by James Carol
‘The literal translation is “success”, but it’s used to say goodbye. There’s no translation for “screw you”. Say that to a Klingon and you’d be inviting a battle to the death.’
Templeton laughed. ‘Nobody likes a smartass, you know. Particularly one who’s a closet nerd.’
‘I am not a closet nerd.’
‘Yeah, right, so says the man who speaks fluent Klingon and can no doubt reel off the title of every episode of Star Trek.’
‘I can’t name every title.’
We stopped walking and Templeton stared me straight in the eye.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I can name every title. But only for the original series. And, for the record, that doesn’t make me a closet nerd. It just makes me someone who likes to know things.’
Templeton flashed a smug grin. ‘Yeah, so says you.’
33
I sat at the Cosmopolitan’s piano and rattled off some quick C-major scales. One from the bottom register, one from the middle, one from the top. The keys were heavy and sluggish and nowhere near as responsive as my Steinway, but at least the piano was in tune. The fact it had a decent enough tone was a bonus.
The barmaid had looked relieved when I suggested she turn off the music and let me play. She’d jumped at the suggestion. Hadn’t even asked about my level of skill. Not that she cared either way. Anything had to be better than that insipid computerised Christmas music. Ten minutes of that crap and I was ready to jam pointed sticks in my ears. How she managed to last a whole shift was beyond me.
I went straight into the second movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto 21. By the third phrase, London and the bar had phased away. The heaviness in my heart and chest eased. All that mattered was the music. All that existed was the music.
Eyes closed, my fingers instinctively found the next note, the next phrase. They didn’t let me down. This wasn’t one of Mozart’s flashy show-off pieces, but that didn’t mean it was easy to play. The music has a forward momentum that makes you want to play faster, but if you do that you kill the mood. The trick is to keep it slow and easy. I reached the final phrase, the final note, paused a moment with my eyes still closed and waited for silence.
‘That was beautiful.’
Templeton was standing beside the piano stool. She had a strange expression on her face that was difficult to read. She was five minutes late, which was an acceptable level of lateness given the circumstances. Early wouldn’t have been cool, and any later would have been rude. I was already halfway through my first whisky and contemplating a second.
‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘You play really well. Where did you learn?’
‘My mother was a music teacher. She taught me to play. I studied music at college, as well.’
‘I thought your degree was in criminal psychology.’
‘It was. I did the music degree in my spare time.’
‘Most people tend to party in their spare time.’
I laughed, remembering a boy who’d thought every night was party night. ‘I was fortunate,’ I said. ‘I found the academic stuff easy, which left plenty of time for all the extra-curricular stuff.’
Templeton’s eyes narrowed and she fixed me with her cop stare. ‘Just how clever are you?’
‘That’s not what you’re really asking, is it? You want to know what my IQ is.’
‘Okay, what’s your IQ?’
‘It’s well above average, but a damn sight lower than da Vinci’s.’
‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s just a meaningless number. It’s what you do with your life that matters. Our actions define us. On paper my father was a genius, and he chose to use that gift to destroy.’
‘And you choose to use your genius to try to undo his wrongs. To balance things out again.’
I shrugged, but didn’t deny it.
Templeton gave me a sly look. ‘It annoys you that da Vinci had a higher IQ than you, doesn’t it?’
‘The question is irrelevant. The IQ test wasn’t invented until 1904, so any figure attributed to da Vinci is just some so-called expert’s best guess.’
‘See, it does annoy you.’
The mat my drink was on was at an angle, so I straightened it up, moving it until the edges lined up just right. Ice rattled against glass. ‘It doesn’t annoy me.’
‘You say it’s just a meaningless number, but I’m betting you could tell me who invented it, where it was invented. I bet you could tell me the whole story. So here’s my question: if it is so meaningless why won’t you tell me what your IQ is?’
‘Because I don’t want you to define me by a number.’
Templeton reached for my glass and took a sip. She grimaced and put the glass back down. The mat shifted and I straightened it again.
‘Interesting choice of words, Winter. You could have said that you didn’t want to be defined by a number. Instead you said that you didn’t want me to define you by a number.’
‘A slip of the tongue.’
Templeton gave me a look. ‘So you say.’
‘Remind me again why you’re pulling a cop’s salary. You would make a great lawyer.’
‘There’s not enough money in the world, Winter.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, you’ve got a point there.’
‘When you said earlier that your mother was a music teacher, you didn’t mean that she was retired, did you?’
My laughter died away and I shook my head. ‘No she isn’t. She passed away a few years back.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was probably for the best. She never really came to terms with what my father was.’
‘Have you?’
‘I’m working on it.’ I linked my fingers together and stretched them out. ‘Okay, enough with the heavy stuff. I’m warmed up now. Any requests?’
Templeton thought for a second, then said, ‘Do you know “A Whiter Shade of Pale”? That’s always been one of my favourites.’
‘So, what are those lyrics all about?’
Templeton smiled one of those great smiles. ‘You’re the genius, you tell me.’
