Bridge checked the clock in the corner of her computer screen and took a deep breath. Time to see Giles.
15
“I’m not going to Zurich.”
Giles stroked his beard, releasing a fresh wave of hazelnut scent from his grooming oil. She wondered if he’d known all along that she’d turn it down.
“Furthermore, I’d like you to take me off the OIT waiting list, or spreadsheet, or whatever. I’m going to stay behind my desk. It’s where I can do the most good.”
Giles sighed. “Thank you for at least making a quick decision. I’ll have to find someone else who can bluff their way through it, though God only knows where. But I’m absolutely not taking you off the list. Perhaps you just need more time.”
“This isn’t a question of time. I’m not up to it.”
“So you say. Mahima disagrees, and so do I.”
“You’re not the ones who have to get out there and play spy, though, are you?”
Bridge didn’t hear his reply, because his muted TV had caught her attention. The news was going over the drowned man story again, only now they’d chased down the dead man’s house, and a reporter was standing in the street at Catford while the police searched it. Evidently the cops had decided to release the man’s identity after all, and a passport photo filled half the screen. A middle-aged man, fairly regular-looking, with grey hair and a goatee beard. He had blue eyes that Bridge figured were probably attractive in real life, but in the over-lit passport photo made him look like a psychopath. An almost completely average man, the only really unusual feature being a necklace he wore. Well, more like a pendant —
“Bridge?”
An upside-down Celtic cross —
“Brigitte, are you listening to me?”
She ignored Giles, fumbling for the TV remote as the room lurched sideways and her stomach dropped into freefall. She found the remote and unmuted the news, never taking her eyes from the photo on the screen.
“…Fifty-year-old computer programmer Declan O’Riordan, an Irish citizen who’s been living in London for the past thirty years. Police haven’t commented on the events of his death, except to say they’re not ruling out foul play. We’ll bring you more on this story as it develops. In other news…”
“Definitely not a young Bowie,” Bridge murmured, then jumped as Giles touched her shoulder. She hadn’t noticed him get up to stand behind her.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Did you know him?”
“Maybe? I think so. I’m not a hundred per cent…” Her mind raced, tracing back events, chat logs, connections, seeing if it all fit together. Computer programmer. Living in London for thirty years. The Celtic cross. Killed last night. After possibly meeting someone by the river?
“I need to go to that house.”
Giles shook his head. “If that man was a friend of yours, I’m truly sorry. But this is a police matter, a domestic incident. I can ask someone at Five to keep an eye on it, if you like?”
Bridge snorted. “Oh sure, and of course they’d tell us straight away if they found anything. Shit, this is hard to explain.”
“Try me,” said Giles, returning to his seat and waiting patiently.
She took a deep breath, and began. She explained her history with Tenebrae_Z, their chats and hacks (leaving out the part about Telehouse for now), the ASCII art puzzle, his mysterious arrangement to meet whoever was sending the messages, Bridge’s failure to check in with him the night before. The more she related the story, the more certain she became that this really was what it looked like.
“Wait,” said Giles, “I’m confused. You said this was just a game, a puzzle?”
“No, we assumed it was. But we had no real idea, or at least, I didn’t. He wouldn’t tell me what else he found in the message he decoded, or how many he decoded.”
Giles shook his head. “This is all very strange, Bridge. How can you be friends with someone for so long and not know what they look like?”
“It’s the internet, Giles, do try and keep up. And is that really all you’re taking away from this? What if the posts are some kind of criminal code? They’re obviously worth killing for, whatever they are. You’ve got to let me in there.”
“Easy, girl. Even if you’re right, it’s still a domestic case.”
“Then we’ll pass it on, like we’ve done hundreds of times in the past. But what if it isn’t? I mean, the newsgroup’s French. What if the source is, say, Tunisian?”
“I am not sending you to Tunisia on a hunch.”
“So let me find out if I’m right. Give me authorisation to seize his computers, check his records.”
“And if Mr O’Riordan turns out to be a random person, rather than your cyber friend?”
“That’s why you should let me in there instead of going yourself,” she said, smiling. “If I’m wrong, you don’t get egg on your face.”
“I’m not sure you fully understand the implications of our command structure,” said Giles, dialling his desk phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Andrea Thomson, across the river. If you think I’m letting you trample all over a domestic crime scene by yourself, you’re less sane than I thought.”
16
The expression on the Inspector’s face was something Bridge had never quite seen before.
It seemed to be a mixture of suspicion and fear, and she couldn’t really blame him. This was the same policeman who’d spoken on the news earlier, but now he looked much less self-assured. Here he was, overseeing what looked like a simple homicide case, when out of nowhere two strange women rocked up and demanded to be given access as a matter of national security. One was a fortysomething diminutive Scots terrier of a
