Game Theory (28 page)

It doesn't, but I sense that time has passed when I next come to. There is a strange ringing in my ears and now the pain has become localised. A crashing thumping at the back of my skull, so intense I involuntarily retch. But even that is infinitely better than the other pain I remember. At least I have some part of my mind that can consider alternative things. I am aware, though I keep my eyes closed. I know that I'm lying on my side and that the ground is cold and hard. There is something tied around my wrists and it's biting into my flesh. I wait for a few minutes and
the pain eases, though not by much. I try to move my hands, but they're bound tightly. I listen. There is nothing but the pulse of blood in my ears. I make a conscious effort to open my eyes. The lids are sticky, gummed, and they make a faint ripping sound as they part.

There is very little light, and I'm grateful. I see a wall a metre or so in front of my face and it is familiar somehow, a thing I have seen, a feature imprinted on my memory. The pattern of bricks strikes a chord. And then it comes back. The wall in Phoebe's video. The wall that formed the backdrop to her message and the self-conscious parading of the local newspaper. She was here. But she is not here now. I do not have the energy to roll over, but I don't need to. I know I am alone. I can feel it in the air. So I close my eyes again. This time I sleep, rather than pass out. I sense my body needs this to recover, so I don't fight it. Everything else must wait.

‘
Jamie? Are you with me?'

The voice comes from a long way away, but it is insistent. I try to ignore it for as long as possible, but it won't leave me alone. Fragments of memory return and it's as if I'm piecing myself together, establishing a sense of who I am and what the immediate past has revealed. Phoebe. The kidnapper. The rendezvous. The money. The gun. And urgency overwhelms pain, which has subsided anyway to a lump of fire at the base of my skull.

I open my eyes. My vision is blurred. There is light now. I feel
tears run down my cheeks and they must help because I find a focus. I'm aware that I am sitting at a table and that there is a man sitting opposite. It takes a few seconds for his features to stop swimming.

For one absurd moment I am filled with elation. I see the salt-and-pepper moustache, the heavy jowls, and hear the hiss of air between teeth. He raises a hand and takes a drag on his cigarette. In that moment I feel safe. And then it all crashes down.

‘Dixon,' I say.

He nods and takes another drag.

‘How are you feeling, Jamie?'

I don't bother answering.

‘You,' I finally croak. My throat feels like it's lined with sandpaper.

‘Yes.'

I close my eyes again. I would shake my head to clear it, but I can't risk the pain. I listen to him sucking his teeth. Part of me is filled with surprise and horror. Another part isn't.

‘I've brought you some water,' he says. ‘And a couple of painkillers. I imagine you could do with them.'

‘Where's Phoebe?' I ask.

‘Safe. I promised I would do her no harm and I keep my word.' I open my eyes. In front of me, on the table, is a glass of water and two white lozenges. The glass is beaded with condensation. I do not want to take anything from him, but my throat is parched and the pain in my skull is insistent. Dixon pushes the glass
towards me and I'm forced to use both hands to lift it. A black cable tie binds my wrist. I take a long drink and the water is cool. I don't think I have ever tasted anything so beautiful. I replace the glass and pick up both capsules, raise them to my lips. Then I take the glass again and wash them down. It's probably psychosomatic, but the pain in my head eases almost immediately. I place the glass down carefully on the table. Already I am thinking it might be useful as a weapon, but almost as soon as the idea crosses my mind I discard it. This isn't game theory. It's Game Over.

‘I want to see her,' I say.

‘Of course you do,' says Dixon. ‘And I'll bring her to you very soon. But first, we need to talk, you and me.'

‘Are you going to kill us?' I say.

Dixon raises an eyebrow, lifts his cigarette to his lips, takes a final drag and crushes the butt into an ashtray.

‘Why would I do that?'

‘You knocked me out, back there in the industrial site,' I say. ‘Why would you do that, if you were just going to let me go? What's the point, when I had the money and all that needed to be done was to exchange? You must have been sure by then that I had come alone. The violence was unnecessary.'

Dixon leans back in his chair and examines me. He strokes his moustache very slowly.

