Shatter (11 page)

‘And Paul Revere would have saved himself a long ride.’

‘Nelson could have sent a text from Trafalgar.’

‘Saying what?’

‘I won’t be home for dinner.’

The receptionist is back. We are taken to a room lined with screens and shelves ful of software manuals. It has that new computer smel of moulded plastic, solvents and adhesives.

‘What does this Oliver Rabb do?’ I ask.

‘He’s a telecommunications engineer— the best, according to my mate at BT. Some guys fix phones. He fixes satel ites.’

‘Can he trace Christine Wheeler’s last cal ?’

‘That’s what we’re going to ask him.’

Oliver Rabb almost sneaks up on us, appearing suddenly through a second door. Tal and bald, with big hands and a stoop, he seems to present the top of his head as he bows and shakes our hands. A study of tics and eccentricities, he is the sort of man who regards a bow tie and braces as practical rather than a fashion statement.

‘Ask away, ask away,’ he says.

‘We’re looking for cal s made to a mobile number,’ replies Ruiz.

‘Is this investigation official?’

‘We’re assisting the police.’

I wonder if Ruiz is so good at lying because he’s met so many liars.

Oliver has logged onto the computer and is running through a series of password protocols. He types Christine Wheeler’s mobile number. ‘It’s amazing how much you can tel about a person by looking at their phone records,’ he says, scanning the screen. ‘A few years ago a guy at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology did a PhD project where he gave out a hundred free mobile phones to students and employees. Over nine months he monitored these phones and logged over 350,000 hours of data. He wasn’t listening to the actual cal s. He only wanted the numbers, the duration, the time of day and location.

‘By the time he finished he knew much more than that. He knew how long each person slept, what time they woke, when they went to work, where they shopped, their best friends, favourite restaurants, nightclubs, hangouts and holiday destinations. He could tel which of them were co-workers or lovers. And he could predict what people would do next with eighty-five per cent accuracy.’

Ruiz looks over his shoulder at me. ‘That sounds like your territory, Professor. How often do you get it right?’

‘I deal with the deviations, not the averages.’

‘Touché.’

The screen refreshes with details of Christine Wheeler’s account and phone usage.

‘These are her cal logs for the past month.’

‘What about Friday afternoon?’

‘Where was she?’

‘The Clifton Suspension Bridge— about five.’

Oliver starts a new search. A sea of numbers appears on the screen. The flashing cursor seems to be reading them. The search comes up with nothing.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ I say. ‘She was talking on a mobile when she jumped.’

‘Maybe she was talking to herself,’ replies Oliver.

‘No. There was another voice.’

‘Then she must have had another phone.’

My mind trips over the possibilities. Where did she get a second mobile? Why change phones?

‘Could the data be wrong?’ asks Ruiz.

Oliver bristles at the suggestion. ‘Computers in my experience are more reliable than people.’ His fingers stroke the top of the monitor as if worried that its feelings might have been hurt.

‘Explain to me again how the system works,’ I ask.

The question seems to please him.

‘A mobile phone is basical y a sophisticated radio, not much different to a walkie-talkie, but while a walkie-talkie can transmit perhaps a mile and a CB radio about five miles, the range of a mobile phone is huge because it can hop between transmission towers without losing the signal.’

He holds out his hand. ‘Show me your phone.’

I hand it to him.

‘Every mobile handset identifies itself in two ways. The Mobile Identification Number (MIN) is assigned by the service provider and is similar to a landline with a three-digit area code and a seven-digit phone number. The Electronic Serial Number (ESN) is a 32-bit binary number assigned by the manufacturer and can never be changed.

‘When you receive a cal on your mobile, the message travels through the telephone network until it reaches a base station close to your phone.’

‘A base station?’

‘A phone tower. You might have seen them on top of buildings or mountains. The tower sends out radio waves that are detected by your handset. It also assigns a channel so you’re not suddenly on a party line.’

Oliver’s fingers are stil tapping at keys. ‘Every cal that is placed or received leaves a digital record. It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs.’

He points to a flashing red triangle on the screen.

