Roger Wilco

The static crackled like eggs in a pan, then cleared to reveal Radio 4's shipping forecast bleeding through the car speakers. Detective Inspector Caspian Hollowell reached for the volume dial as he pulled into the service station, but stopped when he heard the familiar pattern of tapping from the passenger seat.

Five quick taps, pause, three taps, pause, repeat.

His mobile buzzed. Sarah's name lit the screen.

"Cas? I'm so sorry. Mum's taken a turn. They don't think she'll make it through the night."

The petrol pump clicked to a stop in his hand. Behind him, Cael sat rigid, fingers drumming against his thigh in that relentless rhythm. The boy had been transmitting the same signal since they'd left London two hours ago, but Caspian had tuned it out.

"Right. Yes. Of course you have to go." Caspian kept his voice level. "What about the children?"

"Milly and Jamie are coming with me. But Cael..." Sarah's voice carried that familiar strain. "You know how he gets. And his routine's already disrupted."

The shipping forecast continued its metronomic recitation. Fair to good, occasionally poor in showers.

"I'll manage. How long?"

"Two days. Maybe three. I'm sorry, love. Your meeting with DCI Vega about the promotion—"

"It's fine," Caspian lied, glancing at his watch. Half past nine. The presentation was at two.

After hanging up, he slid back into the driver's seat. The tapping intensified.

"Change of plans, mate. Mum's gone to see Grandma Betty."

Cael's drumming stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence, Caspian could hear his own heartbeat, rapid and irregular.

"Tuesday," Cael said, his voice flat and precise. "Holiday club is Tuesday. Swimming is Tuesday. Ham sandwich, no butter, no crust. Tuesday."

"I know, but—"

"TUESDAY." The word exploded like a radio burst. Cael began rocking, movements that made the whole car sway. "Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday."

Caspian's chest tightened. He could handle armed suspects, negotiate with hostage-takers, but his own son remained an encrypted signal he couldn't decode.

Stop being so bloody sensitive, boy. His father's voice, clear as day through the static.

"Cael, listen—"

"YOU'RE NOT LISTENING." The boy's voice cracked. "Five taps means worried. Three taps means scared. I've been telling you for two hours and you never listen to my signals."

The words hit Caspian like a physical blow. All this time, Cael had been trying to communicate. The tapping wasn't nervous habit—it was transmission.

"I'm sorry. Can you teach me the code?"

Cael's rocking slowed. "Five taps is worried. Three taps is scared. Seven taps is excited. Two taps is okay."

"Copy that. And right now you're..."

"Worried and scared. Five and three."

"What if we made today into a different kind of adventure? Scotland Yard. Remember the pictures Mum showed you?"

The rocking slowed further. "Evidence lockers?"

"Rooms full of clues that help solve puzzles."

"Can I touch the evidence?"

"The safe bits."

Cael considered this seriously. "Will the other police officers think I'm strange?"

"They'll think you're brilliant. Because you are."

As they merged onto the motorway, Cael's tapping shifted—seven quick taps, pause, seven again.

"Excited?" Caspian guessed.

"Roger," Cael said, and for the first time that morning, he almost smiled.

They reached Scotland Yard just after eleven. Pete Collins, the desk sergeant, produced noise-canceling headphones from under his desk. "We keep these for firearms training. Cut out the worst of it."

Cael accepted them gratefully. The fourth-floor incident room buzzed with activity—detectives at computers, phones ringing, the controlled urgency of a major investigation.

"DS Thorne?" Caspian spotted her near the evidence board. "Emergency babysitting. Could you show him around during my presentation?"

Detective Sergeant Priya Thorne glanced at Cael, who was studying the crime scene photographs with intense focus. She had a younger brother with similar processing differences, which made her one of the few people at work who understood that different didn't mean difficult.

"What's caught your attention there, genius?" Thorne asked.

"The patterns," Cael said without looking away. "These pictures aren't random."

Caspian followed his son's gaze. Six different break-ins across Camden—ransacked bedrooms, overturned furniture, broken glass. Chaos to most observers, but Cael was right. There were patterns.

"Crikey," Thorne muttered. "Kid's got better eyes than half our forensics team."

DCI Vega appeared at Caspian's elbow. "Hollowell. That presentation we discussed."

