Shatter (51 page)

Any sign of weakness is preyed upon. He can recognise a flagging heart, distinguish inner strength from a charade and find the fault lines in a psyche. We’re not so different, he and I, but we aspire to different ends. He tears minds apart. I try to repair them.

Oliver and Lieutenant Wil iam Greene are at work in their goldfish bowl-like office, leaning over laptops and comparing data. They make an odd couple. The lieutenant reminds of one of those wind-up toy soldiers with a stiff legged gait and a fixed look on his face. The only thing missing is a large key rotating between his shoulder blades.

A large map takes up the entire wal , dotted with coloured pins and crisscrossed with lines that join them, forming series of overlapping triangles. The last cal from Gideon Tyler originated from Temple Circus in the centre of Bristol. Police are studying CCTV footage from four cameras to see if it can link the cal to a vehicle.

The mobile phone hidden in Charlie’s bedroom went missing from a boating supply shop in Princes Wharf on Friday. The handset Gideon used to make the cal has been traced to a phone shop in Chiswick, London. The name and address of the buyer were those of a student living in a shared house in Bristol. A gas bil and credit card receipt (both stolen) were used as proof of identity.

I study the map, trying to acquire the nomenclature to read the red, green and black pins. It’s like learning a new alphabet.

‘It’s not complete,’ says the lieutenant, ‘but we’ve managed to trace most of the cal s.’

He explains that the coloured pins represent phone cal s made by Gideon Tyler and the nearest transmitting tower to each signal. The duration of each cal has been logged, along with the time and signal strengths. Gideon hasn’t used the same handset more than half a dozen times and he never cal s from the same location. In almost every case the handset was turned on only moments before he made the cal and turned off immediately afterwards.

Oliver talks me through the chronology, starting with Christine Wheeler’s disappearance. The signals can place Gideon Tyler in Leigh Woods and near the Clifton Suspension Bridge when she jumped. He was also within a hundred metres of Sylvia Furness when her body was handcuffed to the tree and in Victoria Park in Bath when Maureen Bracken aimed a pistol at my chest.

I study the map again, feeling the landscape rise up from the paper, becoming solid. Amid the predominantly red, green and blue pins, a lone white pin stands out.

‘What does that one mean?’ I ask.

‘It’s an anomaly,’ explains Oliver.

‘What sort of anomaly?’

‘It wasn’t a phone cal . The handset pinged for a tower and then went dead.’

‘Why?’

‘Perhaps he turned the phone on and then changed his mind.’

‘Or it could be a mistake,’ suggests the lieutenant.

Oliver looks at him irritably. ‘In my experience mistakes happen for a reason.’

My fingertips brush the pinheads as reading a document in Brail e. They come to rest on the white pin.

‘How long was the phone turned on for?’

‘No more than fourteen seconds,’ says Oliver. ‘The digital signal is transmitted every seven seconds. It was picked up twice by the tower we’ve marked. The white pin is the location of the nearest tower.’

Errors and anomalies are the bane of behavioural scientists and cognitive psychologists. We look for patterns in the data to support our theories, which is why anomalies are so damaging and why, if we’re very lucky, a theory wil hold together just long enough for a better one to come along.

Gideon has been so careful about not leaving footprints, digital or otherwise. He has made precious few mistakes that we know of. Patrick’s sister ordered a pizza with Christine Wheeler’s mobile— that’s the only mistake I can remember. Perhaps this was another one.

‘Can you trace it?’ I ask.

Oliver has pushed his glasses up his nose again and tilted his head back to bring my whole face into focus.

‘I suppose the signal may have been picked up by other towers.’

The lieutenant looks at him incredulously. ‘The phone was only turned on for fourteen seconds. That’s like trying to find a fart in a windstorm.’

Oliver raises his eyebrows. ‘What a colourful analogy! Am I to assume that the army isn’t up to the job?’

Lieutenant Greene knows that he’s being chal enged, which he finds vaguely insulting because he clearly thinks Oliver is a chin-less, pale, limp-wristed boffin who couldn’t find his arse with both hands.

I take some of the tension out of the moment. ‘Explain to me what’s going to happen when Tyler cal s again.’