‘You brought the violence on yourself, Jamie,' he says. ‘Since when was it part of our deal that you come along to our little meeting armed?' He smiles and takes out my gun from beneath
the table, places it next to his ashtray. ‘I must admit, I wasn't expecting that. In fact, throughout our game you have been full of little surprises. But the gun changed things fundamentally. Do you want to know how all this was
supposed
to pan out?'

I nod and it isn't too painful.

‘It was never my intention to bring Phoebe along to our rendezvous. I needed her as insurance, in case things went pear-shaped. What was supposed to happen was that you handed over the money. In return, I tied you up, possibly to that metal staircase. Then I would drive to where I have transport arranged to get out of Australia. Just before I left – maybe just
after
I left; planes aren't part of my escape strategy – I was going to ring the authorities, give them two locations where they would find Jamie and Phoebe Delaware, both of them unharmed. You know game theory, Jamie. Was that a sensible plan?'

I watch Dixon. He is enjoying himself. I suspect he always anticipated this meeting, where he lays out his strategies, shows me how thoroughly he out-thought and out-manoeuvred me. He still wants my applause, my congratulations on a game well played. Two players chatting about how the checkmate was inevitable from move thirty-one. An amicable analysis. This might be of use, but I can't think how.

‘It makes sense,' I say.

He nods as if pleased by my acknowledgement.

‘But you threw me a curve ball,' he continues. ‘The gun. Dangerous things, guns. Unpredictable.'

He smiles.

‘I followed you from the moment you left home, Jamie,' he says. ‘I had already secured the meeting point. No one ever goes there, except for the occasional drug addict. And, of course, I knew that you hadn't told Gardner about our conversation. In this situation it's very useful to be a police officer. You have access to all sorts of information.'

‘Like the green Commodore and the children's clothing?'

‘Exactly.' He smiles. ‘It was almost like cheating. But a game player must use every advantage at his disposal, wouldn't you agree? And the gossip in police investigations is quite shocking. All you need to do is keep your ears open in the station, maybe ask the occasional pertinent question. Of course, the media coverage helped as well.'

‘So how exactly did you know that I hadn't told Gardner about our meeting? That's not something that would come out in gossip.'

Dixon taps the table impatiently.

‘Think, Jamie.' His tone is one adopted by a teacher impatient at an obtuse student. ‘Gardner had everything in place. Special Forces were on standby. All of the arrangements, all of the paperwork . . . all done. The only thing missing was the command to go. To deploy to the location. Therefore, he was still waiting to find out where. But you knew somewhere around four o'clock when you got the last phone call. It isn't difficult to work out.'

‘You were with me when I got that call.'

Dixon grins, immensely pleased with himself.

‘I know. It was probably unnecessary, but I couldn't resist. You rang me asking for a meeting. I recorded a phone call, one that didn't require much in the way of response from you, set a timer on my computer to make the connection and then turned up at the park on time. Instant alibi. Admit it, Jamie. That was clever, wasn't it?'

‘How did you know I had a gun?' I say.

Dixon is disappointed I don't acknowledge his cleverness. He waves a hand dismissively. ‘Tucked into the back of your pants. You've watched too many Hollywood movies, Jamie. For someone following a couple of hundred metres behind, it stuck out like a sore thumb. Where did you get it, by the way?'

‘Spider,' I reply. I cannot think why I should keep this information to myself.

‘Ah,' says Dixon. ‘The connection to the underworld. Yes. I should have foreseen that. But frankly, Jamie, I didn't think you had the balls.'

‘I want to see Phoebe.'

‘Soon. Let's just talk, shall we? How is your head, by the way?'

‘It's been better.'

‘I can imagine. But that's what I mean when I say you brought this on yourself. I couldn't take the risk of getting into some kind of fight with someone armed. Not that I imagine you would know what to do with a gun.'

‘I've never fired it,' I admit. ‘Well, only with blanks.'

‘Yes. Best avoided, really. But so many things could go wrong. Maybe you'd get lucky. Maybe you'd already planned to kill me, regardless of what happened. So while you were whiling away the time watching the building site, I took the opportunity to go up to the tower and write that message. Then I stayed downstairs and waited.'

