Game Theory (18 page)

‘Yes.' I stopped. My brain was not at its sharpest. It took a few seconds for me to process even basic things. I thought of Monkhouse. ‘How do you know about Gutless?'

‘You'd be surprised what I know, Jamie. Think. Elementary
research. Would I take your sister without careful research and planning?'

It was disorientating, the posing of a question without the accompanying inflection. I tried to get past the monotone delivery to find some trace of personality. Something I might recognise.

‘I am a professional. Never forget that.'

The door to the cafe opened and Gutless emerged, blinking, into the sunshine. I held up one hand in the stop position and kept the phone raised, but away from my mouth.

‘Gutless,' I shouted. ‘This is an important call. Wait for me here, okay? I'll come back for you.'

Gutless was mouthing something at me. I think it was
Is that him?
But I was already walking down the road. After thirty metres I put the phone back to my ear.

‘Okay,' I said. ‘I'm back.'

‘Did you ever wonder why I am dealing with you and not your sister, Jamie? After all, she's the one with the obese bank account. Did that thought cross your mind?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘You think I am smarter than her and that appeals to you. You think this is a game and you want a worthy opponent. You know me. Personally. We've talked in the past.' Game theory might be more difficult when dealing with an unknown opponent, but that doesn't mean you can't try to disorientate and confuse with unexpected information. If I'd hit on the truth, would it elicit some response? The problem was identifying whether I'd hit a nerve when the words coming back were so robotic.

‘Are you into mathematics?' I added.

A pause.

‘Mathematics? No. I am not like you or Mr Monkhouse. However, I can count up to two million and that's all that matters.'

‘You're lying.'

‘Always a possibility.' Silence. ‘How about some homespun philosophy, Jamie? Life is unfair. Your sister won an enormous amount of money. Not earned. Won. And yet, at the risk of offending your sensibilities, she is nothing more than a slut.'
Process this, Jamie
, I thought.
He is intelligent. He likes the juxtaposition of articulate vocabulary like ‘sensibilities' with slang like ‘slut'. Does it help? Look for a fissure in his personality and maybe you can insert a knife blade and prise it open, reveal his identity. Concentrate. His words are your only resource.

‘No comment,' I said.

‘She is someone who will not willingly part with her winnings, so you might have to do some persuading, Jamie.' Another small clue. He might know a lot about my family, but he didn't know everything. Whatever else Summerlee was, she loved Phoebe with every fibre of her being. She'd pay and count it a bargain.

The voice continued. ‘Tell her she should look at it like another person came up with her numbers and it's simply another form of sharing. Who knows, Jamie? Removing two million from the equation might mean she won't kill herself quite as fast.'

Was the word ‘equation' a taunt?

‘Let me speak to Phoebe,' I said.

‘No. Perhaps tomorrow.'

‘How long does this have to go on? Let's finish our business. I get Phoebe back, you get your money. Why wait?'

The curtain of silence was drawn once more.

‘There's no point rushing.' The words were carefully enunciated. ‘We must be careful that we both come out winners. I know it's hard, but Phoebe is well looked after. Trust me on this, if only because you don't have a choice.'

‘At least can we talk about
when
you want the money? That needs organisation. You can't simply walk into a bank and draw out two million dollars in cash. It'll take time.'

‘Actually, you can just draw out two million. It's a bank. It's your money. But yes, it might take some time. Get onto that straight away. The police might be useful in that regard. They'll be able to pull strings, exert pressure. Tell them when you ring after we've hung up.'

He was fond of throwing in the occasional remark designed to make me think he knew my every move. Was that arrogance, or a tactic designed to unsettle? Arrogance is often a weakness. Something else to file away.

‘Okay,' I said.

‘I'll call you soon. Maybe you'll get the chance to talk to Phoebe, though I am not promising anything.'

‘Can I ask you something?'

A slight pause.

‘Make it quick.'

