The Shadow Maker (41 page)

‘Mrs Maynard?’ Rita asked.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel and this is my colleague Dale Quinn. I phoned a while ago. Is Bruce here?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘The useless drongo’s still blowing his dough on comics and cowboy boots. What’s this all about?’

‘A routine inquiry, but I need to check Bruce’s fingerprints in order to eliminate him. If you let us in now we don’t need to get a warrant.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Mrs Maynard, throwing open the flyscreen door. ‘Try his bedroom. No one else goes in there and his grubby paw marks are all over it.’

They followed Maynard’s mother through a kitchen, past a table laden with empty beer cans and full ashtrays. Dirty plates were crammed in a gaping dishwasher. Dirty pans were piled in the sink.

There was a faint smell of burnt food in the room, and an overweight labrador lolled on the floor.

‘His room’s at the end of the hall,’ gestured Mrs Maynard. ‘Thinks he’s bloody fancy with all that computer stuff in there. Flash as a rat with a gold tooth.’

Rita led Quinn down the passageway into Maynard’s room. It was far more juvenile than she’d expected for a man of his age. Yet she wasn’t surprised. The movie posters, the collection of comics, the childish duvet and pyjamas spoke volumes about Maynard’s personality - indicative of someone with social problems. But she was looking for signs of a psychotic killer - not the escapist fantasies of a pubescent adult.

‘How old is this guy?’ asked Quinn.

‘About twenty-eight going on seven,’ answered Rita.

‘His keyboard’s the best bet.’

As Quinn began dusting the computer, Rita went through Maynard’s drawers and cupboards, but found nothing more than a jumble of clothes and the accumulated mess of an arrested childhood

- toys, puzzles, comics, infantile scrapbooks. Nothing sinister - just immature. Then she sat on the unmade bed and perused movie souvenirs papering the walls till her eyes came to rest on a poster for
The Matrix.
The film carried the subversive message that people are imprisoned, without knowing it, in a false reality, but now she realised the idea dated from the fourth century bc. Maybe it should also have carried a credit to Plato.

Quinn double-checked his print analysis and comparisons through his microscope, before turning to Rita.

‘You can rule him out,’ he said. ‘Bruce Maynard is not the Hacker.’

Quinn put the lab kit back in his van, slid the door shut and asked Rita, ‘Why are you homing in on Xanthus Software?’

‘Because it fits,’ she answered. ‘I’m sure I was right about Kelly Grattan - a former executive now out of reach overseas - she fought off a rapist. That incident was the stressor for the man who attacked her. It tipped him over the edge, triggering a cyclical pattern of extreme violence, turning him into the Hacker.’

‘And this woman knew him?’

‘It could explain how she pressured Martin Barbie into a seven-figure pay-out,’ said Rita.

‘My God!’ exclaimed Quinn. ‘You think Barbie’s a prime suspect?’

‘He’s certainly a candidate, one of several who match the profile.

Everyone from the firm has lied to me, from Kelly onwards, and they’ve all got the software connection that’s a crucial element of the case.’

‘You’re talking about the smartcard,’ said Quinn. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve cracked the Plato’s Cave link.’

‘Not quite, but I’m getting there,’ she said. ‘So stay within reach tonight. I may need you again.’

‘No problem,’ said Quinn, his enthusiasm obvious. ‘I’m your man.’

A change was in the air as Rita headed back into the city. She was driving fast. A southerly buster was blowing up masses of dark grey clouds that were piling over the bay. The wind was bringing the end of the March heatwave and much-needed rain. The light in the sky cast a dirty bronze tinge into the basin of the port as streams of homeward-bound commuters filed across the bridges above the docks.

As she neared the freeway exit the traffic slowed to a crawl.

She got out her phone and called Barbie’s mobile. It diverted her to his office number and a distinctly unhelpful secretary.

‘He’s away from the office and can’t be contacted.’

‘What, never?’ demanded Rita.

‘For the rest of the evening. He’s in a private meeting.’

‘What’s he doing after that? I need to see him urgently.’

‘He has no more business engagements that I’m aware of. Later tonight he’s due home. His wife’s holding a cocktail party, but attendance is by invitation only.’