Oliver explains the technology and the benefit of satel ite tracking. The lieutenant seems uncomfortable discussing the subject, as though military secrets are being revealed.

‘How quickly can you trace Tyler’s cal ?’

‘That depends,’ says Oliver. ‘Signal strengths vary from place to place in a mobile network. There are dead spots created by buildings or terrain. These can be mapped and we can make al owances, but this isn’t foolproof. Ideal y we need signals from at least three different towers. Radio waves travel at a known rate, so we can work out how far they’ve travel ed.’

‘What if you get a signal from only one tower?’

‘This gives us DOA— direction of arrival— and a rough idea of the distance. Each kilometre delays the signal by three microseconds.’

Oliver takes a pen from behind his ear and begins drawing towers and intersecting lines on a piece of paper.

‘The problem with a DOA reading is the signal could be bouncing off a building or an obstacle. We can’t always trust them. Signals from three base stations give us enough information to triangulate a location as long as the clocks at each of the base stations are synchronised exactly.’

‘We’re talking microseconds,’ adds Oliver. ‘By calculating the difference in the arrival times it’s possible to locate a handset using hyperbolas and linear algebra. However, the cal er must be stationary. If Tyler is in a car or on a bus or a train it won’t work. Even if he walks into a building there wil be a change in signal strength.’

‘How long does he have to stay in one place?’

Oliver and the lieutenant look at each other. ‘Five, maybe ten minutes,’ says Oliver.

‘What if he uses a landline— something fixed?’

The lieutenant shakes his head. ‘He won’t risk it.’

‘What if we make him?’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘How you plan to do that?’

‘How easy is it to shut down mobile phone towers?’

‘The phone servers would never agree. They’d lose too much money,’ says Lieutenant Greene.

‘It won’t be for long. Ten minutes maybe.’

‘That’s going to stop thousands of phone cal s. Customers are going to be very pissed off.’

Oliver seems more open to the idea. He looks at the map on the wal . Most of Gideon’s cal s have come from central Bristol where most of the phone towers are concentrated. More servers would have to co-operate. He thinks out loud. ‘A limited geographical area, fifteen towers maybe.’ His interest is sparked. ‘I don’t know if it’s ever been done.’

‘But it’s possible.’

‘Feasible.’

He turns and sits at a laptop, his fingers dancing on the keyboard, as his glasses slip further and further down his nose. Oliver, I sense, is happier in the company of computers. He can reason with them. He can understand how they process information. A computer doesn’t care whether or not he brushes his teeth or cuts his toenails in the bath or wears socks to bed.

Some would say this is true love.

64

There are shouts and people running. Veronica Cray is yel ing orders above the commotion and police officers are heading for the stairs and the lift. I can’t hear what she’s saying. A detective almost knocks me over and mumbles an apology as he picks up my walking stick.

‘What’s happened?’

He doesn’t answer.

A shiver of alarm swarms across my shoulder blades. Something is wrong. I hear Julianne’s name mentioned. I yel above the voices.

‘Tel me what’s happened.’

Faces turn. They’re looking at me, staring. Nobody answers. The soft wetness of my own breathing is louder than the ringing phones and shuffling feet.

‘Where’s Julianne? What’s happened?’

‘One of our officers has been seriously injured,’ says Veronica Cray, hesitating for a moment before continuing. ‘He was guarding your wife’s hotel room.’

‘Guarding her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is she?’

‘We’re searching the hotel and surrounding streets.’

‘She’s missing?’

‘Yes.’ She pauses. ‘There are cameras in the foyer and outside on the street. We’re retrieving the footage…’

I’m watching her mouth move but not hearing the words. Julianne’s hotel was near Temple Circus. According to Oliver Rabb, that’s the same area that Gideon phoned me from at 3.15

a.m. He must have been watching her.

Everything has changed again, shivering and shifting, detaching from my conception like a fragment of sanity jarred loose in the night. I close my eyes for a moment and try to picture myself free, but instead witness my own helplessness. I curse myself. I curse Mr Parkinson. I curse Gideon Tyler. I wil not let him take my family from me. I wil not let him destroy me.

The morning briefing is standing room only. Detectives are perched on the edge of desks, leaning on pil ars and looking over shoulders. The sense of urgency has been augmented by disbelief and shock. One of their own is in hospital with a col apsed windpipe and possible brain damage from oxygen deprivation.