‘How did you get Phoebe to leave that supermarket with you?' The question had been bubbling ever since her disappearance. My sister wasn't dumb – she was a
long
way from dumb – and she would never leave with a total stranger. She'd had the stranger-danger sermon at home and at school on countless occasions. It was the main reason why I felt he
wasn't
a stranger. But even then, she wouldn't go without telling me. It wasn't in her nature. Yet the two of them must have left, avoiding security cameras, and got into a car. And no one had raised an eyebrow because it must have appeared entirely normal. He couldn't have been holding a weapon, because there were too many people about. And that meant, until she was in the car, there were plenty of opportunities to raise the alarm or show distress or simply run screaming. But Phoebe must have gone without fuss. In some way she must have been complicit in her own abduction.

‘Do you have any theories?' Again, the question that didn't sound like a question.

‘She's met you before.'

‘Still harping on that, Jamie? No. She had never seen me before. The truth is, everyone has their weakness. We are all capable of doing things that seem entirely out of character if that weakness can be found and exploited. That's all I did. I used Phoebe's weakness.'

I kept quiet. He wanted me to ask but I knew he'd tell me anyway. He wouldn't be able to resist.

‘Phoebe's weakness is you, Jamie. That is both wonderful and
tragic. I approached her in one of the aisles, the aisle where the trolley was found. I told her that her name was Phoebe Delaware and that her brother Jamie was in the supermarket. I also told her – no, I
promised
her – that unless she did exactly what she was told, her brother would die. She looked me straight in the eyes and she believed me, Jamie.'

It was a lie. I knew it was a lie. Or maybe I wanted to believe that. Either way, I found it difficult to breathe. There was a hard constriction in my throat, blocking off air. Later I found my right hand was curled so hard that my fingernails had left crescent-shaped gouges in my palm. Suddenly, I needed to sit down. The voice continued, unemotional and relentless.

‘She is remarkable. She walked out of that place, at my side, and didn't give one indication that there was anything out of the ordinary. Nobody would have been able to tell I wasn't her mother or her sister.'

Another lie. A deliberate attempt to confuse. He wouldn't make a mistake like that, not after going to all the trouble to make sure his voice couldn't be identified, even to gender. It seemed more likely to me that a man would be so devious and arrogant at the same time. Or was I deceiving myself? In the end, it probably didn't matter.

Regardless of whether he was male or female, I could kill this person. That was a cold certainty in my gut.

The phone went dead.

CHAPTER 18

Gutless bombarded me with questions, but I didn't answer.

Instead, I took my phone out again and rang Mum. She was pissed off I'd disappeared but the annoyance was tempered by the urge to know what the kidnapper had said. She made me go over it twice, even though, when everything was said and done, there was not much in the way of new information. The only thing she could hold onto was the bit about money. I knew that she would be getting something organised as soon as we hung up. Action. Just keep moving. I promised I would be home soon and got off the phone by expressing the simple truth that I had to ring Gardner and fill him in. I did that as well. Gardner made me go over it another three times and said he and Detective Moss would be around to the house later to get a formal statement. I had the impression he really wanted to pick me up and take me to the station right there and then, but I made it clear that there was nothing new to add to what I'd told him. ‘He's playing
a game,' I said. ‘This call was just to string me along, keep me focused.' I wasn't sure Gardner agreed with my analysis, but he didn't push it.

Gutless walked me to my front door. He offered to stay, but I told him I was fucked and had to get some sleep.

‘Ring me, dude,' he said. ‘I won't ring you. I imagine you shit yourself when your fucking phone goes off. But day or night, man. I'm here for you. True.'

‘Thanks, Gutless,' I said. He's no wordsmith, but he meant it and I was grateful. ‘There is one thing you can do for me, though.' ‘Anything, man.'

‘Keep an eye on Mr Monkhouse for me. Check what he's doing, try to find out whether he's really sick or not.'

‘Whoa.' Gutless grinned. ‘I can do that,' he said. ‘Gutless Geraghty, P.I.'

He was so pleased with himself that he was heading off without Monkhouse's address. I called him back and gave it to him. At least it might keep him away from video games for a while, and anyway, it was easy to underestimate Gutless. I knew he'd do his best to help out.