Rita ended the call abruptly then tried Josh Barrett’s mobile. It was switched through to voicemail. She left a message telling him to call her back urgently. But when her mobile rang it was Byron Huxley on the line, and he was apologetic. ‘Sorry I couldn’t talk before.’

‘Thanks for calling back,’ she said. ‘I’m not being rude, but I’m pressed for time and I’ve got questions.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Ormond Keppel. Tell me about him.’

‘Brilliant student, excellent postgrad researcher, a natural at software design,’ Huxley replied. ‘But that was three years ago. I lost touch with him after that.’

‘Would you say he was psychologically stable?’ Rita asked.

‘He had his problems. At times he felt the world and certain individuals in it were against him.’

‘He was paranoid? Delusional?’

‘If you want to be brutal about it, but most of the time he was very positive. His drowning was a terrible tragedy.’

‘Those he thought were against him - did they include women?’

‘Mostly women. How did you guess?’

‘It’s a theory I’m working on,’ she answered. ‘Now you said Bruce Maynard was out at Monash recently.’

‘At the start of summer, yes. He wanted to test some games software.’

‘From Xanthus?’

‘Yes. New-generation virtual reality. Maynard was worried about side effects.’

‘Why?’

‘He thought the input was too powerful, even hypnotic.’

‘What sort of tests?’

‘Brain scans,’ said Huxley. ‘We got a few volunteers, put them into VR and did some PET scans on them.’

‘And?’

‘An odd combination of the frontal lobe and amygdala kept firing, not something associated with hypnosis.’

‘What
does
it indicate?’ she asked.

‘A sharp focus of attention and arousal of strong emotion.’

‘And the content of the game?’

‘Very violent and pornographic. It’s full of nymphs, warriors and monsters.’

‘The warriors,’ said Rita, her pulse racing, ‘do they have names like Shadow Maker, Fire Tracer and Flame Stalker?’

‘That’s right,’ Huxley answered. ‘And there are others called Light Seeker, Echo Chaser, that sort of thing. But I don’t know what the game’s called.’

‘Well I do,’ she said. ‘It’s called Plato’s Cave.’

As the traffic merged it began flowing again. Once Rita left the freeway she drove straight to Xanthus Software.

When she pulled up at the security gate the guard emerged from his cabin and walked over, slowing down as he recognised her.

‘The place is almost deserted,’ he said.

‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

‘The techies are on holiday. Threw a big party after signing a deal with the Japs then pissed off.’

‘Where are the VR studios?’ she asked.

He scratched his head. ‘The basement. Only the design team’s allowed down there.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Look, there’s no one to show you around and I’m due to lock up in half an hour.’

‘I’ll show myself around,’ she told him.

‘Suit yourself.’

She drove onto the empty forecourt, parked and went into the building. The place had an abandoned feel, just as the security guard had told her. No one around. She walked through reception and pushed open the door into the ground-floor office. Leftovers of a celebration littered the desks and computer terminals - streamers, balloons, the spray of party poppers. Dozens of empty champagne bottles lay stacked in cartons - tokens of Barbie’s benevolence. A gesture of thanks for making a rich man even richer. But at what hidden cost?

Then she heard a movement and called out, ‘Anyone there?’

No answer.

She walked past the rows of work stations till she found what it was - a loose printout flapping in the draught of a desktop fan. She reached out and switched the fan off. The room fell silent. Then she went to the stairwell, walked down two flights of metal stairs to the basement, and found herself in a dimly lit passageway.

The air was stale down here, and there was a breathless quiet.

The floor and walls were of bare concrete, like a subterranean tunnel, and along the ceiling twisted the fat tentacles of cables. The only sound was the hum of a faulty fluorescent lamp that flickered overhead. Both sides of the passage were lined with steel doors. Then she saw, with something like delight, that smartcard pads were mounted beside them. Her heart thumped against her ribs.

She got out the smartcard she’d been carrying from the start of the investigation and tried the doors one by one. It was like the final tease in a puzzle. At last, one of the pads gave an electronic click as it responded to the card. The door slid open on a deep, shadowy studio filled with computer hardware, strange metal frames and mock-up background walls. Untidy strands of wiring snaked around the floor. The only lighting came from the dance of pixels on screens and the glow of task lamps.

