The Cloned Identity (4 page)

“Are we looking for anything in particular, boss?” asked Mike.

“Yes, Mike, you are. I want you to search the gardens, dustbins, hedges.”

“What for, boss?” asked Mike, looking puzzled.

“The condom, Mike, the condom. He may have thrown it away as he left. Ask the neighbours – they may have found one in their front garden and disposed of it. Don't forget: be tactful. Condoms are still a mega embarrassment to some people.”

Mike nodded.

“What about me, boss?”

“You, Joe? I want you to stay in the office. We need to sort out what we have already. OK, I can't think of anything else, so let's start fresh in the morning.”

The meeting finished, and the three of them got up and juggled their way out of the office. Then my phone rang. I listened to the caller for a few minutes, then, putting the phone down, I shouted to Joe through the slowly closing door. He stuck his head round the door.

“That was the WPC at the hospital. The uncle, a Professor Edward Mark, has just turned up. Do we know anything about him?”

“Not a lot. Apparently he is some sort of egghead in research. Tolchester know him vaguely as there was some trouble at the lab where he works.”

“Trouble? What sort of trouble?” I asked.

“They do experiments on animals, and some of the locals object to that sort of thing.”

“Can you call in at the hospital on your way home and have a quick word with him. Usual stuff – when he last saw or heard from her.”

“Yes, it's not out of my way.”

“Don't forget to book it as overtime.”

“OK, boss.”

On the way down to the hospital, Joe thought back to the first time he had met DI Roger Watson. ‘He doesn't just have a chip on his shoulder – more like a bloody great oak tree. He certainly makes it painfully obvious that he doesn't want to be here. Mind you, when I heard through the grapevine what had happened to him I couldn't really blame him. His record spoke for itself, and I am certainly glad he is with us now.'

At the hospital Joe located the WPC and she pointed him in the right direction. He stopped at the door she had pointed out and knocked and entered. There were two men in the room. The one wearing the white coat was talking to a well-built man, probably in his late forties. He was certainly colourful, wearing a multicoloured sports jacket with a spotted handkerchief and matching cravat. His small-check shirt looked as though it had been put on without ironing. They stopped their conversation as Joe walked over to them, and, in answer to their enquiring look, he introduced himself and flashed his ID. Joe held his hand out to the chap in the white coat.

“Dr Moore?” he said as they shook hands.

“Yes, but how—?”

“Did I know your name? I read it on your badge,” Joe said, pointing to the name tag on his pocket.

He nodded and smiled.

Joe turned to the other man. “You must be Professor Mark.”

“Yes, that's right.”

He took Joe's hand and shook it vigorously. It struck Joe that he had very blue eyes.

Joe turned back to the Doctor and asked how Miss Wood was.

He told Joe there had been no change. “But, I was telling the Professor here, you can never tell in these cases,” he added. “She could wake in the next few minutes, or she could go on for a long time. There is no way of knowing.”

“I wonder, could I have a word with the Professor alone?”

“Yes, of course. I have work to do,” said the Doctor. As he was leaving, he turned and said, “If you need me any time, the sister at the desk can bleep me.”

They both nodded.

“Shall we sit down?” Joe suggested, pointing to the chairs. They both sat down opposite each other with a small square coffee table between them. Joe took out his notebook and received from him the nervous reaction he usually got whenever he did that, so Joe used his training to help him relax.

“Did you come by train?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” he replied. Then he went on to display how nervous he was feeling by rambling on about how he didn't enjoy driving any more, and how things had changed. He said how startled he was, when he left the station, by the volume of noise and traffic.

Joe smiled. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

After a few more minutes Joe soon had him ready. He opened his notebook.

“I would just like to ask you a few routine questions about your niece, if that's all right.”

“Yes; I will help you all I can.”

Joe smiled at him. They were old buddies now.

“When was the last time you saw your niece?”

“Let me see – that would be over a year ago. I came down to London for a lecture and we had dinner before I left.”

“Did she seem all right then?”

“Yes, she seemed very happy and talked enthusiastically about her work at the church. She even talked me into making a donation.” He smiled. “Made me write the cheque out on the spot, just in case I forgot when I got home.”

