“It’s complicated—”

“Abbie? Abbie Cullen-Scott?” A uniformed policewoman, short and stocky, absurdly overdressed, with as many bits of equipment hanging off her as a mountaineer, is touching your arm. “Mrs. Cullen-Scott, you need to come with us. We’ll get you looked after.”

FIVE

It was Darren’s turn to get Tim-lashed, and he was getting the whole nine yards.

“I wanted it seamless,” Tim yelled at him. “I wanted it immersive. And instead, you’ve brought me this garbage.”

“It will be seamless,” Darren said nervously. “It’s still under development.”

There was a pause, but only because Tim had taken a breath, as if he was genuinely startled, shocked even, by the idiocy of Darren’s response.

“I know it’s under development. That’s why I hired a developer. Except I didn’t, did I? I hired a third-rate bozo who doesn’t know development from diarrhea.”

“I just don’t think what you’re asking for is possible—” Darren began.

And now it was our turn to draw in our collective breath, because we all saw that Darren had committed a terrible error. The statement he had just made—that he was being asked to do the impossible—never went down well with Tim in any case. Not for nothing did he have a framed quotation by Muhammad Ali on his wall, something to do with the word impossible not being a fact, just someone’s opinion. But more important, what Darren had just said was inconsistent with his own previous statement, that he would fix it in due course. He wasn’t the first to lose his nerve under a Tim-lashing, but we all knew he was about to get ripped apart for it.

Except Abbie didn’t know that. Abbie looked across at Tim and said, in a tone of genuine curiosity, “Why do you have to be so aggressive?”

Tim stared at her.

“Why don’t you try being nice for a change?” she went on. “It’s not as if it’s going to make the poor guy any more productive.”

We braced for the explosion. But it never came. Instead, in a voice so calm it was almost eerie, Tim said, “Actually, you’re wrong about that.”

“How am I wrong?”

“Take a look at the Journal of Experimental Psychology, volume forty-seven, issue six. The authors designed a study to look at the effects of different moods on creativity. People who are angry not only have more ideas more quickly, they also tend to have ideas that are judged more original by their peers.”

“That’s bullshit,” Abbie said disbelievingly.

Tim shook his head. “The results have been replicated several times. There’s a good one in the Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, volume thirty-four, number twelve. Subjects gave a short presentation that received either negative or positive feedback on a randomized basis. They were then asked to complete a creative task, which was evaluated by a group of experienced artists. Those who had been given harsh feedback significantly outperformed the other group. The higher and more unreasonable a leader’s standards are, the better people will perform.”

Abbie stared at him. To be honest, we all did.

“And that is why you shout at people?” she asked incredulously. “Because you think it makes them better workers?”

“No,” Tim replied. “I shout at them because I get frustrated. But I was curious to know why. So I did some research on it.” He pointed at her. “You’re angry now. That’s good. Maybe you’ll come up with a half-decent idea, instead of playing pool and distracting my employees.”

“You were the one who told me—” Abbie began furiously, but it was too late. Tim had already gone back into his office.

16

The cop’s male colleague drives, while she sits with you in the back. Neither says much, for which you’re grateful. Tim’s words are churning around in your head. What did he mean by Don’t believe everything they tell you?

You’re met at the station by a gray-haired man in plainclothes. He looks questioningly at the female cop, who shakes her head. “We haven’t discussed anything.”

“Good. Abbie, come with me.”

“I’m not—” You stop, still unsure how to put this.

“You’re not sure that’s who you are?” he says, guiding you toward an interview room. Over his shoulder, to the policewoman, he says, “FMO, please, Sandy. Full exam.”

“No, it’s—” Tell them the truth, Tim said. You take a deep breath. “It’s more complicated than that. I’m a robot.”

“You think you’re a robot,” he repeats. “Okay. In a short while a medical officer will be along to take a look at you. In the meantime, what shall I call you?”

He thinks you’re insane, you realize. He thinks you’re Abbie who’s had some kind of breakdown.

“My husband works in robotics,” you try to explain. “He built me.”

“That’s right,” the policeman says, nodding. “I know Tim. I’m Detective Ray Tanner. We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Abbie. But you’re here now, that’s the main thing.”

Despite the gentleness he’s trying to put into his voice, he sounds peeved. Almost as if you turning up has proved him wrong about something. Something important.

“No,” you say miserably. “You don’t understand. I don’t believe I’m a robot. I am a robot.”

Looking at his kindly, concerned face, you realize there’s only one way to convince him. You reach up behind your neck. You’ve touched the seam there many times, but you’ve never been brave enough to pull it all the way open, the way Tim did. Even the thought makes you feel ill.

“What are you doing?” Tanner says uneasily. “Abbie? Jesus Christ!”

You feel the same sucking sensation, the same coldness, as before, and then Detective Tanner has recoiled away from you, knocking over a chair in his astonishment.

17

Twenty minutes later the atmosphere is very different. The medical officer has given you a brief inspection and announced that you are far beyond her area of expertise. The IT officer, ditto. And now there are three people sitting across a table from you. Detective Tanner, a man in a gray suit who introduced himself as the deputy chief of investigations, and a female detective sergeant.

“But why?” the deputy chief wants to know. “What was the purpose of building you?”

You shrug. “Emotional support.”

“Or to fool people into thinking that the real Abbie had returned alive and well?” Tanner suggests.

His comment is directed to the deputy chief, not you, but you shake your head firmly. “Of course not.”

“If the people who found her had put it on Twitter instead of calling us, who knows what story might have gone around,” Tanner says, still to the deputy chief. “He’s toying with us. Trying to make it look like we got it all wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” you say, puzzled. “Wrong about what?”

The deputy chief looks at you. “You have no knowledge of that?”

“Knowledge of what?”

“That four years ago, Tim Scott was put on trial for the murder of his wife, Abigail.”

You stare at him, stunned. A long moment passes. You can’t believe it—surely Tim would never have kept something as important as this from you. But then—clunk!—you feel it, a cascade of images tumbling into your mind. Newspaper reports, video feeds, tweets and blogs and snatched paparazzi images. Tim, gaunt and unshaven, being led toward some courtroom doors—

“Should I have a lawyer?” you say faintly.

The deputy chief looks at Tanner, who shrugs. “Legally speaking, we believe she’s computer equipment. She certainly has no rights.”

“Well, I’m not saying anything else,” you tell them defiantly. “Not until my husband gets here.”

Tanner leans forward. “You call him your husband. But he isn’t, is he? You’re not married to him. You can’t be—you’re a machine. Before you feel sorry for him, feel sorry for her. For Abbie. And if you know anything that can help us solve her disappearance, even at this late stage, tell us. For her sake.”

Disappearance. The word, with all its ramifications, echoes around your head.

The silence is broken by a knock on the interview room door. Tanner sighs in frustration. “Enter.”

A policewoman comes in and whispers something in his ear. “Tim Scott’s here,” he says reluctantly. “With a lawyer. We’re going to have to let her go.”

Relieved, you get to your feet. “I’ll walk you out,” he adds.

At the door he stands back to let you go before him. As you pass, he suddenly leans forward, blocking your way with his arm, forcing you to stop. Speaking in a low voice, so only you can hear, he says, “I spent twelve months putting together a case against Tim Scott. You tell him from me, I’m not going to give up just because he’s built himself a Barbie doll.”

18