think she could handle that. Not with what was happening to her.’ Carrigan looked down at his empty cup. ‘I thought I was okay with it and then Hoffmann reappeared and I realised I’d been kidding myself all along.’
‘And now?’
‘Now? I don’t know. It feels different.’
Geneva leaned over and brushed a flurry of crumbs from his lapel. The phone rang. Carrigan picked it up, muttered Yes, and put it back down.
‘We got a hit on the Bali beach photo. Downstairs just got a call from someone responding to our TV appeal. He recognised one of the girls.’
Geneva pushed her chair back. ‘Which one?’
‘That’s the thing. He doesn’t know her name. He’s a doctor in the secure mental health unit at St Charl
es. He says the girl is one of his patients.’
46
‘Frankly, we don’t know if the story she told us is something that happened to her or something she imagined.’
‘And you’re not interested in finding out?’ Geneva said, her trousers clinging to the chair’s sticky leather skin.
Dr Brian Hunt shook his head. ‘It’s not relevant. What matters is that she believes it was real. It’s these memories, regardless of their actual veracity, which are the cause of all her anguish and terror.’
Geneva was sitting in Hunt’s office at the St Charles Hospital in North Kensington.
‘She checked herself in six months ago,’ Hunt continued. ‘In a terrible state. Having paranoid delusions and seizures. We thought it was due to whatever drugs she was on and that it would wear off but it never did.’
‘What condition am I likely to find her in? Will she be able to understand my questions?’
Hunt frowned. ‘She has some memory loss. She can’t remember her name or much of her childhood. By tomorrow, she won’t recall meeting you. It’s like her brain wipes itself every morning, but she can’t forget the attack. She goes through long periods when she’s almost what you and I would call normal and then something inside her snaps and her memories of the assault drag her back under. It’s always inside her head, never an outside trigger. She’s in one of her better states at the moment but talking about her ordeal is not something she’s come to terms with yet. If it wasn’t for the fact you’ve impressed on me how serious this is, I would have grave reservations about potentially upsetting her like this.’
‘And you’re not in the slightest bit interested in what really happened to her or who she is?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘It’s what she thinks happened to her that counts. The rest is up to you.’
Hunt led Geneva down a long corridor reeking of bleach and soap, through two locked doors and into a large, open-plan ward. He pointed to a woman hunched over a desk in the far corner then disappeared back down the hallway.
The ward was filled with the sound of screaming, moaning and weeping. The smell of institutional meals, bleach, urine, and bodies slowly rotting from the inside out. Two orderlies sat behind a desk, deep in gossip, totally unruffled by the bedlam surrounding them. A large TV hung on a wall, muted children’s shows flashing across the screen.
Geneva felt her shoes stick and suck at the linoleum as she crossed the room, avoiding the manic stares and outstretched hands. She neared the woman and stopped a couple of feet away from her. Before coming here, Geneva had studied the Bali photo, committing to memory the faces of the girls, speculating on which one she would find. But she needn’t have bothered.
She was facing a strikingly composed young woman hunched over a sprawling and intricate jigsaw puzzle. The woman was so focused on her task she didn’t notice Geneva’s approach. She was holding a beige square in her hand, two pegs protruding, weighing it in her palm and examining the scene in front of her. ‘You always think this time you’ll manage to complete it.’
She made no move to acknowledge Geneva’s presence nor turn around and Geneva couldn’t be sure if the words were addressed to her or to some imaginary companion perched atop the woman’s shoulder.
‘But you never do,’ the woman continued, her voice scratchy and hoarse and slightly slowed down as if someone had placed a finger on the turntable. She was dressed in a bathrobe and grey felt slippers. Scars from several unsuccessful suicides criss-crossed her wrists. ‘You never get to see the full picture. The pieces never fit, never quite fit, always one too many or one too few.’
She turned around and Geneva came face to face with a ghost.
47
He found Eleanor Harper alone in the empty waiting room, lost in a private waltz of tidying the scattered magazines and discarded application forms. Her eyes shot up and she froze mid-gesture as Carrigan’s knock intruded into the room’s silence. He saw her clutch the top of a chair, her hand wrapped tightly around the crossbar, whether for comfort or as potential weapon, he couldn’t tell. He took out his warrant card and flicked it open.
‘I already told the woman detective everything I know.’ Eleanor walked towards a squat oval coffee table and dropped the magazines.
‘I know you did,’ Carrigan replied, watching her carefully. ‘And I appreciate your co-operation, but I like to hear things for myself. It’s my responsibility to the investigation to make sure I get as much as I can first-hand. I’m sure a woman in your position can understand that.’
