Today the effect was fast and he felt a surge in energy of the type that made him feel strong and grounded. Now he could start to use his vivid imagination. He had once read about a hypnosis technique which asked people to imagine being on a beach.
He had tried it in his second year at university and was so successful he managed to burn his arm in the imaginary sunshine. He went online to read-up about this and was relieved to find various articles talking about the power of the mind, enough to make him realise that he wasn’t the only person who could do it.
This afternoon he transported himself to the Indian Ocean, just off the Somalian coast, and aboard the Ipsos. It was a sleek and powerful vessel capable of more than forty nautical miles per hour and carrying up to ten heavily armed men.
When he resurfaced he thought about his experience. He had learned that during his hypnotic state his subconscious mind would find ways of alerting him to problems. Maybe not the detail but a warning that something was wrong. It would then be up to him to work out what that was.
This hard-won experience confirmed, beyond doubt, he had been misled with the information he was given. Although he had pretty much expected this answer, the final confirmation meant he could now focus on unravelling whatever this plot was about. He was so confident this was the case he didn’t feel the need to try something similar with the Australian drugs gang or the US militias.
Towards mid-afternoon Hooley appeared and updated him. “We’re making progress.” The DCI made a rocking motion with his hand. “Nothing concrete yet, but I think we might get something. I don’t want to get you involved too soon so I’ll let you know the moment it starts getting interesting.
“All I really have are a lot of people telling me how clever you are and how they wished they could have thought of the Rainbow Spectrum themselves. I think you may have a bit of a cult following here. Especially among the ladies.”
Roper blushed and looked startled. “Only teasing Jonathan,” Hooley assured him. But a lot of the women clearly think you are a decent bloke.” His attempts at deflecting the problem were making it worse. He swiftly changed the subject.
“My end will go on for a while - how about another trip to the curry house tonight? We haven’t got any food in the flat and I don’t fancy going shopping.”
He knew Roper hated shopping. Give him any chance to avoid it and he would, especially in a supermarket. He hated the crowds, the bright lighting, the music and the overstuffed displays of food. Hooley wasn’t a massive fan either. He had learned that the best time to go with Roper was either late at night or very early in the morning, when there were fewer people around.
As he suspected, presented with a choice of curry house versus Tesco, it was going to be the restaurant option every time. He turned to walk away, stopping mid-stride as his mobile went off. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the number, it was caller ID blocked and he contemplated letting it go through to answer phone but he took it. It might have come through a police switch board.
As he listened to the voice at the other end he stiffened, thanked whoever it was, and angrily hit the off button.
“I’ve been broken into. That was the local cops, they say the front door has been forced. I am going to have to skip tonight because I need to get down there and see if anything has been taken. I’ll call you when I know what's going on.”
37
Mr. Roberts was reluctantly concluding that his memory problems were getting worse. He had the sense that from time to time he was really struggling, only for the problem to disappear, leaving him unable to remember what his concerns were. At one point, he had even had the odd sensation that he was flickering in and out of different realities, but that was too weird to think about.
He was sure something was going wrong even though there were quite long periods when he felt perfectly normal. He knew there was a way he could address the issue, but he didn’t want to take that path just yet. It might open uncomfortable truths that he didn’t feel ready to confront. At some point he would have to, but not right now.
He tried to convince himself it might not be that bad. He was keenly hoping there was some mundane issue that could easily be resolved. He was a man who had learned to take his brain for granted. Just a few days ago he had reeled off, from memory, a long list of facts about the life and times of Tom Bennett. It wasn’t that he viewed this as a difficult task - it was yet another illustration of his superior mental abilities. His IQ of 180 was off the charts compared to ‘normal’ people.
One thought he was working very hard to keep suppressed was the strange feeling he had only recently gone through the same thing. He wondered if he might be suffering a form of selective amnesia, as if he had been given a drug that took away some recent memories but left others intact. It also seemed highly specific. Or maybe it was a concussion caused by hitting his head.
It wasn’t down to lifestyle. He didn’t drink, he never took drugs - not even an aspirin - and he ate healthily. He’d checked his blood pressure and found nothing to worry about there. He briefly wondered if someone was spiking his food in some way then dismissed the idea. That was just paranoia.
Perhaps he could start leaving himself notes. At first, he seized on this as a brilliant plan, but soon found a big hole in it. If he was having problems with his memory, all he would be doing was reminding himself of something he would then forget.
With plans coming to a head, it was frustrating that this was distracting him from a moment of triumph. He had another thought. Maybe he had picked up some sort of virus? That could explain his problems. He went back to medical websites to see if an answer could be found there.
After an hour, he gave up in frustration. All he had learned was that viruses could cause memory problems, but he needed far more detail than that. He came back to the idea of seeing a doctor, and ruled it out again. It wasn’t an option, whichever way he looked at it.
He noticed the time, ten minutes to 2pm. Something about that troubled him. He knew it was important and found himself physically straining to try and recall what it was.