Veronica Cray stands on a chair to be seen. She outlines the operation— a mobile intercept involving two-dozen unmarked vehicles and helicopters from the police air wing.

‘Based on previous cal s, Gideon wil use a mobile and keep moving. Phase one is protection. Phase two is to trace the cal . Phase three is contact with the target. Phase four is the arrest.’

She goes on to explain the communications. A radio silence wil operate between the cars. A codeword and number wil identify each unit. The phrase, ‘Pedestrian knocked down’ is the signal to move, accompanied by a street and cross street.

A hand goes up. ‘Is he armed, boss?’

Cray glances at the sheet in her hand. ‘The detective guarding Mrs O’Loughlin was carrying a regulation sidearm. The pistol is now missing.’

The resolve in the room seems to stiffen. Monk wants to know why it’s an intercept and arrest. Why not fol ow Tyler?

‘We can’t take the risk of losing him.’

‘What about the hostages?’

‘We’l find them once we have Tyler.’

The DI makes it sound like the logical course of action, but I suspect her hand is being forced. The military want Tyler in custody and know exactly how to apply pressure. Nobody questions her decision. Copies of Tyler’s photograph are passed from hand to hand. Detectives pause to look at the image. I know what they’re wondering. They want to know if it’s obvious, if it’s visible, if someone like Tyler wears his depravity like a badge or a tattoo. They want to imagine they can recognise wickedness and immorality in another person, can see it in their eyes or read it on their faces. It’s not true. The world is ful of broken people and most of their cracks are on the inside.

From across the incident room comes the sound of a toppling chair and the clatter of a wastepaper bin being kicked through the air. Ruiz comes raging between desks, stabbing his finger at Veronica Cray.

‘How many officers were guarding her?’

DI Cray gives him an icy stare. ‘I would advise you to calm down and remember who you’re talking to.’

‘How many?’

She matches his anger. ‘I wil not have this discussion here.’

Around me, the detectives are transfixed, bracing for the clash of egos. It’s like watching two wildebeest charge at each other with lowered heads.

‘You had
one
officer guarding her. What sort of three ring bloody circus are you running?’

Cray launches into a spluttering, head-shaking tirade. ‘This is
my
incident room and
my
investigation. I wil NOT have my authority questioned.’ She barks to Monk. ‘Get him out of here.’

The big man moves towards Ruiz. I step between them.

‘Everyone should calm down.’

Cray and Ruiz glower at each other in sul en defiance and in some unspoken way agree to back down. The tension is suddenly released and the detectives dutiful y turn away, returning to their desks and making their way downstairs to waiting cars.

I fol ow the DI back to her office. She clicks her tongue in annoyance.

‘I know he’s a friend of yours, Professor, but that man is a prize-winning pain in the arse.’

‘He’s a passionate pain in the arse.’

She stares fixedly out the window, her face fleshy and pale. Tears suddenly sparkle in the rims of her eyes. ‘I should have done better,’ she whispers. ‘Your wife should have been safe.

She was my responsibility. I’m sorry.’

Embarrassment. Shame. Anger. Disappointment. Each is like a mask but she’s not seeking to hide. Nothing I can say wil make her feel any better or alter the violent, rapacious longing that has infused this case from the beginning.

Ruiz knocks lightly on the office door.

‘I want to apologise for my outburst,’ he says. ‘It was out of order.’

‘Apology accepted.’

He turns to leave.

‘Stay,’ I tel him. ‘I want you to hear this. I think I can make Gideon Tyler stop moving.’

‘How?’ asks the DI.

‘We offer him his daughter.’

‘But we don’t have her. The family won’t co-operate, you said so yourself.’

‘We bluff him just like he bluffed Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness and Maureen Bracken. We convince him that we have Chloe and Helen.’

Veronica Cray looks at me incredulously. ‘You want to
lie
to him.’

‘I want to bluff him. Tyler knows his wife and daughter are alive. And he knows we have the resources to get them here. If he wants to talk to them or see them, he has to give up Charlie and Julianne first.’

‘He won’t believe you. He’l want proof,’ says the DI.