“Have you had any contact with her since?” Joe asked.

“I spoke to her on the phone about three weeks ago.”

“Why was that?” Joe asked.

He gave Joe a hard look.

“Oh, I don't mean to pry, but she could have phoned you because she was worried about something.”

He relaxed and smiled.

“No, nothing like that. I phoned her to thank her for my birthday card. She never forgets – Christmas as well.”

“How did she seem to you then?”

“Oh, the same as always. We chattered about the weather, state of the country, that sort of thing.”

“Does she ever visit you?”

“No, no. My work, you see, involves using animals and Susan doesn't approve.”

“Has she ever spoken to you of any problems relating to men?”

“Good God, no! Susan never looks at men in that way.”

“No boyfriends, then?”

“I shouldn't think so. It was her parents, you see. Her father, he was a very strict man. God help any boy who came near her! Not only that, but she saw how he treated her mother – her father used to beat his wife regularly ‘to cleanse her soul', as he put it. I don't know why she stayed with him so long. I begged Susan to leave home and start a life of her own, but she wouldn't leave her mother.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were both killed in a car crash some seven years ago. That was their house that Susan lives in now. Have you seen it?”

Joe nodded.

“She hasn't changed a thing. I think she keeps it like that to remind her how her mother suffered.” The Professor suddenly changed his mood, becoming more serious. He leant towards Joe. “Have you any idea who might have done this to her? I mean, why her, of all people?”

“No, we don't know who or why. As your niece is in a coma, we are working in the dark. We are collecting information and going through it, but it all takes time. If she wakes up, she can probably tell us who did it.”

“You think it was someone she knows?”

“That is a possibility,” Joe said; “but don't worry, Professor – we will catch him.”

He sat back in his chair. “You know, on my way down in the train I thought about that.”

“In what way?” Joe asked.

Sensing that the interview was finished, he closed his notebook.

“Well, the damage is done. Catching him – well, that won't help Susan. In fact, it could do her more harm. Her mind and body are already deeply scarred. Nothing can change that, but the added trauma of a court case, from what I've seen on TV and read in the papers, could be worse than the attack itself. I mean, how would that affect her?”

“I take your point, but suppose your niece could help us catch him, but didn't and he did it again – say, to a child. Suppose he killed his next victim. How would the knowledge that she could have prevented someone's death affect her? No, Professor, from what I've learnt about your niece, she would want him caught and put away.”

The Professor's head had dropped on to his chest as he listened to Joe's sermon.

“Are you staying locally?” Joe asked as a way of changing the subject.

“Yes, at the Wessex.” He perked up a bit.

“Yes, I know it – nice place.”

Joe got to his feet and the Professor followed his lead.

“I go right past there if you want a lift,” Joe offered.

“No, thank you. I want to stay on here for a bit.”

They shook hands, and Joe said, “Thank you for your help. It's been nice meeting you. I am sorry we had to meet in these circumstances. We will keep you informed, and I hope your niece recovers soon.”

He thanked Joe warmly and the Sergeant left the room.

On the way out he had a word with the WPC and looked at her notebook. Then he made his way home.

In the morning Joe reported his meeting to the DI over coffee in his office.

“You know, Joe, I've been going over Mel's report again, and there's no mention of them finding traces of semen anywhere in the house. Look – I am sure he would have carried on until he came; so there he is, wearing this rubber full of grunge, so what does he do? He takes it off. Now, you know as well as me that it's nearly impossible to get them off without some spillage or dribbling.”

“But he could have waited until he was outside the house, boss.”

“No, I don't think so. He wouldn't have risked it falling off down his leg. No, I reckon as soon as he got up off the bed he would have wanted to get rid of it.”

“He could have flushed it down the loo.”

“I don't think so, Joe. He would have wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, and you know it can be difficult to flush them – especially the packet. No, I reckon he took it with him and disposed of it somewhere else.”

