Oliver pulls up a satellite image and overlays a second map showing the locations of phone towers.
‘They headed south as far as Wells Road and then west through Radstock and Midsomer Norton.’
‘Where did the signal die?’
‘On the outskirts of Bristol.’
DI Cray begins issuing orders, unsealing the village and re-assigning officers. Her voice has a metallic quality, as if bouncing off one of Oliver’s satellites. The focus of the investigation is shifting away from the house.
She waves a hand at Oliver. ‘We know Tyler has two mobiles. If he turns either one of them on, I want you to find him. Not where he was yesterday or an hour ago- I want to know now.’
Julianne is waiting on the landing, hanging back in a corner between the window and the bedroom door. Her dark hair is still tangled and damp from the shower.
She has changed again, wearing black trousers and a cashmere cardigan with just enough make-up to darken her eyelids and shape her cheekbones. It shocks me how beautiful she is. By comparison, I feel decrepit and ancient.
‘Let me know what you’re thinking.’
‘Believe me, you don’t want to know,’ she replies. I can barely recognise her voice any more.
‘I don’t think he wants to hurt Charlie.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she whispers.
‘I know him.’
Julianne glances up, her gaze challenging me. ‘I don’t want to hear that, Joe, because if you know a man like this- if you understand why he’s doing this- then I wonder how you can sleep at night. How you can… can…’
She can’t finish the statement. I try to hold her, but she stiffens and twists away from me.
‘You don’t know him,’ she says accusingly. ‘You said he was bluffing.’
‘Up until now he has been. I don’t think he’ll hurt her.’
‘He’s hurting her now, don’t you see. Just by taking her.’
Her face turns back to the window and she says accusingly, ‘You brought this on us.’
‘I never expected this. How could I have known?’
‘I warned you.’
I can feel my voice failing. ‘I’m forty-five, Julianne. I can’t live my life on the sidelines. I can’t turn my back on people or refuse to help them.’
‘You have Parkinson’s.’
‘I still have a life to live.’
‘You had a life… with us.’
She’s speaking in the past tense. This isn’t about Dirk or the hotel receipt or my jealous outburst at her office party. This is about Charlie. And amid the fear and uncertainty in her face, there’s something I don’t expect to see. Contempt. Loathing.
‘I don’t love you any more,’ she says blankly, coldly. ‘Not in the right way- not how I used to.’
‘There isn’t a right way. There’s just love.’
She shakes her head and turns away. It feels as though something vital has been cut out of my chest. My heart. She leaves me on the landing; an unseen string is pulling at my fingers, worked by a twitching puppeteer. Maybe he has Parkinson’s too.
The doors are open. The house is cold. SOCO have been examining the cottage for the past hour, dusting the smooth surfaces for fingerprints and vacuuming for fibres. Some of the officers I recognise. Nodding acquaintances. They do not look at me now. They have a job to do.
Gideon is a trained locksmith. He can open almost any door: a house, a flat, a warehouse, an office… There are thousands of properties lying empty in Bristol. He could hide Charlie in any one of them.
Veronica Cray has been conferring with Monk and Safari Roy in the kitchen. She wants a meeting to discuss tactics.
‘We have to decide what we’re going to do when he calls back,’ she says. ‘We have to be ready. Oliver needs time to pinpoint the source and location, so it’s important that we keep Tyler on the phone for as long as possible.’
She looks at Julianne. ‘Are you up for this?’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say, answering for her.
‘He might only speak to your wife,’ says the DI.
‘We make him talk to me. Don’t give him any another option.’
‘And if he says no?’
‘He wants an audience. Let him talk to me. Julianne isn’t strong enough.’
She reacts angrily, ‘Don’t speak about me as though I’m not in the room.’
‘I’m just trying to protect you.’
‘I don’t need protecting.’
I’m about to argue but she explodes, ‘Don’t say another word, Joe. Don’t talk for me. Don’t talk to me.’
I feel myself sway back, as if dodging punches. The hostility silences the room. Nobody will look at me.
‘You should both calm down,’ says the DI.
I try to stand but feel Monk’s hand on my shoulder, forcing me to stay seated. Veronica Cray is addressing Julianne, outlining the possible scenarios. Up until now the DI has always treated me with respect and valued my advice. Now she thinks my judgement has been compromised. I am too closely involved. My opinions can’t be relied upon. The whole scene has become dreamlike and slightly askew. The others are businesslike and thoughtful. I am dishevelled and out of control.
Veronica Cray wants to move the operation to Trinity Road to make it easier for the police to respond. The landline will be redirected to the incident room.
Julianne begins asking questions, her voice barely audible. She wants to know more details of the strategy. Oliver needs at least five minutes to track any call and triangulate the signals from the nearest three phone towers. If the clocks in the base stations are synchronised perfectly, he may be able to pinpoint the caller to within a hundred metres.
It isn’t foolproof. Signals can be affected by buildings, terrain and weather conditions. If Gideon moves indoors the signal strength will change and if the clocks are out by even a microsecond it could mean a difference of tens of metres. Microseconds and metres- that’s what my daughter’s life is coming down to.
‘We’ve installed a GPS tracker and a hands-free phone cradle in your car. Tyler may issue instructions. He may want you to jump through hoops. We’re not ready for a mobile intercept so you have to stall him.’
‘For how long?’ she whispers.
‘A few more hours.’
Julianne shakes her head adamantly. It has to be sooner.
‘I know you want your daughter back, Mrs O’Loughlin, but we have to secure your safety first. This man has killed two women. I need a few hours to get helicopters and intercept teams ready. Until then we have to stall him.’
‘This is crazy,’ I say. ‘You know what he’s done before.’
DI Cray nods towards Monk. I feel his fingers close around my arm. ‘Come on, Professor, let’s take a walk.’
I try and twist out of the big man’s hand, but he takes a firmer hold. His other arm hooks over my shoulder. From a distance it probably looks like a friendly gesture, but I can’t move. He walks me into the kitchen and out the back door, along the path to the clothesline. A lone towel flaps in the breeze like a vertical flag.
There is a stale, unsavoury smell in my lungs. It’s coming from me. My medication has switched off suddenly. My head, shoulders and arms are writhing and jerking like a snake.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Monk.
‘I need my pills.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Upstairs, beside my bed. The white plastic bottle. Levodopa.’ He disappears inside the cottage. Police officers and detectives are watching from the lane, looking at the freak show. Parkinson’s sufferers talk a lot about preserving dignity. I have none of it now. Sometimes I imagine this is how I’m going to finish up. A writhing, twisting snake man or a life-sized statue, trapped in a permanent pose, unable to scratch my nose or shoo the pigeons away.
Monk comes back with the pill bottle and a glass of water. He has to hold my head still to get the tablets on my tongue. Water spills down my shirt.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Did I do something to make it worse?’
‘It’s not your fault.’