He spreads his arms.
The rest we know
. The pounding in my head has eased considerably, but that doesn't mean my thought processes are organised. I'm not sure what advantage I can hope to gain by continuing to talk, but I see no reason not to.
The man's ego is huge
, I think. And maybe, by feeding it, he will let me see Phoebe sooner.

‘So why bring me here?' I ask.
Wherever here is.
‘You knock me out, but the situation hasn't fundamentally altered. Why not tie me up, as in the original plan, and get the hell out?'

‘It occurred to me,' admits Dixon. ‘But I also thought it would be fun to chat. So I bundled you into the back of my car –
not
a green Commodore, as you know – and brought you here. At least, when I do ring, the authorities will have only one location to find both of you.'

I shift in my seat. It is the first acknowledgement that Phoebe is close by, but I don't want to react too strongly. I resent any gratification I might give him. And anyway, why should I accept anything he says as the truth? Maybe Phoebe isn't here. Maybe she's . . . I can't think about that. Instead I focus on my body. Now my head has improved I am aware of other aches and pains.
My right leg hurts. I notice also that my ankles are bound with another cable tie. I glance at my watch. It is one-thirty: I have lost about five hours. I think about Mum and Dad and Summerlee. I wonder about their reaction when they discovered I was missing. Gardner would work out what I had done, especially if he checked the pack in the front room and found a collection of maths textbooks and a ream of printing paper. He might not be Sherlock, but he wouldn't have to be. How would Mum and Dad react to the news that two of their three children were now missing? I can't afford to think about this. Too much pain lies that way and there is nothing I can do. Give Dixon what he wants and maybe the nightmare will end. And what Dixon wants is the exultation of victory. But only after we have examined every facet of his triumph and I have applauded him for his genius. Talking might end this, bring the curtain down on his masterpiece.

‘And the reason you've joined the Dark Side?' I ask. I suspect he wants to explore motivations. ‘You're a police officer. Aren't you sworn to stop people like you?'

When Dixon grins again I know it is the right question. He wants to deliver a sermon.

‘Did you know I was involved in your sister's arrest?' he asks. ‘When she trashed that hotel room? Oh, I don't mean I was an arresting officer, but I was in the station when she was brought in. And it was like some kind of epiphany. You know the meaning of the word?'

‘An insight into the profound through the contemplation of
the ordinary,' I reply. We had covered this in English class.

‘Exactly,' says Dixon. ‘And there was nothing more ordinary than Summerlee Delaware. A silly, stupid eighteen year old, pissed and stoned. The kind we put into the drunk tank every Friday and Saturday. Our bread and butter, really. Except, of course, this useless teenager was also a multi-millionaire. Seven and a half million dollars in the bank. Come on, Jamie. It must have occurred to you how unfair it was.'

‘And that's your epiphany?' I ask. ‘Someone gets lucky and you take it as a personal affront?'

Dixon's eyes narrow and he taps his fingers on the table. Then he takes out another cigarette from his pack and lights it.

‘I've worked hard all my life,' he says. ‘Protecting people like your sister from all the nastiness of the world. And she treats me like shit. And what has she done? Nothing, apart from having the good fortune to choose six numbers that came up in the lottery. At eighteen, she has her future assured, whereas I couldn't retire if I wanted to.'

‘Yeah, well,' I reply. ‘Nobody said life's fair. Most of us get over it.'

‘I decided I didn't
want
to get over it,' says Dixon. ‘So I also decided to do something. Redistribute the good fortune.'

‘You're a regular fucking Robin Hood,' I say. I'm not sure if it's wise to antagonise him but I'm also not sure if I care anymore.

Dixon just smiles.

‘You must be hungry, Jamie,' he says. ‘How about I make you
a sandwich and we can continue this conversation? I'm having a good time.'

‘I don't want a sandwich,' I say. ‘I want Phoebe.'

But he doesn't pay any attention. He pushes back his chair and stands, tucks my gun into his waistband.