‘According to the cal log, the last time Mrs Wheeler’s mobile received a cal was at 12.26 on Friday afternoon. The cal was routed through a tower in Upper Bristol Road. It’s on the Albion Buildings.’

‘That’s less than a mile from her house,’ I say.

‘Most likely the closest tower.’

Ruiz is peering over his shoulder. ‘Can we see who cal ed her?’

‘Another mobile.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘You need a warrant for that sort of information.’

‘I won’t tel ,’ replies Ruiz, sounding like a schoolboy about to sneak a kiss behind the bike shed.

‘When did the cal end?’ I ask.

Oliver turns back to the screen and cal s up a new map, covered in numbers. ‘That’s interesting. The signal strength started to change. She must have been moving.’

‘How do you know?’

‘These red triangles are the locations of mobile phone towers.

In built up areas they’re usual y about two miles apart, but in the country there can be twenty miles between them.

‘As you move further away from one tower the signal strength diminishes. The next base station— the tower you’re moving towards— notices the signal strengthening. The two base stations coordinate and switch your cal to the new tower. It happens so quickly we rarely notice it.’

‘So Christine Wheeler was stil talking on her mobile when she left her house?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Can you tel where she went?’

‘Given enough time. Breadcrumbs, remember? It might take a few days.’

Ruiz has suddenly become interested in the technology, pul ing up a chair and staring at the screen.

‘There are three missing hours. Perhaps we can find out where Christine Wheeler went.’

‘As long as she kept the phone with her,’ replies Oliver. ‘Whenever a mobile is turned on it transmits a signal, a “ping”, looking for base stations within range. It may find more than one but wil latch onto the strongest signal. The “ping” is actual y a very short message lasting less than a quarter of a second, but it contains the MIN and ESN of the handset: the digital fingerprint. The base station stores the information.’

‘So you can track any mobile,’ I say.

‘As long as it’s turned on.’

‘How close can you get? Can you pinpoint the exact location?’

‘No. It’s not like a GPS. The nearest tower could be miles away. Sometimes it’s possible to triangulate the signal from three or more towers and get a better fix.’

‘How accurate?’

‘Down to a street: certainly not a building.’ He chuckles at my incredulity. ‘It’s not something your friendly service provider likes to advertise.’

‘And neither do the police,’ adds Ruiz, who has started taking notes, boxing off details with doodled circles.

We know Christine Wheeler finished up at the Clifton Suspension Bridge on Friday afternoon. At some point she stopped using her mobile and picked up another. When did it happen and why?

Oliver pushes his chair away from the desk and rol s across the room to a second computer. His fingers flick at the keyboard.

‘I’m searching the base stations in the area. If we work backwards from five o’clock, we may find Mrs Wheeler’s mobile.’

He points to the screen. ‘There are three base stations nearby. The closest is on Sion Hil , at the bottom of Queen Victoria Avenue. The tower is on the roof of the Princes’ Building. The next closest is two hundred yards away on the roof of Clifton Library.’

He types Christine Wheeler’s number into the search engine. The screen refreshes.

‘There!’ He points to a triangle on the screen. ‘She was in the area at 3.20 p.m.’

‘Talking to the same cal er?’

‘It appears so. The cal ends at 3.26.’

Ruiz and I look at each other. ‘How did she get another mobile?’ he asks.

‘Either someone gave it to her or she had it with her. Darcy didn’t mention a second phone.’

Oliver is listening in. He’s slowly being drawn into the search. ‘Why are you so interested in this woman?’

‘She jumped off the Clifton Suspension Bridge.’

He exhales slowly, making his face look even more skul -like.

‘There must be some way of tracing the conversation on the bridge,’ says Ruiz.

‘Not without a number,’ replies Oliver. ‘There were eight thousand cal s going through the nearest base stations every fifteen minutes. Unless we can narrow the search down…’

‘What about duration? Christine Wheeler was perched on the edge of the bridge for an hour. She was on the phone the whole time.’

‘Cal s aren’t logged by length,’ he explains. ‘It could take me days to separate them.’

I have another idea. ‘How many of the cal s ended precisely at 5.07 p.m.?’