‘Well, the fandango is a dance that originated in Spain. And a cartwheel is an acrobatic movement.’
Templeton punched me playfully on the arm. ‘Some questions aren’t meant to have answers.’
‘Every question needs an answer. At any rate, we need to at least attempt to answer them because that’s how we progress. If we ignored the tough questions, we’d still be swinging from the trees blissfully unaware of the fact that our opposable thumbs made us the kings of the jungle.’
‘Just shut up and play.’
I laid my fingers on the keys and closed my eyes. The melody lit up inside my head, each note a different colour. I worked out some simple chords to support the tune then started to play. The song owes a huge debt of gratitude to Bach and I really emphasised that in my interpretation. I threw in a couple of Mozart-inspired flourishes because they seemed to fit. When I’d finished Templeton was looking at me with that strange, unreadable expression again.
‘This might be a stupid question,’ she said. ‘But have you ever played that song before?’
I shook my head.
‘That was amazing, Winter. Seriously impressive. I mean, how the hell did you do that? It’s like you’re Rain Man or something.’
‘Hopefully my social skills are better. And I promise I’ve never had a complete meltdown because I missed my favourite TV programme.’
‘So you say.’
I laughed at that. ‘Let’s go find a table.’
34
Templeton led the way to a table near the bar. Like earlier, she was wearing jeans, and like earlier, these ones were tight and clung in all the right places. She shook off her coat and took a seat. Her plain black wool jumper tried hard to hide her body, and failed miserably. Templeton could wear a burlap sack and make it look sexy. Her hair was still damp from the shower. The shampoo she’d use
d had apples in, and the smell brought a memory of summer into the room.
She reached into a pocket, pulled out a ten-pound note, slapped it down onto the table. Her expression was all mock annoyance and pretend indignation.
‘How the hell did you know what cars Donald Cole owned?’ she asked.
‘When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’
Templeton gave me a stern look. ‘How did you know, Winter?’
‘He had pictures of the cars on his office wall.’
‘He had lots of pictures on his wall.’
‘He did,’ I agreed. ‘There was a picture of his boat, a picture of his Mediterranean villa, pictures of his racehorses. Donald Cole doesn’t have a single qualification. No diplomas, no doctorates, no certificates. Given his background, it’s unlikely that any Nobel Prize winners or American presidents will be lining up to have their picture taken with him any time soon. The pictures are just another version of an ego wall. Cole defines his success by his status symbols, and he wants to show them off. Did you notice the family photographs?’
‘Yeah. They were on his desk.’
‘Did you notice they were facing towards him? That they were difficult to see?’
‘So he has good feng shui. What’s the big deal?’
‘He’s happy for the world to see his status symbols, but not his family. He’s protective of his family. He wants to keep them close. He wants to keep them safe.’
‘What father wouldn’t?’
‘You’d be surprised. Take my own father. On the surface he looked like the perfect dad, but scratch away at the surface and there was a psychopath lurking underneath. He wouldn’t have thought twice about killing my mother or me if it had served his needs.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’
I waved the apology away. ‘The point is that Donald Cole feels responsible for his daughter’s kidnapping. He’ll be racked with guilt. He has a ton of cash, he doesn’t trust the police, and he comes from a world where you hit first and ask questions later. Not a good combination. Keep tabs on him. If he decides to go vigilante that would cause you guys a major headache. Not to mention putting Rachel into even more danger than she’s already in.’
‘How could she be in any more danger than she already is?’
‘These unsubs keep their victims for an average of three months. However, if Cole does something stupid, like reinstating the reward, for example, then that could lead them to decide that she’s not worth the trouble. The dominant partner ups his timescale, fits three months of fun into a couple of days, lobotomises Rachel and dumps her. Game over. In cases where the victim is kept alive, things can always get worse. Remember that.’
‘Point taken.’ Templeton nodded to the ten-pound note on the table. ‘I’m dying of thirst here.’
‘Jack Daniel’s and Coke?’
‘How did you know?’ She shook her head. ‘Actually I don’t need to know. What I do need is a drink.’
I stood up, grabbed the ten-pound note from the table and headed for the bar. The barmaid was the same one as yesterday. We’d got talking earlier and I’d found out she was Polish and her name was Irena, and she was single. I took the drinks back to the table, handed Templeton hers, tipped what was left of my old drink into my new glass. Then I sat down, swirled the ice cubes around my glass, took a sip, and wished you could still smoke inside. The ban was a pain in the ass. Alcohol and nicotine were meant to go together, like peaches and cream, only not as wholesome.
‘Cutting Jack did get a parking ticket,’ said Templeton. ‘He drives a Porsche.’
‘But.’
‘Nobody likes a smartass.’
I raised an eyebrow and Templeton sighed.
‘According to the DVLA he drives a five-year-old silver Ford Mondeo. He switched the plates, so no ID there. But you already knew that. So, why did you leave the FBI, Winter?’
Templeton was staring at me, those sharp blue eyes fixed on mine. She wasn’t about to let this one go any time soon. I took a slow sip of my drink.