Eleanor finally looked up, her eyes taking in the rumpled raincoat, crumpled trousers and untrimmed beard. A faint smile turned up one corner of her mouth. ‘I don’t imagine you’re the kind of person who takes no for an answer?’
Carrigan laughed, then caught himself. ‘This won’t take up much time. And then you’ll have us out of your hair for good.’
Her shoulders dropped slightly. ‘Fine by me.’ She edged the magazines with her hand until they were even and she was satisfied. ‘I told your detectives, I have nothing to hide.’
‘We all have something to hide, Ms Harper. Determining whether it has anything to do with the case is all I’m interested in.’
Her eyes darkened as she considered Carrigan’s statement. Her face was severe and striking in the slightly unreal way of old paintings or silent movie stars. Her smile was cold and precise as if she’d measured out its exact width in the mirror. Her fingernails, glossy as jewels, clicked on the surface of the table. Carrigan realised he must stink of stale coffee and felt a curious schoolboy squirm behind her glare as they entered the office.
He took off his jacket and pulled out his notebook and pen. ‘Some new questions have come up.’ Carrigan flicked back a few pages until he found his notes from the Hugo interview. ‘Were you here, in your office, on the evening of 12 May?’
The question surprised her. The metronome of her fingernails stopped and her forehead twitched as she realised this conversation wasn’t going to be quite the same as the one she’d had with Geneva. She picked up a tub of hand cream and spun the lid. The city was a faint hum outside, like static from a detuned radio, everything muffled and made distant by height and glass. Eleanor scooped out a small snake of lotion and rubbed it into her palm. ‘I don’t like the way you’re phrasing these questions.’
‘I’m sorry about that, but I still need your answer.’
‘Is this some sort of game? First that woman comes barging in here and now you?’ She got up and reached for her handbag.
‘Sit down,’ Carrigan said. The smell of hand cream was cloying and chemical and way too sweet. ‘You’ll have to excuse me if I sound a little brusque, but I have two women dead. At least one of them got work through your agency in the weeks prior to her disappearance. Before she was killed, she was being filmed without her knowledge. Whoever did that was in your office on the evening of 12 May.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about and if you don’t leave this minute, I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ Carrigan interrupted. ‘Call the police?’
Eleanor took off her horn-rimmed spectacles, her eyes losing their fierce temper for a brief moment. ‘Why should I tell you anything? Especially as you insist on being so rude.’
‘Because he’s already killed three girls we know about. Because he won’t stop. This is simply him warming up. And if you’re keeping anything from me and he goes on to kill again, you won’t be able to live with yourself.’
‘Three? I thought a moment ago you said two?’
‘His first victim was in Bali. We’re not—’
‘Bali?’ She spat the word out as if it were a piece of food that didn’t taste quite right. ‘What are you talking about? Why are you mentioning Bali? When did this happen?’
‘Last summer. We believe it’s likely this was his first. A girl called Lucy Brown.’
Eleanor shook her head and, for a brief moment, Carrigan caught sight of the trapdoor that had
just sprung open beneath her life. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand, Ms Harper?’
‘They caught the men who did it. Caught them and executed them.’
Carrigan couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘You know about Lucy Brown?’
‘Is this some kind of sick joke? Of course I know about Lucy. Lucy was my daughter.’
48
Katrina Eliot looked like an older sister of the smiling sun-lit girl in the Bali beach photo. Her eyes were grey and worn and there was a fine hatchwork of lines radiating across her face. It was as if her youth had completely vanished in a matter of a few months. They’d feared she was dead or captive in some benighted basement but no one, not even Hoffmann, had predicted this.
Geneva took a step forward, ignoring the rest of the patients. ‘Katrina?’
At first, there was no response, but when Geneva repeated the girl’s name, Katrina froze.
‘No one knows who I am,’ she replied, pronouncing each word slowly and clearly, the sibilant hissing like steam.
‘We can get you out of here.’ Geneva glanced down at the table. The puzzle seemed to describe a network of labyrinthine rooms but Katrina had only completed a few unconnected fragments and it was impossible to tell what the piece was supposed to represent.
‘What makes you think I want to leave?’ Katrina said, her skinny body rocking back and forth in the chair. She glanced over at the orderlies. ‘He sent you here, didn’t he?’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘You know who.’
‘I’m here to make sure you’re safe from him.’
‘Where? Out in the world where he can find me just like that?’ Katrina picked up a puzzle piece. ‘Why do you think I’m here? I can leave anytime I want. Why do you think I never gave them my name?’