Fifty Fifty (Detective Harriet Blue #2)(15)

‘The internet,’ Kash said.

‘Surely people send up red flags with your agency when they search for stuff like that,’ I said.

‘If every teenage boy in the country who ever searched for how to blow something up earned a file with ASIO, the department would cease to be operational.’ Kash was eyeing Snale now as she drank her wine. ‘We don’t identify terrorists by their Google searches. That’s amateur hour.’

‘Let’s get all the IP addresses in town anyway.’ I made a note. ‘Check everyone’s internet activity.’

‘Why Soupy?’ Snale’s lip quivered. She sipped her wine to cover it. ‘Why pick him? He was an absolute doll. Someone’s pacing back and forth. They’ve got him taped to a chair with a bomb between his legs. Facing the town. It’s a good view from up there. You can see everybody. All the houses.’

‘Everybody can see you, too,’ I said.

‘It’s very … showy,’ Snale said. ‘A demonstration. Either for Theo or for us, down here. A spectacle. Only the timing wasn’t great. No one awake to see it. Was it a practice shot? Or was Theo the audience – was he supposed to see the town spread out before him just before he died?’

I liked Snale’s musings. I wanted her to continue, but Kash spoke up.

‘Look, I don’t mean to interrupt. But are we going to be making drinking a part of our ongoing investigative practice? Or is this a one-off drinking session?’

Snale and I looked at each other.

‘Don’t get me wrong. You’ve both had interesting lines of inquiry so far. But we’re shooting the breeze about this case over a bottle of red in a dining room like a bunch of old ladies.’

‘Would you like to move to the garage?’ I snorted. ‘Should we appoint a chairman? Let me guess. It should be you.’

‘ There is a violent terrorist in this town.’ Kash took the diary from in front of me and waved it in my face. ‘Is the seriousness of the situation escaping you?’

‘We are taking it seriously,’ Snale huffed. ‘We’re just cooling off, that’s all. It’s been a long day. I had to go tell a woman her husband was blown to pieces all over a hillside today.’

‘Well, I’m sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I’m just not on the same page as you two. When I was on assignment gathering intel in Afghanistan, I was seeing guys being blown to pieces all over hillsides every day. And it only toughened my resolve. I think we shouldn’t drink on the job.’ He got up and traipsed away into the living room. I let my eyes wander to the shell-shocked Sergeant Snale.

‘That was hilarious.’ I took a sip. ‘I think my wine actually tastes better now.’

‘Let’s look through this diary.’ She pulled the book towards her. ‘We’re going to catch this killer, with or without him.’





Chapter 20


MY SLEEP WAS thin. The diary had disturbed me deeply. There was a detailed profile of Seung-Hui Cho, the Virginia Tech shooter, who’d killed thirty-two people on campus in Blacksburg. Once again, the diarist had listed the elements of Cho’s massacre plan they seemed to find useful for their study.

Chained doors, trapping victims.

Made detailed manifesto video, so reasons would be known.

Low personal profile, maintained non-threatening reputation before attack.



Cho had acted out of a seething rage, making a rambling video manifesto while kitted up for the massacre. His cap turned backwards, the sullen, dark-eyed young man talked about a fiery demise for his enemies. I lay in the dark, his words bouncing around my brain, visions of his victims running for their lives flashing against the backs of my eyelids.

I was starting to get a mental picture of the diarist. If he or she had decided these were the attributes of a successful killer, then surely they’d be putting these behaviours into place in the lead-up to their own plan, whatever it was. They’d be maintaining a low profile, keeping quiet and resisting the temptation to bring collaborators in on their mission. They’d be trying to obtain weapons without raising any eyebrows. It wouldn’t be hard out here. Every farmer in the town would have a gun. It would only be a matter of amassing them on or just before the day, once the killer had worked out where they could all be found.

I tried to tell myself to sleep. Without sleep, I’d never catch this guy. I was drifting in and out when the sound of grunting broke through my consciousness. I thought at first it was the pig. I climbed off the end of the bed and went to the porch screen door. Kash was out there in the barren dirt yard, a barely visible black streak against the rise of the distant ridge. I pushed open the door, still mussed from sleep. He was shirtless. A rippling, sweat-glistening torso lit up as I switched on the backyard light.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

He was jogging back from the end of the property. He ignored me, dropped and did ten seamless, perfect push-ups. The muscles in his triceps looked surgically carved.

‘Are you nuts?’ I continued. ‘It’s … What time is it?’

‘It’s two am.’

‘Why are you working out at two in the morning?’

‘If you want to bring down the enemy, you’ve got to think like the enemy,’ he said. He’d huffed rhythmically through ten jumping jacks, dropped for more push-ups. ‘Think, act, live like them. This is a classic training regime used by the Taliban for their frontline fighters. They conduct sessions at early morning hours to train the brain out of its circadian rhythm. They can eat, sleep and access high levels of physical energy whenever they need to.’