Mid-morning saw the return of Mike and Jenkins. No, they hadn't had any luck. There was nothing to be found in the gardens or bins, and nobody was admitting to finding a condom. In fact, some of the people they asked didn't know what they were talking about – or so they said. However, word soon got round the nick, and by lunchtime a well-drawn cartoon had appeared on the noticeboard in the canteen, showing a picture of Mike with a condom on his head. The caption read, ‘Has anybody seen my condom?' That brought some laughs. Even Mike took it in good humour.

After lunch I told Mike to pull a few bodies in – anyone local with a history of sex assaults. “Give them a roasting and see if you can come up with anything.”

I asked Joe to follow me into my office and close the door. I told him what I had asked Mike to do. “That might convince the Chief we are doing something. Now, Joe, I am convinced it was someone she knew, so I want you to get a list of all the men she had contact with and run their names through the computer. See if you can come up with a suspect. Don't leave out anyone – milkman, butcher, postman, any repairmen. Check with the council – see if they have been doing any roadworks. Someone might have knocked on her door for a kettle of water. Check with the GPO. See if her telephone has been repaired lately.”

“OK, boss, I'll get on to it straight away.”

Joe got up and left. I sat back in my chair and clasped my hands behind my head. I was getting worried. We were getting nowhere. I could see the Chief calling in some help before long; then bang would go my chance of getting the credit. ‘Why doesn't that damn woman wake up!'

Chapter 4

The phone rang, and my hopes rose when the switchboard told me it was the WPC at the hospital. She came on the line and I listened to what she had to say. Then, flinging the phone back on its rest, I rose quickly and hurried out into the main office.

“Forget what you are doing, Joe. That was the hospital.”

“She's come round, boss?”

“No, I don't think so. The WPC says there's a row going on between the Doctor and the Professor. I think we had better get down there.”

On the way I asked Joe what he thought about the Professor.

We were soon in the Doctor's room, and Joe introduced me to a very flushed-looking doctor and a very calm professor. Formalities out of the way, I asked the Doctor what was going on.

“You'd better ask him,” he said with some anger, pointing to the Professor, who looked as if it was nothing to do with him. The Doctor carried on: “He wants to do some kind of experiment on his niece.”

I turned to look at the Professor and into his deep blue eyes. He held my look for a couple of minutes then looked away.

I turned back to the Doctor and asked if there was somewhere we could speak in private with the Professor.

“Oh, you can use my office. I've got rounds to do,” he replied, and he flapped out of the room.

I pulled a chair out and motioned for Joe and the Professor to do the same. When we were all seated I looked at the Professor again.

“So, Professor, what's it all about?” I asked, folding my arms.

The Professor looked at both of us then down at his hands, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he suddenly sat up straight and looked straight at me.

“Would it be possible to talk with you in private?” he asked.

“Look, Professor – anything you say about this case can be said in front of Joe.”

“Yes, I do understand that, and I didn't mean any disrespect to the Sergeant in any way, but I would like to get your views on what I've to say first. You may think it's nonsense – if that is the case, then there's no harm done, just a conversation between two people – but if I speak in front of the Sergeant, then I believe you will have to file a report, put it on record.”

“Yes, you are right, Professor.”

I sat and looked him straight in the eyes for a few minutes, looking for a sign – of what I didn't know. None the wiser, I broke off the eye contact, looked at Joe, and asked him if he could organise some tea. He looked at me and said he would, but I couldn't read anything from his face regarding what he thought of the situation.

I watched him get up and waited till the door closed behind him before turning to the Professor, shrugging my shoulders and saying, “OK, the ball's in your court.”

He looked at me for a second. “Now, what I have to say you might find hard to believe, but please hear me out before making a judgement.”

I nodded.

“My research – well, I think it could be used to help you catch this man.”

I sat up straight. “And just how could it do that?” I asked.

“Look, Inspector – what I tell you must be in confidence. You must not repeat it to anyone.”

“Well, I don't know if I can agree to that if it's evidence.”

“No, it's not evidence; it's more of a way of obtaining evidence. Look at it this way: if I could get you a picture of the man, would you need to know how I got it?”

“For Christ's sake, Professor! Are you saying you know who did it?”

