The Account at the Gatehouse

“They knew the car before it turned onto the road,” Merrit said. “So where did they get the number?”

Rusk set a photocopy on the table between them. The room was a borrowed interview office in the back of a police building, its blinds shut against the afternoon. Dyer stood by the door, listening without crowding the conversation.

“We have an answer for the vehicle,” Rusk said. “We don’t yet have the person who gave it to them.”

The page showed a message recovered from the arrested driver’s phone. It listed Merrit’s name, a registration number, and a direction to follow at a distance and report any change of route. The time stamp was less than five minutes before the police car had left the previous accommodation.

Merrit read it twice. “He got this from his supervisor?”

“He says the supervisor forwarded it. He’s cooperating, though he’s careful about what he admits. He claims he never spoke to anyone at Greenvale.”

“Does the message say who sent it?”

“Not by name. It came through the contractor’s dispatch system.” Rusk tapped the bottom of the page. “Their first response was that it was an ordinary account. The access log says otherwise.”

He opened a folder and turned it toward her. This copy had a short list of technical details: a terminal location, an account label, a time of authentication. Merrit leaned closer.

“Gatehouse terminal,” she read.

“Greenvale’s.”

“And the account?”

“Registered to Maudren Pell’s household. The contractor says it was authorized to request estate security services. The account was used to send the vehicle details to the supervisor.”

The line of type blurred slightly as Merrit stared at it. Maudren at the ramp. Maudren’s card opening the way below. Now Maudren’s household credentials in the trail to the man who had followed her.

It did not put Maudren’s hand on the keyboard. It did not tell them what she had ordered, or whether she had sat in a room while someone else did it. Still, the trail had come out of her gatehouse, under her name.

“Can they say who was at the terminal?” Merrit asked.

“Not from the access record alone. The contractor has cameras and sign-in logs. We’ve requested both. They’re under pressure to preserve everything.”

“Are they doing it?”

Rusk’s pause was brief. “They say they are.”

Merrit looked again at the copied message. “He knew the registration before you moved. Someone knew which car you’d put me in.”