His memory started to surface - he was late for something and needed to be somewhere. He became aware there was a sort of mental barrier blocking the way forward. He pushed against it. Now he could remember what he was supposed to be doing - and he had left himself pushed for time.
He shrugged. It had been a close call but he was back on his game. Brian Hooley should be on his way back to London, leaving Roper on his own for a couple of days. The DCI might be getting on a bit but he would be able to give a decent account of himself if there was trouble.
Not that the plan called for a confrontation, at least not tonight. This was more about keeping Roper off-balance for a little while longer. He had known that the man would eventually see through what was being done, but it was amusing to imagine him racing off in the wrong direction.
Mr. Roberts reviewed his plans. He decided they were just fine and allowed plenty of flexibility. He couldn’t see anything that needed changing, although he did have a vague sense that there was something just on the edge of his recall. He shrugged. He wasn’t going to stop now.
38
Hooley was unaware of what a tight grip he had on the steering wheel until he let go, triggering cramp in his fingers. With traffic at a standstill he flexed his hands to ease the discomfort. The journey from Cheltenham had been a headache inducing misery of jams and road-works. It had been teeth-grindingly slow-going, even the brief periods when he could put his foot down soon came to a stop. His mood wasn’t enhanced by the tiny pool car he’s been lent by HQ. His own more comfortable one gathering dust in Pimlico. By the time he reached Hammersmith it was idling traffic as far as the eye could see.
At last, after as frustrating a journey as he could ever recall, he pulled up outside his flat. It was a luxury two-bed, two-bath, conversion in an elegant late Georgian building. The cost would have been way beyond the price range of a divorced DCI, but his mi
llionaire property-developer brother had let him have it after the break-up of his marriage.
Hooley had loved it from the moment he’d moved in. It offered a refuge from the stresses of both work and the fall-out from his marriage. Not so small as to be cramped and not so large as to be a place he would rattle around in. He’d always wanted to live in central London but had never been able to afford it. He relished the freedom the location offered him and had even been known, on his days off, to walk over to South Kensington, to see how the other half-lived, before making his way back to his own patch and the surprisingly good pubs it boasted.
On the drive down, he had heard from Roper who he had asked to remotely access the CCTV and the cameras covering the immediate entrance way. Surprisingly, since his front door had been forced open, nothing was caught on film and nothing had triggered the alarm. The apparent break-in had been picked up by local police who were keeping a watch on the outside of his home. Julie Mayweather had requested the checks when he had been assigned to GCHQ; she had argued he was potentially a high-profile target who needed a degree of protection.
Hooley had thought his boss was overreacting, but was glad she had decided to have his home checked. He parked and trotted up to the front door. As he climbed the steps he spotted someone approaching from his left and spun round. There must have been something in his expression that alarmed the man; he held up both hands to indicate he was no threat and introduced himself as working for his brother's company. He was smartly dressed in suit and tie, in his early twenties, and was clearly one of the bright young things his brother liked to employ.
“I’ve been waiting in my car,” the man said, pointing vaguely at the blue Mondeo parked a few feet away. “Peter had your door fixed and asked me to meet you with the new key, and to see if there is anything else I can do to help you.”
Realising he needed to make an effort at being polite, Hooley thanked the man profusely for waiting and sent him on his way. It turned out to be a good call. “It’s my boy’s second birthday today. The missus would have killed me if I’d been late,” said the man, who all but ran as he took off. Hooley instantly dismissed him from his thoughts. He needed to concentrate on seeing what was inside.
He carefully studied the camera which covered the front door; no damage, or interference, as far as he could see, yet he was puzzled that Roper hadn’t found anything when he’d remotely accessed the digital log. He inserted his new key, noting the slight stiffness, and pushed the door open; not making his way inside.
He was listening for sounds of intruders. His head told him he was being daft, his heart said, ‘check everything.’ He stepped through the door, enduring the unease that affects home owners after a burglary. He made his way into the kitchen, he might have been broken into but he still had priorities. Had he left some beer in the fridge? He was going to need it shortly. He had. He had also left some milk which was past it’s sell by date. He was puzzled by this as he had a clear memory of emptying the last of the milk down the sink.
Shrugging, he made his way into the sitting room and his instincts started screaming something was wrong. At first, he couldn’t place it, then he shivered involuntarily as he realised what had happened. Virtually all the contents of the room had been moved around. He’d brought himself a couple of cheap prints to liven up the room and these had swapped positions.
His gaze was drawn to a small office table he used for his printer and wi-fi gear. For some reason, this had been placed to face against the wall, rather than into the room. He glanced at his book case and felt a jolt of adrenaline.
While not the neatest person in the world, he was obsessed with placing books alphabetically, by author. Now that had been disrupted and his first novel was by Jack London and the last by Lee Child, with all the names in between in random order. To his ordered mind the placing made no sense.