‘Why?’

‘That’s when she jumped.’

Oliver turns back to the keyboard, typing in parameters for a new search. The screen becomes a stream of numbers that flash by so quickly they blur into a waterfal of black and white.

‘That’s amazing,’ he says, pointing to the screen. ‘There’s a cal that ended at precisely 5.07 p.m. It lasted more than ninety minutes.’

His fingers are tracing the details when they suddenly stop.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

‘That’s strange,’ he replies. ‘Mrs Wheeler was talking to another mobile which was routed through the same base station.’

‘Which means what?’

‘It means whoever was taking to her was either on the bridge or looking at it.’

13

There are girls playing hockey on the field. Blue-pleated skirts swirl and dip against muddy knees, pigtails bounce and sticks clack together. The word budding comes to mind. I
have always liked how it sounds. It reminds me of my childhood and the girls I wanted to fuck.

The sports mistress is refereeing, her voice as shrill as a whistle. She yells at them not to bunch up and to pass and to run.

‘Do keep up, Alice. Get involved.’

I know of some of the girls’ names. Louise has the long brown hair, Shelly the sunshine smile and poor Alice hasn’t hit the ball once since the game began.

A group of adolescent boys are watching from beneath a yew tree. They are sizing up the girls and poking fun at them.

Every time I look at the girls I imagine my Chloe. She’s younger. Six now. I missed her last birthday. She’s good at ball games. She could catch by the time she was four.

I built her a basketball hoop. It was lower than regulation height so she could reach. We used to go one-on-one and I always let her win. In the beginning she could hardly sink a
basket but as she grew stronger and her aim improved, she landed maybe two shots in every three.

The hockey game is over. The girls are running indoors to change. Shelly with the sunshine smile runs across to flirt with the boys and is shepherded away by the sports mistress.

I squeeze my fingers around a chalky stone and begin scratching letters on the stone capping on the wall. The powder sinks deep into the cracks. I trace the letters again.

CHLOE

I draw a heart around the name, punctured by a cupid’s arrow with a triangular point and a splayed tail. Then I close my eyes and make a wish, willing it to be so.

My eyelids flutter open. I blink twice. The sports mistress is there, holding a hockey stick over her shoulder with the colourful towelling grip squeezed in her fist.

Her lips part: ‘Get lost, creep— or I’ll call the police!’

14

There are moments, I know them wel , when Mr Parkinson refuses to lie down and take his medicine like a man. He plays cruel tricks on me and embarrasses me in public.

There are thousands of involuntary processes in the body that we cannot control. We cannot stop our hearts from beating or our skin from sweating or our pupils dilating. Other movements are voluntary and these are abandoning me. My limbs, my jaw, my face, wil sometimes tremble or twitch or become fixed. Without warning, my face wil lock into a mask, leaving me unable to smile in welcome or to show sadness or concern. What good wil I be as a clinical psychologist if I lose my ability to express emotion?

‘You’re giving me the stare again,’ says Ruiz.

‘Sorry.’ I look away.

‘We should go home,’ he says gently.

‘Not yet.’

We’re sitting outside a Starbucks, braving the chil because Ruiz refuses to be seen inside such a place and thinks we should have gone to a pub instead.

‘I want an espresso, not a pint,’ I told him.

To which he countered, ‘Do you
try
to sound like a hairdresser?’

‘Drink your coffee.’

His hands are buried in the pockets of his overcoat. It’s the same rumpled coat he was wearing when I first met him— five years ago. He interrupted a talk that I was giving to prostitutes in London. I was trying to help them stay safe on the streets. Ruiz was trying to solve a murder.

I liked him. Men who take too much care of themselves and their clothes can appear vain and over-ambitious but Ruiz had long ago stopped caring about what other people thought of him. He was like a big dark vague piece of furniture, smel ing of tobacco and wet tweed.

Another thing that struck me was how he could stare into the distance even when sitting in a room. It was as though he could see beyond wal s to a place where things were clearer or better or easier on the eye.

‘You know what I can’t understand about this case?’ he says.