Game Theory

by Barry Jonsberg

  This time Ms Abbott got to her feet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but you know I cannot answer a question like that unless it’s to the police. I’d really like to help, Jamie, but unless there’s something else I think it might be better if you left.’ ‘I appreciate your help and concern,’ I said but if she spotted the sarcasm she gave no indication.

  Ms Abbott personally escorted me to the front of the store as if she couldn’t relax until I was gone. She watched me all the way out through the sliding doors. I could tell from the itch beneath my shoulder blades.

  I could only breathe properly when I’d turned a corner and the supermarket was out of sight.

  I met up with Gutless at the small cafe we’d occasionally visit after school. It’s a really bad cafe, the sort of place where choosing from the menu feels like a game of Russian roulette with food poisoning. Anyway, that’s one of the reasons we like it so much – it’s not often that eating becomes a high-risk activity. Gutless was already there and had ordered a couple of plates of chips and gravy. He was most of the way through his. I sat opposite and pushed my plate towards him.

  ‘That fuckin’ relief teacher, man,’ said Gutless. ‘What a wanker. Some kid near the door told me it was you outside, that you wanted to see me and I’m like, why didn’t you let me know – to the relief teacher – and he’s like get on with your work and I’m like, fuck this shit, I’m outta here, so I go and he’s like, I’m reporting this and I’m like . . .’

  ‘Gutless,’ I said. ‘I need to talk to you. I don’t need you to talk. Just listen, okay?’

  He put a chip into his mouth and shrugged.

  I told him about Phoebe. Some people, I realised, must have known already. Word from supermarket staff would have got around, and there were those posters that Mum had put up, though maybe the lack of news might have led some to believe she’d been found, that the drama had been resolved. Or maybe people just forget. Isn’t that what I always did? If it wasn’t in the news, then it floated away into oblivion. We all have busy lives. Other people’s problems simply dissolve into the relentless flow of time.

  Gutless listened, his mouth open, one half-chewed chip resting on a back tooth, and it was obvious from his reaction that he hadn’t had a clue. Video games, let’s be honest, rarely allow the real world to penetrate.

  ‘Fuck, man,’ he said when I’d brought him totally up to date.

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Gutless,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a few ideas I want to run by you. Detective Moss – one of the cops I was telling you about – asked my family to draw up a list of people who might be behind this. You know, people with a possible grudge.’

  Gutless nodded and closed his mouth. I was pleased. That chip was getting on my nerves.

  ‘I want to apply game theory to the problem,’ I continued. ‘But game theory works much better when you have some idea of the other players in the game. You know, their personalities and how that might affect their decision-making.’ Gutless nodded again. ‘Okay,’ I continued. ‘I’m gonna throw out a few thoughts. Just listen, all right, and tell me if anything I say sounds right or wrong or just plain weird or stupid.’

  Gutless started on my plate of chips.

  ‘It’s important to know whether the kidnapper is working alone or if he or she has an accomplice,’ I said. Gutless opened his mouth, but I beat him to it. ‘Because if he is working alone, then I can rule out the people with me when he made a call.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like Mum and Dad, Summerlee and a few of the cops.’

  ‘Whoa, man.’ Gutless dropped a chip back onto the plate. ‘You serious? Your Mum and Dad? Summerlee, for fuck’s sake? You think she’s extorting cash from herself? That’s fucked-up thinking, man. True.’

  ‘Just because it’s unlikely, doesn’t mean I should rule it out,’ I replied.

  ‘But your Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Both have motive. They’ve spent eighteen years bringing up Summer and she doesn’t give them a cent from her winnings. Can you imagine the resentment? And who better to kidnap Phoebe? She’d be looked after, loved. And she’d have gone with either of them from that supermarket without thinking twice.’

  ‘You’re fucked up, man.’

  I took a chip from the plate. It was cold and greasy.

  ‘I know, Gutless. Trust me, I know.’ I had to swallow hard to get the chip down. ‘But I’ve ruled them out. And Summer. Partly because I think the kidnapper is acting alone – two million dollars is shitloads, but if you start splitting it, it might not be worth the risk.’

