13
* * *
EVERYONE IN THE STREET
‘We’ve got a match on Greenwood’s client.’ May came through the hole where the door should have been with an air of triumph.
Bryant was taking tea with two of the workmen who had set up a primus stove in the hall to make their own refreshments. ‘Ah, so what’s the score with your cuckold?’ he asked. The carpenters looked at May with fresh interest. They clearly enjoyed chatting with Bryant, and had settled in so comfortably that May suspected they were hoping to drag out the work until Christmas.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t call him that,’ snapped May, uncomfortable at having to discuss his private affairs in front of strangers. Such openness never bothered Bryant, who always behaved as if there was no one else in the room.
‘I’m sorry, the situation intrigues me, that’s all. You know how unlucky I’ve been in my own romantic affairs.’
‘Oh, come on, it hasn’t been all bad. There was that girl in 1968.’
‘Exactly. The only person in London who didn’t have sex in 1968 was my Uncle Walter, and that was because he was in an iron lung. The trouble is, I’ve spent too much time on my own. I suspect I’ve started to behave abnormally.’
‘Not at all. You’ve always been horrible to people.’
‘That’s very hurtful,’ Bryant complained, attempting an empathetic response. ‘Do you have any idea how alone you can feel when you think differently from everyone else? You can be as alone as—that cat.’ He pointed to Crippen, who was sitting with his back to them, staring intently at a spot on the skirting board. ‘Look at it. There’s nothing happening in its head at all except for a vague idea about fish and radiators. It’s probably been neutered and has lost the will to live. No wonder we relate. Don’t talk to me about romance. Let’s see what your gizmos have managed to come up with.’
May waited until the listless workmen had taken their leave, then called in Dan Banbury to explain the process to his partner.
‘OK, the Bluetooth images are fairly low-res, given the poor light,’ Banbury pointed out, tapping his computer screen. ‘But the unique thing about the phone is that it takes micro-sequential shots from three separate angles. Of course the electronic images are constructed of code translated into pixels, so they can be translated back using a different program that fills in perception gaps. From here it’s a simple matter to wire-frame a 3-D image, plugging the missing pixels with similar textures and colours taken from surrounding surfaces to give a fully fleshed shape. This means that the chances of finding a file match are multiplied a hundred times over, because we can run database checks from almost any angle.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ warned Bryant, ‘but go on, it’s terribly interesting.’
‘I ran the shots against everyone entered in the system with a visual reference—that includes Index Offenders, people who have been put into the mental-health system, as well as standard AMIP files, SPECRIM reports and central Met database convictions. The problem with the system—’
‘I knew there had to be one,’ Bryant grumbled.
‘—is that we’re only dealing with priors, naturally,’ Banbury continued. ‘The software hasn’t been invented yet that can finger someone before they’ve committed a crime. I’m not Cassandra.’ He gave a shrill laugh. Bryant looked at him as if he was mad. Banbury coughed awkwardly, then punched up a file on his screen. ‘But we did come up with a match. Here’s your man. Jackson Ubeda, aged fifty-one, three priors for fraud and intent to deceive, couple of B and Es, one grievous bodily harm, likes thumping people and rather fond of bankruptcy, usually disappears owing a small fortune to investors. No reason why your academic—’
‘Gareth Greenwood.’
‘—Greenwood, would know any of this, although a couple of the financial papers have run steer-clears on him in the past.’
‘So what does this fellow want with an expert on underground rivers?’ Bryant wondered, shifting closer to the computer.
‘That’s our job to find out.’ May steered Bryant’s hovering hand away from the keyboard.
‘It’s OK, Mr May,’ Banbury smiled. ‘The equipment is drool-proof.’
‘How dare you,’ said Bryant, affronted.
‘He means even you can’t damage it,’ May explained. ‘Longbright is keeping the Met off our backs by helping them with the Camden bin-bag killer, which means that Bimsley and I are free to go back to the Clerkenwell site this evening for a nose around. We’re waiting for a premises code, but the fire officers can argue that the blocked alley is a health hazard if we have to sort it out quickly.’