Shatter (40 page)

That’s what he could be searching for— proof of death or proof of life. It’s not the whole answer. His crimes are too sadistic. He’s enjoying this too much to stop.

Veronica Cray is waiting for us at a café near platform one. Her overcoat is unbuttoned and drapes to the ground. She and Ruiz acknowledge each other without words. The only two things they have in common are their respective careers and a shared ability to let silence speak volumes.

Seats are rearranged. Watches checked. Veronica Cray has fifteen minutes.

‘The MOD wants to take over the investigation,’ she announces.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tyler went AWOL. They claim he’s stil one of theirs. They want to make the arrest.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told them to fuck off. Two women are dead and this is
my
investigation. And I’m not going to back off on the say-so of some pencil dick in khakis who gets a hard-on every time a tank rol s by.’

The vitriol in her voice is in sharp contrast to the care she takes in sugaring her tea and stirring it slowly. Holding the teacup between her thumb and forefinger, she drinks half the brew, ignoring the heat. Her pale fat throat seems to have a fist inside it, moving up and down.

Setting down the cup, she begins relating what she’s managed to find out about Gideon Tyler. Through a contact in the Royal Ulster Constabulary, she learned that Tyler spent four years in Belfast working for the TCG (Tasking and Co-ordination Group) in Armagh— a military intel igence body that specialised in surveil ance and interrogation.

‘No wonder he’s so hard to find,’ says Ruiz. ‘These guys know how to fol ow someone and not be noticed. They’re experts in second and third party awareness.’

‘And how would you know a detail like that?’ asks DI Cray.

‘I worked in Belfast for a while,’ says Ruiz without offering any further explanation.

The DI doesn’t like being kept in the dark but carries on. ‘The Department of Immigration pul ed up Tyler’s file. In the past six years he’s made multiple trips to Pakistan, Poland, Egypt, Somalia, Afghanistan and Iraq. The length of time varies: none shorter than a week, never longer than a month.’

‘Why Egypt and Somalia?’ asks Ruiz. ‘The British army doesn’t operate there.’

‘He could have been training locals,’ says the DI.

‘It doesn’t explain the secrecy.’

‘Counter intel igence.’

‘Makes more sense.’

‘Maureen Bracken said Christine and Sylvia used to joke about Gideon being a spook.’

I consider the list of countries he visited: Afghanistan, Iraq, Poland, Pakistan, Egypt and Somalia. He is a trained interrogator, an expert in eliciting information from suspects— POWs, detainees, terrorists…

The memory of Sylvia Furness, hooded and hanging from a branch, fil s my head. And a second image: Maureen Bracken, kneeling, blindfolded, with her hands outstretched. Sensory deprivation, disorientation and humiliation are the tools of interrogators and torturers.

If Gideon believes Helen and Chloe are alive, it stands to reason he’s also convinced people are hiding them. Bryan and Claudia Chambers, Christine Wheeler, Sylvia Furness and Maureen Bracken.

DI Cray gazes at me steadily. Ruiz sits motionless, with his eyes raised as if he’s listening for an approaching train or an echo from the past.

‘Let’s say you’re right and Tyler believes they’re alive,’ says Veronica Cray. ‘Why is he trying to flush them out? What’s the point? Helen isn’t going back to him and he’l never breathe the same air as his daughter.’

‘He doesn’t want them back. He wants to punish his wife for having left him and he wants to see his daughter. Tyler is being driven by fear and hatred. Fear at what he’s capable of and fear of never seeing his daughter again. But his hate is even stronger. It has a structure al of its own.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘His is a hatred that demands we step aside; it negates the rights of others, it cleanses, it poisons, it dictates his beliefs. Hate is what sustains him.’

‘Who wil he target next?’

‘No way of tel ing. Helen’s family are protected but she must have plenty of other friends.’

DI Cray leans hard on her knees, looking for a scrap of comfort in the polished caps of her shoes. A platform announcement ripples the air. She has to leave.

Buttoning her overcoat, she stands, says goodbye and hustles across the concourse towards her waiting train with an ogreish intensity. Ruiz watches her go and scratches his nose.

‘Do you think inside Cray there’s a thin woman, trying to get out?’

‘Two of them.’

‘You want a drink?’