  ‘Still a million each if there’s two of them.’

  ‘In which case, they would’ve asked for four. No, I think it’s just one person. Plus, Mum and Dad are not great actors. There’s all sorts of shit going down at home and they can’t hide their feelings. Mum thinks Dad is useless and Dad kinda agrees, but resents Mum for making it plain. No. They couldn’t hide this. And you’re right about Summer. It’s not like she has any kind of motive.’

  Gutless was looking at me as if I’d lost my senses. I tried to ignore him and continue my train of thought. ‘So, if it’s one person acting alone, that would also rule out Gardner and Moss, because they listened in to a phone call. But it doesn’t necessarily rule out every cop, like Dixon, the one who first interviewed me. Or the female officer who stayed with me in the supermarket. In fact, she brought up Summer’s win on the lotto.’

  ‘You think the cops could be involved?’ Gutless clearly felt I was moving further and further from reality, which is ironic for someone who spends his entire life in computer games.

  ‘The police crave money, like everyone else.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  ‘Then there’s Spider,’ I said. ‘True, he’s with Summer and she bought him a car, but that doesn’t mean he’s got access to all of her cash. Maybe he wants to start his own drug cartel, needs a little seed money.’

  ‘You hate Spider, man. You could be biased.’

  ‘That’s for sure. And anyway, I don’t think he has the brains for this. Most of the time, he’s stoned out of his head. Unless that’s just an act . . .’

  Gutless shook his head and took another handful of chips.

  ‘I’m thinking Mr Monkhouse could also be a suspect,’ I said. Gutless choked and spluttered a mouthful of half-chewed chips across the table. When he’d recovered, I told him about Monkhouse’s ‘sickness’, our phone conversation and what I’d witnessed at his house.

  ‘Yeah, but that don’t mean shit. I mean, c’mon, man. You can’t be serious . . .’

  ‘He has the brains, all right,’ I continued. ‘He’s the smartest person I’ve ever known. And everyone knows teachers get paid peanuts. In fact, he mentioned that himself when he asked about Summerlee. Said it would take a teacher a hundred years to earn that kind of cash. Said it just before Phoebe was taken.’

  ‘Yeah, but he wouldn’t’ve if he’d been planning to do it, man. Come on. He’s smart. Your words.’

  ‘Maybe that’s exactly what a smart person would say. Throw off suspicion because no one would expect a guilty person to say that.’

  Gutless took a swig of Coke, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and muttered something. I think it was, ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  ‘And then there’s Ms Abbott,’ I said.

  This time, Gutless nearly lost it.

  ‘Who da FUCK is Ms Abbott?’

  The cafe went silent. Actually, I think the cafe had always been silent because only one other table was occupied. Nonetheless, we had the full attention of a guy with a grizzled beard and a bacon sandwich. The owner of the cafe moved towards us, a dirty tea towel slung over his left shoulder.

  ‘You watch your language, you kids,’ he growled, ‘or you will leave. I won’t put up with that kind of talk in my restaurant.’

  Gutless raised both hands in the air. ‘Sorry, dude,’ he said. ‘Won’t happen again. We love your restaurant.’ He winked a
t me.

  The owner regarded us for a moment and then moved back to his counter. ‘Fucking kids,’ he muttered at the guy with the bacon sandwich, who nodded and took another bite. It was the closest I’d come to laughing since Phoebe had disappeared. I leaned towards Gutless.

  ‘The manager of the supermarket,’ I whispered. ‘The one Summer gave such a hard time to. Think about it, Gutless. That woman was humiliated in front of everyone. Wouldn’t you want payback? And it’s more likely Phoebe would leave with a woman – a woman who knows the back entrances and how to avoid surveillance cameras. I went to see her and asked for information. She was tighter than a duck’s arsehole and it was obvious she hadn’t forgiven Summer for what happened.’

