‘As sure as I can be for now.’
‘What do you need?’
‘Christine Wheeler was talking to someone on her mobile before she fell. Is it possible to trace the call?’
‘They recover the phone?’
‘It’s at the bottom of the Avon Gorge.’
‘Do you know the lady’s number?’
‘Darcy does.’
He is silent for a moment. ‘I know a guy who works for British Telecom. He’s a security consultant. He was our go-to man when we were tapping phones or tracing calls- all above board, of course.’
‘Of course.’
I can hear him taking notes. I can even picture the marbled notebook that he carries everywhere, bulging with business cards and scraps of paper, held together with a rubber band.
Another rattle of ice in a glass.
‘So if I do come down to Somerset can I sleep with your wife?’
‘No.’
‘I thought country folk were supposed to be hospitable.’
‘The house is sort of full. You can stay in the pub.’
‘Well, that’s almost as good.’
The call ends and I slip Ruiz’s number into a drawer. There’s a tap on the door. Charlie wanders in and slumps sideways in a perfectly good armchair, dangling her legs over the armrest.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Hi.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing much, what’s up with you?’
‘I got a history test tomorrow.’
‘You been studying?’
‘Yep. Did you know when they embalmed pharaohs in ancient Egypt they used to take out their brains through their left nostril with a hook?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Then they used to put the body on a bed of salt to dry it out.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yep.’
Charlie has a question, but needs a moment to frame it. She’s like that, very precise with no ums and ahs or long pauses.
‘Why is she here?’
She means Darcy.
‘She needed somewhere to stay.’
‘Does Mum know?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What should I tell her if she calls?’
‘Leave that to me.’
Charlie stares at her knees. She thinks about things far more deeply than I ever remember doing. Sometimes she will mull over something for days, formulating a theory or an opinion and then deliver it out of the blue, long after everyone else has stopped thinking about it or forgotten the original discussion.
‘The woman on the news the other night: the one who jumped.’
‘What about her?’
‘It was Darcy’s mum.’
‘Yes.’
‘Should I say something to her? I mean, I don’t know whether to avoid the subject or pretend nothing’s wrong.’
‘If Darcy doesn’t want to talk about it, she’ll tell you.’
Charlie nods in agreement. ‘Will there be a funeral or something like that?’
‘In a few days.’
‘So where is her mum now?’
‘At the morgue- it’s a place where they…’
‘I know,’ she answers, sounding very grown up. There’s another long pause. ‘Did you see Darcy’s trainers?’
‘What about them?’
‘I want a pair just like them.’
‘OK. Anything else?’
‘Nope.’
Charlie tosses her ponytail over one shoulder and exits with a kick of her heels.
I am left alone. A pile of household bills and invoices has to be sorted, paid or filed. Julianne has separated her work receipts and bundled them in an envelope.
As I close the drawer I notice a partially crumpled receipt on the floor. I pick it up and flatten it on the blotter. The name of the hotel is written in elaborate script across the top. It is a room service bill for breakfast, including champagne, bacon, eggs, fruit and pastries. Julianne really went to town. She normally has just muesli or fruit salad.
I screw the bill into a ball and motion to throw it away. I don’t know what stops me- a question mark: a tinge of disquiet. The sensation scrambles and disappears. It’s too quiet outside. I don’t want to hear myself think.
11
To pick a lock requires a supreme sense of touch and sound. First I picture the inner mechanism in my mind and project my senses within. All the senses are important- not just sound and touch. Sight to identify the make and model. Smell to tell if the lock has been lubricated recently. Taste to identify the lubricant.
Each lock has a personality. Time and weather will change its characteristics. Temperature. Humidity. Condensation. Once the pick is inside, I close my eyes. Listen. Feel. As the pick bounces up and down over the pins, I must apply a fixed amount of pressure, measuring their resistance. This requires sensitivity, dexterity, concentration and analytical thinking. It is fluid- but there are rules.
This one is a 437-rated high security lock. It has six pins, some of which are mushroom-shaped. The keyhole is paracentric, like a misshapen lightning bolt. Insurance underwriters consider it a twenty-minute pick job because of its degree of difficulty. I can open it in twenty-three seconds. It takes practise. Hours. Days. Weeks.
I can remember the first time I entered a house. It was in Osnabruck, Germany, fifty miles north of Dortmund. The house belonged to an army chaplain who was counselling my wife, visiting her while I was away. I left his dog in the freezer and the bath and the washing machine.
The second place I entered was the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, a few steps from the rear door of Harrods. The building had no nameplate on the door. It is a private club for current and former members of the intelligence services and the SAS. I, however, cannot become a member because I am so elite nobody has ever heard of me. I am untouchable. Unnameable.
I can walk through walls. Locks crumble in my hands. The pins are like musical keys with a different tone and timbre as the pick passes over them. Listen. That’s the final note. The door opens.
I step into the flat, placing my feet carefully on the polished floorboards. My tools are wrapped and put away. A torch is now needed.
The bitch has taste, which doesn’t always come with money. None of her furniture came out of a flat pack or was put together with keys. The coffee table is hammered copper and ceramic bowls are hand-painted.
I look for the phone connections. There is a cordless console in the kitchen and a cradle in the living room
