Shatter by Michael Robotham

white blouse and even whiter teeth. Not even the sight of Ruiz interrupts her winning smile.
    ‘We’re here to see Oliver Rabb,’ he says.
    ‘Please take a seat.’
    Ruiz prefers to stand. There are posters on the wal s of beautiful young people, chatting on designer phones that obviously bring them great happiness, wealth and hot dates.
    ‘Imagine if mobiles had been invented earlier,’ says Ruiz. ‘Custer could have cal ed up the cavalry.’
    ‘And Paul Revere would have saved himself a long ride.’
    ‘Nelson could have sent a text from Trafalgar.’
    ‘Saying what?’
    ‘I won’t be home for dinner.’
    The receptionist is back. We are taken to a room lined with screens and shelves ful of software manuals. It has that new computer smel of moulded plastic, solvents and adhesives.
    ‘What does this Oliver Rabb do?’ I ask.
    ‘He’s a telecommunications engineer— the best, according to my mate at BT. Some guys fix phones. He fixes satel ites.’

    ‘Can he trace Christine Wheeler’s last cal ?’
    ‘That’s what we’re going to ask him.’
    Oliver Rabb almost sneaks up on us, appearing suddenly through a second door. Tal and bald, with big hands and a stoop, he seems to present the top of his head as he bows and shakes our hands. A study of tics and eccentricities, he is the sort of man who regards a bow tie and braces as practical rather than a fashion statement.
    ‘Ask away, ask away,’ he says.
    ‘We’re looking for cal s made to a mobile number,’ replies Ruiz.
    ‘Is this investigation official?’
    ‘We’re assisting the police.’
    I wonder if Ruiz is so good at lying because he’s met so many liars.
    Oliver has logged onto the computer and is running through a series of password protocols. He types Christine Wheeler’s mobile number. ‘It’s amazing how much you can tel about a person by looking at their phone records,’ he says, scanning the screen. ‘A few years ago a guy at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology did a PhD project where he gave out a hundred free mobile phones to students and employees. Over nine months he monitored these phones and logged over 350,000 hours of data. He wasn’t listening to the actual cal s. He only wanted the numbers, the duration, the time of day and location.
    ‘By the time he finished he knew much more than that. He knew how long each person slept, what time they woke, when they went to work, where they shopped, their best friends, favourite restaurants, nightclubs, hangouts and holiday destinations. He could tel which of them were co-workers or lovers. And he could predict what people would do next with eighty-five per cent accuracy.’
    Ruiz looks over his shoulder at me. ‘That sounds like your territory, Professor. How often do you get it right?’
    ‘I deal with the deviations, not the averages.’
    ‘Touché.’
    The screen refreshes with details of Christine Wheeler’s account and phone usage.
    ‘These are her cal logs for the past month.’
    ‘What about Friday afternoon?’
    ‘Where was she?’
    ‘The Clifton Suspension Bridge— about five.’
    Oliver starts a new search. A sea of numbers appears on the screen. The flashing cursor seems to be reading them. The search comes up with nothing.
    ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ I say. ‘She was talking on a mobile when she jumped.’
    ‘Maybe she was talking to herself,’ replies Oliver.
    ‘No. There was another voice.’
    ‘Then she must have had another phone.’
    My mind trips over the possibilities. Where did she get a second mobile? Why change phones?
    ‘Could the data be wrong?’ asks Ruiz.
    Oliver bristles at the suggestion. ‘Computers in my experience are more reliable than people.’ His fingers stroke the top of the monitor as if worried that its feelings might have been hurt.
    ‘Explain to me again how the system works,’ I ask.
    The question seems to please him.
    ‘A mobile phone is basical y a sophisticated radio, not much different to a