Michael Robotham - Shatter

Surely, there’s no way Veronica Cray will surrender jurisdiction. She’ll take it to the Home Secretary or the Lord Chamberlain. She has two murders, a shooting and two kidnappings on her patch, on her watch. The arguments and legal manoeuvrings are taking up too much time. Meanwhile, Gideon sits twelve feet away, humming to himself and staring into the mirror.

He doesn’t look like a man who’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison. He looks like a man without a care in the world.

DI Cray enters the interview suite. Monk is sitting second chair. A third person, a military lawyer, takes up a position behind them, standing ready to intervene at any moment. Microphones have been removed from the room. There are no pads or pencils. The interview isn’t being recorded. I doubt if there’s a record any longer of Gideon’s arrest or his fingerprinting. Somebody is determined to remove all trace of him.

Veronica Cray pours water from a plastic bottle into a plastic cup. Leaning her head back, she takes a long deep draught. Tyler seems to look at her throat with interest.

‘As you can probably tell, this isn’t a formal interview,’ she says. ‘Nothing you say is being taken down. It can’t be used against you. You only have to answer one question. Tell us the whereabouts of Julianne and Charlotte O’Loughlin.’

Gideon presses his back against the chair and pushes his arms forward, fingers splayed on the table. Then slowly he raises his head, his eyes disappearing in the wash of fluorescence reflecting from his glasses.

‘I will not talk to you,’ he whispers.

‘You have to talk to me.’

His head moves from side to side.

Gideon stares at the mirror, through it.

‘Where are Charlie and Julianne O’Loughlin?’

He sits to attention. ‘My name is Major Gideon Tyler. Born October six, 1969. I am a soldier in Her Majesty’s First Military Intelligence Brigade.’

He is following the Conduct Under Capture rules- name, age and rank.

‘Don’t give me this bullshit,’ says Veronica Cray.

Gideon fixes her with a milky grey stare, searching her eyes. ‘It must be hard being a dyke in the police force, liking the black triangle, being a member of the tongue and groove club. Must get a lot of snide remarks. What do they call you behind your back?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘You answer mine. Do you get much? I often wonder about dykes and if you get much sex. You’re as ugly as a hat full of arse-holes so I shouldn’t think so.’

Veronica Cray’s voice remains smooth but the back of her neck is blazing. ‘I’ll hear your fantasies another time,’ she says.

‘Oh, I never leave anything to fantasy, detective. You must know that by now.’

There is something horribly truthful about the statement.

‘You’re going to prison for the rest of your life, Major Tyler. Things happen in prison to people like you. They get changed.’

Gideon smiles. ‘I’m not going to prison, Detective Inspector. Ask him.’ He motions to the military lawyer who doesn’t hold his gaze. ‘I doubt if I’ll even get out of this place. Ever heard the word rendition? Black prisons? Ghost flights?’

The lawyer steps forward. He wants the interview terminated.

Veronica Cray ignores him and keeps talking. ‘You’re a soldier, Tyler, a man who lives by rules. I’m not talking about military regulations or regimental codes of honour. I’m talking about your own rules, what you believe, and hurting children doesn’t come into it.’

‘Don’t tell me what I believe,’ Gideon says, his heels scraping on the floor. ‘Don’t talk about Honour, or Queen and Country. There are no rules.’

‘Just tell me what you’ve done with Mrs O’Loughlin and her daughter.’

‘Let me see the Professor.’ He turns to the mirror. ‘Is he watching? Are you there, Joe?’

‘No. You’ll talk to me,’ says the DI.

Gideon raises his arms above his head, stretching his back until his vertebrae pop and crack. Then he slams his fists into the table. The combination of his strength and the metal cuffs creates a sound like a gunshot and everybody in the room flinches except for the DI. Gideon crosses his wrists, holding them in front of himself as though warding her off. Then he flicks his hands apart and a long splash of blood flies across the table and lands on her shirt.

Using the edge of the handcuffs, Gideon has opened a gash across his left palm. DI Cray says nothing but her face is suddenly pale. She pushes back her chair and stands, looking at the crimson slash of blood on her white shirt. Then she excuses herself from interview while she changes.

With three quick stiff steps she reaches the door. Gideon calls after her. ‘Tell the Professor to come and see me. I’ll tell him how his wife died.’

I meet Veronica Cray in the passageway outside the interview suite. She looks at me helplessly and lowers her gaze, sagging under the weight of what she knows and doesn’t know. The bloodstain is drying on her shirt.

‘They’re sending a military chopper. I can’t stop them. They have a warrant signed by the Home Secretary.’

‘What about Charlie and Julianne?’

Her shoulder blades flinch beneath her shirt. ‘There’s nothing more I can do.’

It’s what I feared. The MOD cares more about silencing Gideon Tyler than it does about a missing mother and daughter.

‘Let me talk to him,’ I say. ‘He wants to see me.’

Time shimmers for a moment. The hubbub of the world disappears.

The DI takes a cigarette from a packet in the pocket of her trousers. She rests it between her lips. I notice a tiny tremor in her hand. Anger. Disappointment. Frustration. It could be all of them.

‘I’ll get rid of the military lawyer,’ she says. ‘You might only have twenty minutes. Take Ruiz with you. He’ll know what to do.’

The insinuation in her voice has not been there before. She turns and moves slowly along the passage towards the stairs.

I enter the interview suite. The door swings shut behind me.

We’re alone for a moment. The very air in the room seems to have congregated in distant corners. Gideon can no longer jump to his feet or pace the floor. His handcuffs have been secured on the surface of the table, fixed with bolts and recessed screws. A doctor has bandaged the cut to his palm.

I move closer and take a seat opposite him, placing my hands on the table. My left thumb and forefinger are beating a silent tattoo. I take the hand away and press it between my thighs. Ruiz has slipped into the room behind me, shutting the door softly.

Gideon gazes at me steadily with a formless smile. I can see the ruins of my life reflected in his glasses.

‘Hello, Joe, heard from your wife lately?’

‘Where is she?’

‘Dead.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You killed her the moment I was arrested.’

I can smell the very odour of his insides, the rancid, festering, misogyny and hatred.

‘Tell me where they are.’

‘You can only have one of them. I asked you to choose.’

‘No.’

‘I wasn’t given a choice when I lost my wife and daughter.’

‘You didn’t lose them. They ran away.’

‘The slut betrayed me.’

‘You’re making excuses. You’re obsessed with your own sense of entitlement. You believe because you’ve fought for your country, done terrible things for them, that you are owed something better.’

‘No. Not better. I want what everyone else wants. But what if my dream conflicts with yours? What if my happiness comes at your expense?’

‘We make do.’

‘Not good enough,’ he says, blinking slowly.

‘The war is over, Gideon. Let them come home.’