I look at my watch. ‘Another time. Julianne’s party starts at eight. I want to buy her a present.’

‘Like what?’

‘Jewel ery is always nice.’

‘Only if you’re having an affair.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Expensive gifts express guilt.’

‘No they don’t.’

‘The more expensive the jewel ery, the deeper the guilt.’

‘You are a
very
sad suspicious man.’

‘I’ve been married three times. I know these things.’

Ruiz is watching me sidelong. I can feel my left hand twitching.

‘Julianne’s been away a lot. Travel ing. I miss her. I thought I might buy her something special.’

My excuses sound too strident. I should just be quiet. I’m not going to tel Ruiz about Julianne’s boss, or the room service receipt, or the lingerie or the phone cal s. And I’m not going to mention Darcy’s kiss or Julianne’s question about whether I stil love her. I won’t say anything— and he won’t ask.

That’s one of the great paradoxes of friendship between men. It’s like an unspoken code: you don’t start tunnel ing unless you hit rock bottom.

51

The central hal of the Natural History Museum has been transformed into a prehistoric forest. Monkeys, reptiles and birds seem to scale the terracotta wal s and soaring arches. A skeletal Diplodocus is lit up in green.

I am showered, neatly shaved and medicated, dressed in my finest evening attire, which hasn’t had an airing for almost two years. Julianne told me to hire a tux from Moss Bros but why waste a perfectly good old one?

I arrived alone. Julianne didn’t get to the hotel in time. More problems at work, she said, without elaborating. She’s coming separately with Dirk and the chairman, Eugene Franklin. A hundred or more of her col eagues are here, being fed and watered by waiters, who move across the mosaic floor with silver trays of champagne. The men are dressed in black tie (far more fashionable than mine) and the women look svelte in cocktail dresses with plunging necklines, daring backs and high heels. They are professional couples, venture capitalists, bankers and accountants. In the eighties they were ‘masters of the universe’ now they make do with mastering corporations and conglomerates.

I should be drinking orange juice but can’t find one. I guess one glass of champagne won’t hurt. I don’t go to many parties. Late nights and alcohol are on my list of things to avoid. Mr Parkinson might turn up. He might seize my left arm in mid-mouthful or mid-sip and leave me frozen like one of the stuffed primates on the second floor.

Julianne should be here by now. Rising on my toes, I look for her over the heads. I see a beautiful woman at the bottom of the stairs, in a flowing silk gown that swoops in elegant folds down to the smal of her back and between her breasts. For a moment I don’t recognise her. It’s Julianne. I haven’t seen the gown before. I wish I had bought it for her.

Someone stumbles in to me, spil ing her champagne.

‘It’s these bloody heels,’ she explains, apologetical y, offering me a napkin.

Tal , reed-thin and wel on the way to being drunk, she dangles a champagne flute between her fingers.

‘You’re obviously an
other
half,’ she says.

‘Pardon?’

‘Someone’s husband,’ she explains.

‘How can you tel ?’

‘You look lost. I’m Felicity, by the way. People cal me Flip.’

She offers me two fingers to shake. I’m stil trying to make eye contact with Julianne.

‘I’m Joe.’

‘Mr Joe.’

‘Joe O’Loughlin.’

Her eyes widen in surprise. ‘So
you’re
the mysterious husband. I thought Julianne wore a fake wedding ring.’

‘Who has a fake wedding ring?’ interrupts a smal er, top-heavy woman.

‘Nobody. This is Julianne’s husband.’

‘Real y?’

‘Why would she wear a fake wedding ring?’ I ask.

Flip plucks another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘To ward off unwelcome suitors, of course, but it doesn’t always work. Some men see it as a chal enge.’

The smal woman giggles and her décol etage quakes. She’s so short that I can’t look at her face without feeling that I’m staring at her cleavage.

Julianne is talking to several men at the bottom of the stairs. They must be important because lesser mortals are hovering on the periphery, nervous about joining the conversation. A tal dark-haired man whispers something in Julianne’s ear. His hand brushes her spine and rests in the smal of her back.

‘You must be very proud of her,’ says Flip.

‘Yes.’

‘You live in Cornwal , don’t you?’

‘Somerset.’

‘Julianne doesn’t real y strike me as a country girl.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘She’s so glamorous. I’m surprised you let her stray so far from home.’

