‘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 pulled 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 intelligence.’
‘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, fills 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’ll 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 all 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 will he target next?’
‘No way of telling. 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?’
‘Jewellery 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 jewellery, 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. Travelling. 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 tell Ruiz about Julianne’s boss, or the room service receipt, or the lingerie or the phone calls. And I’m not going to mention Darcy’s kiss or Julianne’s question about whether I still 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 tunnelling unless you hit rock bottom.
51
The central hall of the Natural History Museum has been transformed into a prehistoric forest. Monkeys, reptiles and birds seem to scale the terracotta walls 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 colleagues 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 small 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, spilling her champagne.
‘It’s these bloody heels,’ she explains, apologetically, offering me a napkin.
Tall, reed-thin and well 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 tell?’
‘You look lost. I’m Felicity, by the way. People call me Flip.’
She offers me two fingers to shake. I’m still 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 smaller, top-heavy woman.
‘Nobody. This is Julianne’s husband.’
‘Really?’
‘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 challenge.’
The small woman giggles and her decolletage quakes. She’s so short that I can’t look at her face without