"Yes, ma'am. Just need to—"

"Interesting consultant you've brought." Vega addressed Cael directly. "What's your assessment of our work here?"

"The person who did this is left-handed," Cael said matter-of-factly. "They're looking for something specific. Same search pattern every time—bedroom, study, kitchen. They take small valuable things, but that's not why they're there."

Several detectives had drifted over, drawn by the unusual sight of a small boy wearing headphones delivering forensic analysis.

"Fascinating," Vega said. "Tell me more about these search patterns."

Cael pointed to a photograph with quiet confidence. "The way drawers are pulled out, scratch marks on furniture. A right-handed person would approach from the other side. Basic physics, really."

The room fell silent—the electric quiet of recognition. Several detectives chuckled with genuine appreciation.

"Brilliant deduction," Vega said. "Sergeant Thorne?"

"Already on it," Thorne called from her computer. "Forensics confirms—left-handed entry patterns on all six scenes."

"Sometimes," Vega said to Caspian, "the best presentations happen in the field."

The next hour flew by. Cael moved through the evidence like a conductor directing an orchestra, pointing out details that clicked into place once highlighted. Detective Constable Chen, the crime scene photographer, watched in fascination.

"You know what's funny about this job?" Chen said, adjusting his camera settings. "Half the best minds I've worked with see the world a bit sideways. Different frequencies. Some of us just learned to pretend we're tuned to the same station as everyone else."

Cael looked up with interest. "What frequency are you tuned to?"

"The one that notices criminals use different angles to scope their targets," Chen grinned. "Same as you, apparently."

Caspian watched this transformation with growing wonder. His son wasn't difficult—he was transmitting on a frequency most people couldn't receive.

"People think in patterns," Cael said, carefully aligning photographs. "Everyone's patterns are different. When you find someone's real pattern, you understand how they think."

"Guv?" Thorne's voice was bright with excitement. "We've got our connection."

The background check revealed exactly what Cael's analysis had predicted. All six victims had attended the same grammar school—St. Bartholomew's—though in different years spanning two decades. All had been students of the same History teacher, Gerald Thornfield, who'd died six months ago.

"Thornfield," Chen said, suddenly serious. "Wasn't he investigated a few years back?"

"Allegations of inappropriate conduct," Thorne confirmed. "Never charged. Witnesses wouldn't come forward."

Cael looked up from his photograph arrangements, eyes bright. "Not one big piece. Lots of little pieces. Scattered so no single person could see the whole picture."

"Photos, letters, documents," Caspian said, feeling the click of understanding. "Spread across multiple victims."

"Elementary," Cael said with a small smile.

"Margaret Hensley, 67 Chalcot Road," Thorne announced. "Former student, currently in France. Empty house, perfect target."

"Surveillance," Caspian decided. "All units to Chalcot Road."

"What about your consultant?" Vega nodded toward Cael.

"He's part of the team. Observation only."

At seven that evening, they were parked fifty meters from Hensley's terraced house. Evening dog walkers moved with unhurried purpose, and Cael provided running commentary.

"Lady with the small dog walks past every fifteen minutes," he observed. "Always stops at the postbox but never posts anything. Neighborhood watch."

"Sharp eyes," Thorne agreed. "What else?"

"Man in the blue house checks number plates every time a car passes. He's worried, not excited."

"This is brilliant," Thorne said. "You're like a one-man surveillance team."

Caspian found himself relaxing in a way he rarely did during operations. Having Cael there steadied him. His son's calm presence was like a tuning fork, helping Caspian find his own frequency.

At half past eight, Cael sat up straighter. "There. End of the street. Walking like they belong but checking house numbers."

A figure in dark clothing moved with careful casualness, clearly unfamiliar with the area.

"Target approaching," Thorne murmured into her radio. "All units, roger wilco."

"Will they be in trouble?" Cael asked.

"Sometimes people do wrong things because nobody listened to their signals the first time," Caspian said thoughtfully.

"So we help them do it the right way instead?"

"Something like that."

Cael was quiet for a moment. "Like when I get in trouble for not following rules that don't make sense to me?"

Caspian felt something click into place. "Exactly like that. Sometimes the rules need to change, not the person."

"Movement," Thorne whispered. A small light had appeared in one of the upstairs windows.

"All units, suspect is inside the property," Thorne radioed. "Moving to intercept."