She stared at it and said under her breath, ‘The entrance to Plato’s Cave.’

As she walked inside the door slid shut behind her, closing with an airtight hiss as if she were being sealed in a vault. The thought was unnerving. The possibility of being stuck down here was not appealing. She checked her mobile. No signal. Hopefully she wouldn’t need it.

Moving cautiously she picked her way forward through cables and equipment that made little sense to her. It looked like a series of control decks and monitors plugged into accessories. She could only guess at their functions. A full body suit was hanging like an empty skin from one of the large frames, which she assumed was a virtual reality device. Its silhouette cast a dark shadow on the concrete wall. The outline bore an uncanny resemblance to a torture victim on a medieval rack. It added to her feeling of unease. There was something inhuman about the surroundings down here.

That’s when she heard a sound from the depths of the studio. A low moaning.

‘Who’s there?’ she called out.

There was a thud and the moaning abruptly stopped.

Reaching carefully under her jacket, she unholstered her gun and removed the safety catch. With the .38 held steady in a double-handed grip, she pointed it to where the sounds had come from and edged forward. But she could see no one. Just more machines and empty chairs and the glimmer of graphics. Then the sound came again - that chilling moan - but closer this time. Again there was a thud, and it stopped.

Rita stood motionless and waited and listened, the gun outstretched in front of her. She could still see no movement. No sign of anyone’s presence. It crossed her mind that she’d been reckless and unprofessional to come down here alone. Her line of investigation might be more successful than she realised. Right now the sex killer might be within a few feet of her, hiding, ready to stun her as she approached.

She tightened her grip on the gun.

It came again - the moan - louder in her ears. Again it was cut short by a thud.

With her back against a mainframe, she slid slowly sideways until she could see around a corner of the studio. She found she was aiming her gun at a bank of screens. They were filled with computer graphics - exotic images from Greek mythology. Most of them were static. But one screen in the middle was on a loop. As she watched, the hideous, moaning figure of a Gorgon approached, its head writhing with snakes. Then came the slash of a sword and the beast was decapitated, its head dropping with a thud. The screen froze. After a minute or two, the loop resumed and the monster repeated its death ritual.

Rita lowered the gun and her breathing eased. She may have picked a disturbing way to do it, but she’d tracked it down at last

- the
secret dreamland.
Displayed in front of her, in vivid detail, were scenes from a game that exploited the violence of mythic fantasy.

And somehow it inspired real bloodlust and murder.

It was mid evening when Rita pulled up outside the beachfront mansion. All the lights were on and the sounds of party voices and laughter drifted from the upstairs balconies. She sat there for a minute in the darkness, collecting her thoughts, then she got out of the car and strode to the black and gold iron gate in the two-metre high whitewashed stone wall. When she pressed the security buzzer a maid answered and released the lock only when Rita said she was from the police.

The garden path, lit with lanterns, took her across an expanse of lawn, landscaped with fountains, rockeries, fish ponds and palm trees. A broad driveway led to a four-car garage on one side. On the other was a glass-domed outdoor pool and spa with a tennis court beyond. A porch of polished granite curved along the entire front of the house, which was ribbed with bay windows and French doors, and framed in white pillars. She walked through the central arch as the maid opened the front door.

Rita told her she had to speak with Martin Barbie immediately.

The maid replied that he wasn’t at home, but if Rita would wait in the reception hall she’d fetch his wife.

‘Damn,’ Rita muttered, as the maid headed upstairs.

As she paced around she noticed the interior of the house was as palatial as its setting. The hall was long and wide and two storeys high. The decor was traditional chic. Chandeliers, gold-plated fittings, parquetry floors and a solid walnut staircase. She was already starting to feel uncomfortable, when Giselle made her entrance down the stairs, her hand lightly skimming the banister, her gold leather shoes tapping each step, her deep V-neck purple satin evening dress clinging to her body like a second skin. With her pale complexion, slim figure and striking face she was a contemporary goddess of elegance. Rita, in her favourite linen suit, felt almost grubby in her presence.