‘You ducked the question earlier because we didn’t know each other well enough,’ she said.
‘And we know each other so much better now.’
‘We’ve spent a lot of quality time together today. More than most married couples. Anyway, I told you why I became a cop. Quid pro quo, Winter. It’s only fair.’
The distant echo of my father whispering that three-word curse in his lazy Californian drawl drifted through my head. We’re the same. The easy answer seemed the better option. I placed my glass carefully on the table.
‘My superiors didn’t agree with some of my methods. They felt I took unnecessary risks. I got a reputation for being a loose cannon, and in an organisation like the FBI where the team is everything, loose cannons aren’t tolerated for long. I left before I got asked to leave.’
‘Were you taking unnecessary risks?’
‘I did what I needed to do to get the job done. Same as I do now.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘I was solving cases,’ I said, ‘bringing the bad guys in. How I was doing that shouldn’t have been an issue.’
‘Of course it should,’ said Templeton. ‘You get a police force that isn’t regulated, and all you’ve got is a bunch of vigilantes. We’re talking one step up from a lynch mob.’
‘And I suppose you always play by the rules. Do you expect me to believe there’s never been an occasion when you bent a rule or two so you could get the job done?’
Templeton hesitated. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again.
‘Of course you’ve bent the rules,’ I said. ‘There isn’t a cop around who hasn’t. At least, there isn’t a cop who’s halfway decent who hasn’t. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t have rules, but those rules can’t be so rigid that they stop us doing our job.’
‘And who decides where the line gets drawn?’
‘That one comes down to common sense and your conscience. And for the record, I have no problems with any of the decisions I’ve made. No regrets. I sleep like a baby.’
‘Liar. There’s not a single cop who doesn’t wish they’d done something different, that they’d made at least one call differently.’
When I didn’t respond, Templeton flashed me a told-you-so smile. She reached for her drink. ‘Something’s bugging you about the case. What?’
‘Who says anything’s bugging me?’
‘Cutting Jack and his girlfriend are still out there. Until they’re caught there will always be something about this case that bugs you. It’s the way you’re wired. So ’fess up. What’s bugging you?’
‘The fact they lobotomise their victims.’
‘In your briefing you said the lobotomies were a compromise between the two partners. The dominant wants the victims dead. The submissive wants them alive. It makes sense to me.’
‘It does make sense,’ I agreed. ‘But I’ve been thinking about that one all day, and the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I’ve missed something.’
‘Could you be overanalysing the situation?’
‘I’m not overanalysing. The lobotomy is the key to solving this case.’
‘So, what are you thinking?’
‘That’s the problem. At this stage I’m all out of ideas.’
‘What? Not even half an idea? A quarter of an idea? A hunch?’
‘Not even that,’ I admitted.
‘So, there’s nothing cooking in that planet-sized brain of yours?’
I shook my head and sighed. ‘Nothing’s cooking.’
‘Remind me again: what was da Vinci’s IQ?’
‘I never told you what it was in the first place, so how can I remind you?’ Templeton arched her eyebrows and gave me that cop stare. ‘Two hundred and twenty,’ I said.
‘And he was smarter than you,’ Templeton said.
‘Way smarter,’ I replied. ‘But remember, it was just a
guesstimate.’
Templeton sipped her drink then smiled at me over the rim of her glass. ‘It really does annoy the hell out of you, doesn’t it?’
35
‘Number Five will use the bucket.’
Adam’s distorted robotic voice boomed around the room, bouncing off the walls and making her head pound. Rachel blinked away the brightness, shook off the blankets, and got up from the mattress. Her limbs felt both heavy and light. She was aware she was moving, but felt like she was going the wrong way on an airport travelator. She sleepwalked across the room in a daze, slid the grey jogging bottoms and panties over her hips, then squatted down. When she was done, she stood, pulled up her panties and jogging bottoms, then waited for her next instruction.
‘Number Five will bring the bucket to the door.’
Rachel carried the bucket across the room and placed it on the floor with the handle facing the door, just like she’d been told to do. The first time they’d gone through this routine, Adam had been very clear with his instructions. So clear she knew that he’d spent a long time thinking it through, and if she deviated he wouldn’t think twice about punishing her. The bruises on her back were all the motivation she needed to make sure she followed his instructions to the letter.
‘Number Five will go to the chair.’
Rachel looked at the dentist’s chair and felt nothing. No racing heart, no cold sweats, no shakes. Just the mention of the chair would usually send her into a panic, but not this time. A strange bubble of calmness had enveloped her, a feeling that whatever happened, she would deal with it.
Drugged.
The thought emerged slowly from the sludge inside her brain, and the fact it had taken so long for her to reach this conclusion meant she was right. Eve must have put something in the food. It was the only explanation.
‘Number Five will go to the chair or face the consequences.’
Rachel looked up at the nearest camera and for a moment she just stared into the lens, confused and disorientated and not too sure what was going on or where she was. And then she remembered. The chair. She was supposed to go to the chair. Rachel walked to the middle of the room and was about to sit down when Adam’s voice boomed around the basement again.