Caspian started the engine. "Stay here," he told Cael. "Keep the doors locked."

But as they approached the house, Cael's voice stopped him.

"Dad."

It was the first time all day that Cael had called him Dad.

"Yes?"

"Be kind to them. They're probably scared and trying to make people listen to something important."

The compassion in his son's voice hit Caspian harder than any tactical briefing. Someone was in pain, and that pain had driven them to desperate measures.

Caspian squeezed his son's shoulder gently. "Roger wilco."

The arrest was almost anticlimactic. They found the burglar—a woman in her forties, later identified as Helen Morrison—in Hensley's study, carefully photographing filing cabinet contents. She didn't run or resist, just looked up with the expression of someone who'd been expecting this moment.

"I suppose you'll want to see what I've found," she said simply.

Her phone contained carefully documented evidence from all six break-ins—specific documents painting a clear picture of systematic abuse by Gerald Thornfield, covered up and forgotten.

Helen Morrison had been one of Thornfield's students twenty-five years ago. She'd tried to report what he'd done, but no one had believed her.

"Twenty-five years," she said quietly in the interview room. "Twenty-five years of transmitting the same message. Nobody seemed to be receiving."

"And now?" Caspian asked gently.

"Someone very clever taught me about puzzle pieces today," she said, glancing toward where Cael was organizing crime scene photos with Chen. "Sometimes you need all the pieces before anyone can see the picture."

"The evidence you've collected will help other victims come forward," Caspian said. "There are proper channels—"

"Roger," Helen interrupted with a sad smile. "I understand. But compliance... that's harder when the system failed you first."

"What if we made sure your signal gets received this time? What if we help you transmit it through the right channels, with the right support?"

For the first time since they'd arrested her, Helen Morrison looked hopeful.

By the time they processed Helen Morrison, it was nearly eleven. Her case was already helping other victims come forward.

"Dad?" Cael appeared, still energized despite the late hour. "Chen says there's a dark room downstairs for developing photographs. Can we see it?"

"It's past your bedtime."

"But Wednesday doesn't have the same rules as Tuesday."

Caspian laughed. "Five minutes. Copy that?"

"Roger wilco."

The drive home was filled with Cael's excited chatter about chemical processes and pattern recognition. London's streets were quieter now, and Caspian found himself driving slower than necessary.

"Today was better than swimming," Cael said.

"Will we do more cases together?"

Caspian glanced at his son in the rearview mirror. Cael was building something intricate with paperclips Chen had given him.

"Would you like that?"

"I like how people listen to my ideas at work. And I like helping solve puzzles."

"Then I suppose we'll have to find more puzzles."

At home, Sarah's texts brought good news—her mother was stable and responding well. The crisis that had started their day seemed suddenly fortunate.

His phone rang as Cael headed upstairs.

"Unusual day at the office, Hollowell."

"Yes, ma'am. Good unusual."

"Your consultant shows real promise," Vega said. "That kind of lateral thinking... we could use more of it."

"He did seem to enjoy himself."

"And you? Still interested in that corner office, or have you discovered something more interesting in the field?"

Caspian looked up the stairs, where he could hear Cael explaining photographic chemistry to his toothbrush.

"I think I'm interested in whatever lets me work with the best minds available. Regardless of age or... transmission frequency."

"Wise choice. Some of the best detectives I know receive signals others miss."

Later, Caspian sat in the kitchen listening to Radio 4's midnight shipping forecast. The same litany of sea areas, but now it sounded different—not just weather information, but a reminder that someone was always listening, ready to receive the signals that mattered.

Footsteps on the stairs. Cael appeared in the doorway, hair tousled.

"Can't sleep," Cael said, settling across from his father.

"Me neither."

They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the forecast. Fair becoming good. Visibility moderate, occasionally poor.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow's Wednesday."

Caspian nodded. "What happens on Wednesday?"

Outside, a police siren wailed in the distance, growing fainter as it moved toward some other emergency, some other puzzle waiting to be solved. Caspian looked at his son across the kitchen table and realized he had no idea what happened on Wednesday.

But for the first time, that felt like exactly the right frequency to be tuned to.

"I suppose we'll find out together," he said.

Cael smiled and tapped seven times on the table—the signal Caspian now understood meant excited.

"Roger wilco," Caspian said.

And meant it.