“No, of course not – well, not yet, but I think I could get you a picture.”

“This getting a picture, it wouldn't be illegal by any chance?” I asked.

“No, I can promise it wouldn't be illegal – highly controversial maybe, but certainly not illegal.”

“So why the need for secrecy?”

“Because if news got out, then it could compromise my life's work and jeopardise my research. Therefore before I can help you I need your guarantees that you will not reveal my methods. What I am saying is that if I can give you the man's identity, then you will have to find other evidence to convict him. Anyway, I don't think anyone would believe you and I am not sure evidence obtained in this way would be admissible in court.” The Professor folded his arms and sat back in his chair, as if to say, “I've had my say; now it's up to you.”

I sat and looked at him for a while; then I said, “Look, Professor – before I agree to anything I will have to know more. There's a lot of people after my blood, and it would give them a lot of satisfaction to see me make a cock-up.”

It was now my turn to fold my arms and sit back. We sat there staring at each other, then the Professor unfolded his arms and relaxed his posture.

“OK, Inspector, I think I can trust you. I will give you a brief outline of my research; then I will tell you how I think it can help. For the last five years I have been researching the brain – especially the part of the brain relating to memory. Now, when man designed the computer he was trying not only to duplicate the human brain but also to improve on it. Man wanted to have two brains – one inside his head and one outside. Now, what would the advantage of that be? Well, if your computer were a copy of the cleverest brain in the world, then you might think that the person with the stupidest brain could benefit from using this computer; but it doesn't work like that, because the computer can only do what it is told to do. The stupid person wouldn't know what to ask or tell the computer. So I've been working on connecting the brain straight into a computer.”

“How does that benefit the stupid brain?” I asked to show he hadn't left me behind.

“Speed, Inspector. The keyboard is the biggest obstacle to human advancement in technology – it slows down; it obstructs through boredom. The human brain can process data faster than most computers, but the mechanical part of the human body stops the brain from reaching its full potential. Just think – if we could plug ourselves into a computer when we go to bed, in a couple of weeks we could probably put into our brains all the data that would normally take a lifetime to accumulate.” He looked at me, daring me to absorb all he had told me so far. Finding I had no questions he continued: “I've been working with chimpanzees. Their brain is very similar to our own, and I am at the stage where I can actually retrieve data from and add data to the chimp's brain.”

“You mean you can actually talk directly to the animal's brain, even though the animal can't talk!” I tried not to sound too sceptical, but he didn't seem to notice.

“‘Talk', Inspector, is probably not the right word; ‘communicate' is a better word. You see, the brain works on electrical impulses, and – guess what, if you didn't already know? – so does a computer, and there lies the secret of my success. I have developed software that enables a computer to analyse the brain's electrical impulses so we can understand them. Not only that, but it can convert new data which I put into the computer into impulses that the brain can understand.”

“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed. “And you can do all this already?”

He nodded with a smile.

“Oh, wait a minute, Professor – you said you have been working with animals. Have you – have you tried it out on humans yet?”

“No, but I can't see there would be any problems. I have compared the brain patterns of humans and chimps and can see no difficulties.”

“So how does this help us with Miss Wood?” I asked.

“You remember I told you I had been working on the memory?”

I nodded.

“Well, I have read the report on how Susan was attacked and I think it's fairly certain she would have seen her attacker. If she did, then his face has been stored away in her memory for ever. Even if Susan can't recall it, it would be there.”

“Professor, why wouldn't she be able to recall it if, as you say, it's there for ever?”

“The brain is a very complex organ. It is very protective and it tends to store unpleasant things away from direct access. Victims of assaults often can't remember being attacked; drivers often can't remember what happened just before a crash. It's usually put down as a mental blackout, but I believe it's the brain's way of protecting itself from something unpleasant. Imagine the memory section of the brain being like the shelves in a shop. Nice memories are stored on the shelves near to you; nasty memories are stored on the top shelves out of your reach, but they are still there. Another similarity between the brain and its counterpart the computer: if you input into your computer the fingerprints of a suspect, the computer searches through the data in its memory for a match; your brain works in the same way. Sometimes you see a face, but you can't put a name to it; then some time later it suddenly comes to you. Well, from the first sighting of the face your brain has been working, sorting through your memory data to match the face to a name.”