  ‘How about it’s someone you don’t know?’ said Gutless. ‘You think of that? Your sister’s lotto win was plastered all over the news. Hell, man. It could be anyone, probably a complete stranger.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘In which case all of this is a waste of time. But that is something I have no control over. If it is someone who knows me, then it’d be criminal not to at least think through the possibilities.’

  The proverbial light bulb appeared over Gutless’s head. It was disarming in a way. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He was never very good at hiding what he was thinking.

  ‘That means you thought I could’ve done it,’ he whispered. ‘Shit, Jamie. You had me down as a suspect as well?’

  I smiled. Inwardly, at least. Yeah, I’d thought about Gutless. Of course I had. But unless he had spent the last five years carefully building up a persona to fool the world on the off-chance someone who knew him would win the lotto, then I could discount him. Where would he keep Phoebe? In his bedroom? She’d sneak out while he was blowing someone’s head off on his computer and probably wouldn’t notice she’d gone for a couple of hours. Anyway, I knew Gutless. There wasn’t a bad bone in his body. Or that many brains in his head. I opened my mouth to tell him just that – minus the brain part – but I didn’t get the chance.

  My phone rang. Caller unknown.

  CHAPTER 17

  I scrambled from my seat, knocking it over in the process, and bolted out the door. I heard the cafe owner’s voice raised in anger behind me. I thumbed the screen.

  ‘Yes?’

  The heavy, portentous silence. And then the computer-generated voice.

  ‘Are you alone, Jamie?’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean, someone will probably be joining me in a minute or two. But I am now. Alone, I mean. And I’ll tell him to go away, okay?

  The velvet silence.

  ‘Calm down, Jamie. That’s fine. I won’t hang up. Is it Gutless?’

  ‘Yes.’ I stopped. My brain was not at its sharpest. It took a few seconds for me to process even basic things. I thought of Monkhouse. ‘How do you know about Gutless?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I know, Jamie. Think. Elementary research. Would I take your sister without careful research and planning?’

  It was disorientating, the posing of a question without the accompanying inflection. I tried to get past the monotone delivery to find some trace of personality. Something I might recognise.

  ‘I am a professional. Never forget that.’

  The door to the cafe opened and Gutless emerged, blinking, into the sunshine. I held up one hand in the stop position and kept the phone raised, but away from my mouth.

  ‘Gutless,’ I shouted. ‘This is an important call. Wait for me here, okay? I’ll come back for you.’

  Gutless was mouthing something at me. I think it was Is that him? But I was already walking down the road. After thirty metres I put the phone back to my ear.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m back.’

  ‘Did you ever wonder why I am dealing with you and not your sister, Jamie? After all, she’s the one with the obese bank account. Did that thought cross your mind?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You think I am smarter than her and that appeals to you. You think this is a game and you want a worthy opponent. You know me. Personally. We’ve talked in the past.’ Game theory might be more difficult when dealing with an unknown opponent, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try to disorientate and confuse with unexpected information. If I’d hit on the truth, would it elicit some response? The problem was identifying whether I’d hit a nerve when the words coming back were so robotic.

  ‘Are you into mathematics?’ I added.

  A pause.

  ‘Mathematics? No. I am not like you or Mr Monkhouse. However, I can count up to two million and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Always a possibility.’ Silence. ‘How about some homespun philosophy, Jamie? Life is unfair. Your sister won an enormous amount of money. Not earned. Won. And yet, at the risk of offending your sensibilities, she is nothing more than a slut.’ Process this, Jamie, I thought. He is intelligent. He likes the juxtaposition of articulate vocabulary like ‘sensibilities’ with slang like ‘slut’. Does it help? Look for a fissure in his personality and maybe you can insert a knife blade and prise it open, reveal his identity. Concentrate. His words are your only resource.

  ‘No comment,’ I said.

  ‘She is someone who will not willingly part with her winnings, so you might have to do some persuading, Jamie.’ Another small clue. He might know a lot about my family, but he didn’t know everything. Whatever else Summerlee was, she loved Phoebe with every fibre of her being. She’d pay and count it a bargain.