The man talking to Julianne has made her laugh. She closes her eyes and the tip of her tongue wets the centre of her lips.

‘Who’s that she’s with?’ I ask.

‘Oh, that’s Dirk Cresswel . Have you met him?’

‘No.’

Dirk’s hand has slipped lower, trailing over the silk as it fal s over Julianne’s buttocks. At the same time his eyes seem to fix on the neckline of her gown.

‘Perhaps you had better go and rescue her,’ laughs Flip.

I’m already moving that way, squeezing between shoulders and elbows, apologising and trying not to spil my champagne. I pause and polish off the contents.

Someone has mounted the staircase and is tapping a spoon loudly against his glass, summoning quiet. He’s older and authoritative. It must be the chairman, Eugene Franklin.

Conversations fade. The audience is silent.

‘Thank you,’ he says, apologising for the interruption. ‘We al know why we’re here tonight.’

‘To get drunk,’ someone heckles.

‘In due course, yes,’ answers Eugene, ‘but the reason you’re drinking Bol inger at the company’s expense is because this is our birthday. The Franklin Equity Group is ten years old.’

This raises a cheer.

‘Now it’s evident from some of the “bling” on display that it has been a very successful ten years and confirmation that I’m paying you al far too much money.’

Julianne laughs along with the rest of the crowd, gazing at Eugene Franklin expectantly.

‘Before we enjoy ourselves too much I wish to thank a few people,’ he says. ‘Today we secured the biggest deal in this company’s history. It is a deal that many of you have been working on for nearly five years and it wil guarantee we have a very merry Christmas come bonus time.

‘Now, you al know Dirk Cresswel . Like Dirk, I too was once young and handsome. I was also a ladies’ man until I came to realise that there are some things more important than sex.’

He pauses. ‘They’re cal ed
wives
. I’ve had two of them.’

Someone shouts from the floor, ‘Dirk’s had dozens of wives— just none of his own.’

Eugene Franklin laughs along with the rest of them.

‘I want to personal y thank Dirk for clinching our biggest deal. And I also want to thank the woman who helped him, the beautiful, talented and (another pause) multilingual Julianne O’Loughlin.’

Amid the applause and whistles, there are nudges and winks. Dirk and Julianne are summoned onto the staircase. She steps forward like a blushing bride, accepting the praise.

Glasses are raised. A toast is given.

There’s no way of reaching her now. She’s caught in a public lovefest. Instead, I slip backward through the crowd and linger on the edge of the party.

My mobile phone is vibrating. Charlie’s mobile. I cup the phone to my ear, pressing the green button.

‘Hel o,’ says Darcy, expecting my daughter. I can barely hear her over the noise.

‘Don’t hang up.’

She hesitates.

‘And don’t blame Charlie. I guessed.’

‘I want you to stop cal ing me and leaving messages.’

‘I just want to know you’re al right.’

‘I’m fine. Stop cal ing.’ My voice mailbox is being used up. It costs me money to col ect your messages.’

Turning left past the cloakroom, I find an alcove beneath a set of stone stairs.

‘Just tel me where you are.’

‘No.’

‘Where are you living?’

‘With a friend.’

‘In London?’

‘Do you
ever
stop asking questions?’

‘I feel responsible—’

‘You’re not! OK? You’re not responsible. I’m old enough to look after myself. I got a job. I’m earning money. I’m going to dance.’

I tel her about Gideon Tyler. He could be the man she spoke to on the train when she came to London for her audition. The police need her to look at his photograph.

She contemplates what to do. ‘You won’t try to trick me?’

‘No.’

‘And you’l stop cal ing me.’

‘As often.’

She ponders for a little longer. ‘OK. I’l cal you tomorrow. I have to go back to work now.’

‘Where are you working?’

‘You promised.’

‘OK. No questions.’

I wander back to the party, finding another drink and then another. I listen on the edges of conversations as men exchange views on the share market, the strength of the US dol ar and ticket prices at Twickenham. Their wives and partners are more interested in private school fees and where they’re going to ski this winter.

Julianne’s arms slip around my waist.

‘Where have you been?’ she asks.

‘Around.’

‘You haven’t been hiding.’

‘No. Darcy cal ed.’

Her eyes cloud momentarily, but she chases any doubts away.