‘Christ!' I thought. ‘This man makes so much sense it's frightening.'

“Now, if Susan were to suddenly wake up, it's possible she wouldn't want to remember such a traumatic event; there's no guarantee you would get the information you require, although we believe it exists somewhere in her memory. By using my method we could gain direct access to the information.”

“You mean even now – while she's still in a coma?”

“Yes – especially while she is in a coma.”

“Why exactly do you say that, Professor? Couldn't you obtain the information if she was awake?”

“Yes, of course. The state of the body is immaterial, but she might not consent to the – operation.”

I sat there thinking for a minute.

“Professor, are you saying that, as her next of kin, you would give permission for the operation – experiment – even though you know she might not give that permission if she were awake?”

He nodded slowly.

“Look, Professor – you have got me worried. You are either very sure of yourself or a complete nutter. I am not convinced by what you've told me so far – not convinced at all.”

“Very well, Inspector, I will try to convince you.”

Why did I get the impression that he was actually enjoying watching me struggle to come to terms with what he was telling me? I somehow knew what he had told me was right, but I was having trouble admitting it to myself.

“Now, Inspector, as I have already said, the computer is a product of man. Man used his brain to produce a machine which can increase mankind's capabilities; that machine works in basically the same way as the brain. The main difference between the brain and a computer is accessibility. A brain can hold far more data than most computers, but we can't always access it. When we program a computer, it can takes days, months, years. Why? Because we are limited by the mechanics of the human body. When we see how fast a computer can process a complex calculation we are amazed, but our brain could probably work at the same speed if it wasn't restricted by our body. Now, when a computer produces a picture on its screen, it does so by arranging thousands of dots. Each one of those dots has its own electrical pulse, which identifies its shade, or colour; then the computer uses its memory to position it in the correct place on the screen. The computer has a data store – memory – just as the brain has.”

“That's all very interesting, Professor, but how does that help us in this situation?”

“I am coming to that. Be patient. The software I have produced is a vast data store, which enables the computer to identify shapes, colours and sounds from their electrical pulse. Somewhere in Susan's brain is stored a set of pulses which, if accessed, would form a picture of the man that attacked her. Now, if she wakes up, she may be able to access the information and give you a description; but if the brain has buried the data, she may not immediately be able to remember. Later, when the trauma of the event has decreased, she may recall it, but that could take years. On the other hand, Inspector, I could possibility give you that information in a matter of days.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms, which was his way of saying, “Over to you.”

I looked at him for a while.

“OK, Professor, I am in no doubt that you could do what you say, but I have two questions. Firstly, how do you make the connection to the computer? Secondly, how, when you have established the connection, do you locate the correct data? I mean, I am sure I've read somewhere that the brain stores a person's entire life and—”

The Professor held up his hand to stop me carrying on. “Let me answer your questions. The connection is made using a thin needle probe. The probe is hollow and filled with miniature transducers. It is pushed through the skull into the brain.”

He must have seen the way I cringed as he said that.

“Don't look so worried, Inspector. The brain doesn't feel any pain. You are quite right – the brain is very complex, but we only need to work in a very small part of it, and locating the correct data is not as difficult as you might think. During my research I found a definite difference between traumatic and calm memories. Here – I can show you best with a diagram.” He took a notebook from an inside pocket of his jacket and opened it at a blank page. He found a pen in another pocket. “If we show an event in the shape of a wave, a calm event shows up in the memory as a nice gentle wave across the page, like this.” He drew a gentle wave across the page. “A traumatic event would be, in contrast, like this.” He drew a series of lines straight up and down across the page. The two are as different as classical music and rock music, and the computer can be programmed to recognise the differences.”

I interrupted him with a question which had suddenly come to me: “What if there is more than one traumatic area? How will you know which one to access?”

I sat back in my chair, arms folded, and thought, ‘Get out of that one!'