A sudden thought struck him and he hurried into his bedroom. At first glance, nothing seemed to have changed. His white duvet was neatly folded in half on the double-bed - he felt this allowed it to air while he was away - and the pillows appeared as he had left them.
But looking closer he saw towels had been placed under each of the pillows. His heart was pounding. He had the horrible sense that he was being watched. He checked his drawers. Opening the first, it should have contained his socks and pants. Now the space was occupied by printer paper.
In the cupboard, he found more bizarre changes. Someone had swapped all the trousers on his suits so that blue trousers were with grey jackets and the same thing but reversed. And on each of his shirts the intruder had hung a tie around the collar.
It made him feel deeply uncomfortable. Someone was clearly sending him a message and he had to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment to regain control of his breathing. He hated to admit it, but this was so creepy it was frightening. He felt clammy from sweat, even though it was cool in the flat.
The quiet was pierced by his front door bell. The sudden noise panicked him, making him leap to his feet. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest and stood panting for a moment until the bell went for a second time. He was badly spooked but he had to answer the door.
Making himself go slowly he approached and looked out through the spy hole; he had never been so pleased to see Julie Mayweather. He’d forgotten that they had arranged to meet. As he opened the door to let her in she stared at him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is everything alright?”
He waved her inside and then went straight to the kitchen to grab a bottle of cold lager. She followed him in, a concerned look on her face, as he took a deep swallow and then another. He put the bottle down carefully and looked at her.
“I think it’s best if I show you. I’m not sure I can explain it properly.”
By the time he showed her the shirts and ties she had her hand to her mouth; clearly as badly rattled as he was. She said. “I’ve never come across anything like this. It’s the sort of thing you can imagine a stalker might do.”
Her company, and the beer, was helping to restore him equilibrium.
“The only person who might want to stalk me is my ex-wife, but I think she’d just want to throw things at me. She wouldn’t have the patience for this sort of weirdness. I think it’s fair to say that someone is trying to get my attention. They’ve certainly done that even if I have no idea what the message might be.”
Mayweather’s resolve had also stiffened after the initial shock. “Until we know otherwise we are going to treat this is as a direct threat. Up to now I’ve had the locals doing a drive-by, but we’ll step that up to a uniformed guard placed at the door here and talk to the Home Office liaison people about arranging the same down in Cheltenham.
“Talking of which, what about Jonathan? Whether this is related to what you’re doing at GCHQ or something else is irrelevant for now. I’m not going to take any risks.”
Hooley was pleased she was making the calls. While part of him never wanted to make a fuss - as he often said, police officers are going to make enemies - there was something about what had happened in his flat that was too weird for words.
There was something else he needed to tell her. “My CCTV system didn’t pick up anyone coming into the flat. I was thinking it’s because no one came in, just stayed outside but now, well they obviously were inside so how did they avoid getting caught on film?”
Mayweather’s eyes narrowed, a sure sign something was bothering her. “The case we picked up just after you left for ‘Spy Central,’” she mimed quote marks in the air before continuing. “It involves some pretty advanced surveillance equipment.”
She was speaking quietly, almost to herself, and the DCI was straining to hear every word. She noticed the questioning expression on his face. “I’m wondering if we need to compare notes?” she said, then cut him off from replying. “Bear with me. I intend to brief you but give me a bit of space. There’s a lot of sensitivity going around and I need to talk to the head of MI5 first. She needs to kno
w about this as well.”
She smiled apologetically. “I was going to buy you dinner tonight but I think this takes priority. I’ll let you know when I have it sorted out. If I’m right we need to talk to Jonathan as well. Can you get hold of him and warn him he might need to come up to London?”
“Definitely,” said the DCI. “If ever there was something shaping up to need his Rainbow Spectrum, then this is it.”
He let his boss out and the turned back into the flat. The first thing he was going to do was get those books back in the right order, then the rest of the flat, then a glass of wine - he’d already checked his stash in the kitchen - then get food delivered. He was going nowhere tonight and would be double checking all the door and window locks.
39
For once Roper didn’t mind being interrupted. He had been known to ignore his phone, but seeing Brian Hooley was on the end of the line he was more than happy to talk, especially as the work he had been doing was taking him nowhere. The lack of progress making him feel irritable and restless.
He grabbed his mobile, barked ‘Roper’ loudly, and waited for Hooley to speak. The DCI was so used to this abrupt form of greeting he didn’t notice. He started talking straight away, also skipping a greeting. “Things get stranger and stranger. So much so that we may find ourselves working for the boss again, sooner rather than later. She’s just gone off to talk to the head of MI5, and will be getting back to us after that.”
“What and why?” asked Roper. On the phone, he hated using more words than he had to.
Hooley laughed. “Short and to the point, as usual. All I can tell you is she said she had to speak to the head of MI5 to get clearance to tell us what she is working on. Between ourselves, I heard the team is heading up the investigation into the awful murders involving the man the Press are calling the Face Ripper.”
I Can See You: Autistic British Detective: Jonathan Roper Investigates Book 2 Page 15