  The voice continued. ‘Tell her she should look at it like another person came up with her numbers and it’s simply another form of sharing. Who knows, Jamie? Removing two million from the equation might mean she won’t kill herself quite as fast.’

  Was the word ‘equation’ a taunt?

  ‘Let me speak to Phoebe,’ I said.

  ‘No. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘How long does this have to go on? Let’s finish our business. I get Phoebe back, you get your money. Why wait?’

  The curtain of silence was drawn once more.

  ‘There’s no point rushing.’ The words were carefully enunciated. ‘We must be careful that we both come out winners. I know it’s hard, but Phoebe is well looked after. Trust me on this, if only because you don’t have a choice.’

  ‘At least can we talk about when you want the money? That needs organisation. You can’t simply walk into a bank and draw out two million dollars in cash. It’ll take time.’

  ‘Actually, you can just draw out two million. It’s a bank. It’s your money. But yes, it might take some time. Get onto that straight away. The police might be useful in that regard. They’ll be able to pull strings, exert pressure. Tell them when you ring after we’ve hung up.’

  He was fond of throwing in the occasional remark designed to make me think he knew my every move. Was that arrogance, or a tactic designed to unsettle? Arrogance is often a weakness. Something else to file away.

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll call you soon. Maybe you’ll get the chance to talk to Phoebe, though I am not promising anything.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  A slight pause.

  ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘How did you get Phoebe to leave that supermarket with you?’ The question had been bubbling ever since her disappearance. My sister wasn’t dumb – she was a long way from dumb – and she would never leave with a total stranger. She’d had the stranger-danger sermon at home and at school on countless occasions. It was the main reason why I felt he wasn’t a stranger. But even then, she wouldn’t go without telling me. It wasn’t in her nature. Yet the two of them must have left, avoiding security cameras, and got into a car. And no one had raised an eyebrow because it must have appeared entirely normal. He couldn’t have been holding a weapon, because there were too many people about. And that meant, until she was in the car, there were plenty of opportunities to raise the alarm or show distress or simply run screaming. But Phoebe must have gone without fuss. In some way she must
have been complicit in her own abduction.

  ‘Do you have any theories?’ Again, the question that didn’t sound like a question.

  ‘She’s met you before.’

  ‘Still harping on that, Jamie? No. She had never seen me before. The truth is, everyone has their weakness. We are all capable of doing things that seem entirely out of character if that weakness can be found and exploited. That’s all I did. I used Phoebe’s weakness.’

  I kept quiet. He wanted me to ask but I knew he’d tell me anyway. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

  ‘Phoebe’s weakness is you, Jamie. That is both wonderful and tragic. I approached her in one of the aisles, the aisle where the trolley was found. I told her that her name was Phoebe Delaware and that her brother Jamie was in the supermarket. I also told her – no, I promised her – that unless she did exactly what she was told, her brother would die. She looked me straight in the eyes and she believed me, Jamie.’

  It was a lie. I knew it was a lie. Or maybe I wanted to believe that. Either way, I found it difficult to breathe. There was a hard constriction in my throat, blocking off air. Later I found my right hand was curled so hard that my fingernails had left crescent-shaped gouges in my palm. Suddenly, I needed to sit down. The voice continued, unemotional and relentless.

  ‘She is remarkable. She walked out of that place, at my side, and didn’t give one indication that there was anything out of the ordinary. Nobody would have been able to tell I wasn’t her mother or her sister.’

  Another lie. A deliberate attempt to confuse. He wouldn’t make a mistake like that, not after going to all the trouble to make sure his voice couldn’t be identified, even to gender. It seemed more likely to me that a man would be so devious and arrogant at the same time. Or was I deceiving myself? In the end, it probably didn’t matter.

  Regardless of whether he was male or female, I could kill this person. That was a cold certainty in my gut.

  The phone went dead.

  CHAPTER 18

  Gutless bombarded me with questions, but I didn’t answer.