shoes and my coat.
‘Please, don’t leave me,’ she whispers.
‘Shhh. Go to sleep.’
61
The Merc floats through dark streets, which are empty except for the occasional figure scurrying for a late bus or going home from the pub. These strangers don’t know me. They don’t know Charlie. And their lives will never touch mine. The only people who can help me are unwilling to listen or to risk exposing themselves to Gideon Tyler. Helen and Chloe are alive. One mystery is solved.
Even before I reach the cottage, I notice different cars parked in the street. I know what my neighbours drive. These belong to others.
The Merc pulls up. A dozen car doors open in unison. Reporters, cameramen and photographers close around the Merc, leaning over the bonnet and shooting through the windscreen. Reporters are yelling questions.
Ruiz looks at me. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Get inside.’
I force open the door and try to push through the bodies. Someone grabs my jacket to slow me down. A girl bars my way. A tape recorder is thrust towards me.
‘Do you think your daughter is still alive, Professor?’
What sort of question is that?
I don’t answer.
‘Has he been in contact? Has he threatened her?’
‘Please let me go.’
I feel like a cornered beast being circled by a pride of lions waiting to finish me off. Someone else yells, ‘Stop and give us a quote, Professor. We’re only trying to help.’
Ruiz takes hold of me. His other arm is around Darcy. Head down, he forces his way through like a rugby prop in a rolling maul. The questions continue.
‘Has there been a ransom demand?’
‘What do you think he wants?’
Monk opens the front door and closes it again. TV spotlights are still bathing the cottage in brightness, shining through cracks in the curtains and blinds.
‘They arrived an hour ago,’ says Monk. ‘I should have warned you.’
Publicity is a good thing, I tell myself. Maybe someone will spot Charlie or Tyler and tip off the police.
‘Any news?’ I ask Monk.
He shakes his head. I look past him and see a stranger standing in my kitchen. Dressed in a dark suit and a crisp white shirt, he doesn’t look like a policeman or a reporter. His hair is the colour of polished cedar and silver cufflinks catch the light as he brushes his fingers through his fringe.
The stranger seems to stand at attention as I draw near, hands behind his back. It is a posture perfected on parade grounds. He introduces himself as Lieutenant William Greene and waits until my hand is offered for a handshake before he proffers his own.
‘What can I do for you, lieutenant?’
‘It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, sir,’ he says in a clipped public school accent. ‘My understanding is that you have been in contact with a Major Gideon Tyler. He is a person of interest.’
‘Of interest to whom?’
‘To the Ministry of Defence, sir.’
‘Join the queue,’ laughs Ruiz.
The lieutenant ignores him. ‘The army is cooperating with the police. We wish to locate Major Tyler and facilitate your daughter’s safe return.’
Ruiz mocks his language. ‘Facilitate? You bastards have done nothing so far except put obstacles in our way.’
Lieutenant Greene isn’t fazed. ‘There are certain issues that have prevented full disclosure.’
‘Tyler worked for military intelligence?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘I’m afraid that information is classified.’
‘He was an interrogator.’
‘An intelligence gatherer.’
‘Why did he leave the military?’
‘He didn’t. He went AWOL after his wife left him. He faces a court martial.’
The lieutenant is no longer standing to attention. His feet are a dozen inches apart, polished shoes turned slightly outwards, and hands at his sides.
‘Why is Tyler’s service record classified?’ I ask.
‘The nature of his work was sensitive.’
‘That’s a bullshit answer,’ says Ruiz. ‘What did the guy do?’
‘He interrogated detainees,’ I say, second-guessing the lieutenant. ‘He tortured them.’
‘The British government doesn’t condone the use of torture. We abide by the rules set out by the Geneva Convention…’
‘You trained the bastard,’ interrupts Ruiz.
The lieutenant doesn’t respond.
‘We believe Major Tyler has suffered some form of breakdown. He is still a serving British officer and my job is to liaise with the Avon and Somerset Police Service to facilitate his prompt arrest.’
‘In return for what?’
‘When Major Tyler is detained he will be handed over to the military.’
‘He murdered two women,’ says Ruiz incredulously.
‘He will be examined by army psychologists to see if he is fit to stand trial.’
‘This is bollocks,’ says Ruiz.
Right now, I’m past caring. The MOD can have Gideon Tyler as long as I get Charlie back.
The lieutenant addresses me directly. ‘The military can bring certain resources and technology to a civilian investigation like this one. If I have your co-operation, I am authorised to provide this help.’
‘How am I meant to co-operate?’
‘Major Tyler had certain special duties. Did he talk to you about them?’
‘No.’
‘Did he mention any names?’
‘No.’
‘Did he mention any locations?’
‘No. He was a very quiet soldier.’
Lieutenant Greene pauses a moment, choosing his words carefully.
‘If he has revealed sensitive details to you, unauthorised disclosure of such information to a third person could result in you being charged under the Official Secrets Act. Penalties for such an offence include imprisonment.’
‘Are you threatening him?’ demands Ruiz.
The lieutenant has been well trained. He maintains his composure. ‘As you can already appreciate, the media is taking an interest in Major Tyler. There are likely to be questions from reporters. There will be inquests into the deaths of Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. You may be asked to give evidence. I advise you to be very careful about what statements you make.’
Suddenly I’m angry. I’m tired of the whole pack of them: the military for their double-speak and secrets, Bryan and Claudia Chambers for their blind loyalty, Helen Chambers for her weakness, the reporters, the police and