I opened my front door, dreading what lay beyond it. Not just the pain and the fear and the stultifying sense of helplessness, though they were bad enough. What I really dreaded was more words. Words that go round and round and round and never get anywhere. I wanted sleep. No. That's wrong. I
needed
sleep. But as soon as I walked into our front room I knew I wouldn't get it.

Dixon was hunched into Dad's chair.
He looked like some kind of down-at-heel Buddha, a broad band of gut bulging against his shirt, straining the lower buttons to the extent that I could see patches of hairy skin peeping like strange eyes. The belt of his trousers was lost beneath the swell. He stroked his moth-eaten salt-and-pepper moustache and his eyes flitted around the room. Maybe he was looking for a drink. He certainly appeared in need of one. Summerlee and Spider sat on the sofa across from him. Spider was still wearing that singlet from the night before. It was nearly as red as his eyes.

Dixon lumbered to his feet as I came in, hoisted the waist band of his pants up a notch.

‘Your mum said it would be okay for me to wait for you here,' he said, like I was on the point of questioning the legitimacy of his presence. I shrugged. ‘Your parents are not here,' he added. ‘They went to the hospital.' He raised a hand to ward off an anticipated question. ‘It's okay. But your dad . . . well, he was complaining of chest pains, you know, and your mum thought . . . better safe than sorry.'

Summerlee chipped in.

‘She rang ten minutes ago,' she said. ‘All good. They gave him shitloads of tests but they came out clear. They'll be home soon.'

‘Okay,' I said. Maybe we were all becoming strung out and overly suspicious of everything, but I wondered if Dad's chest pains were psychosomatic, an unconscious attempt to evoke sympathy. I imagined the same idea had crossed Mum's mind. It
was uncharitable and, anyway, it didn't really make any difference. I glanced at Spider. He half-waved his hand and then nodded at me. Two guys bonding. What a shit. Dixon hoisted his pants again. Fat guys have two choices with pants. I'd noticed this with Gutless. They either go for the band above the waistline where the stomach's diameter keeps everything in place, or the waistband beneath the overhang, in which case the belt keeps slipping. The first option offers security for your stomach but makes you look like a dick. Dixon had obviously decided not to look like a dick, and hoisting pants at regular intervals was the price he was prepared to pay.

The longer I went without sleep, the more bizarre were my thought patterns.

‘How can I help you . . . er, Inspector Dixon, is it?'

‘Just Dixon will do.' He sat back down again. I was pleased. I was becoming obsessed with the movements of his pants. ‘I believe you wanted to pass on a message to me.'

‘Why aren't you on the case?'

He shrugged. ‘Not my area. That's okay, son. Detective Inspector Gardner is an expert at this stuff. He has degrees. He's been on courses.' Tired though I was, I could pick up on subtext. The new educated cop, fast-tracked to promotion, versus the old guard who'd been round the blocks more time than you could count, earning their expertise through erosion of shoe leather. This was the fabric of television drama and I wasn't interested. Well. I
was
, in a way, but exhaustion was diluting my attention.

‘So why are you here?'

He stroked the moustache again.

‘I'm off duty. Thought I'd pop round. I might not have a degree, but I know a bit about how the world operates. It crossed my mind you might like to chat.'

I want to sleep
, I thought. But he was on my mental list of possible suspects and this was a good opportunity to do a little digging.

‘I would,' I said. ‘I appreciate it.'

Dixon gave an almost imperceptible glance towards Spider and Summerlee.

‘How about we go for a walk?' he said. He got to his feet and adjusted his pants one more time. An image of a nail gun crossed my mind but I pushed it to one side.

‘Sure,' I said.

We walked around the block. It was hometime at the local primary school and kids bustled everywhere. Mum and Dad hadn't sent Phoebe to the local school. They'd done their research and chosen one in the next suburb that got better NAPLAN scores. I'd never been convinced those kinds of things mattered, but I wasn't allowed a vote. Small tackers on skateboards weaved around us and parents ushered children into cars. Off to homework and playtime with the dog and dinner and all the unappreciated, disregarded normality of family life. I swore I would never take that for granted again, but it was too late for that. So I walked, kept my eyes to the ground, a sense of injustice surging like a
tide. How dare these people behave normally? What gave them the right?