Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You followed me.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally. We followed Mrs Revell. Then we followed you.’

  ‘Have you been watching the house?’

  ‘Harkness’s place, you mean? Wortalleth West?’

  ‘The owner’s name isn’t Harkness.’

  ‘No? Well, Harkness is a slippery one where legal title’s concerned. But he’s the owner, according to my informants.’

  ‘They’re mistaken.’

  French crooked his neck and looked at Don sideways. ‘You’re some kinda realtor, right?’

  ‘I’m an estate agent. Here to value the house prior to sale by the rightful owner. I’ve had no dealings with anyone called Harkness.’

  ‘But you must’ve heard of Jack Harkness. Pharmaceuticals billionaire. Elixtris. You’ll have seen the ads. And the news coverage of his extradition case.’ French’s head swivelled back upright. ‘Whose name has he put on the deeds, Don?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Oh, but it is. My business is finding out where Harkness has hidden the money he stole from my employers. And this very stylish bolthole I didn’t previously know he possessed could help me do that.’

  ‘You work for Quintagler Industries?’

  ‘You see? You do know about Harkness, Don. You may as well drop the pretence. To answer your question, I don’t work for Quintagler. Not directly, anyhow. And you, of course, don’t work for Mendez Chinnery, do you? Your LinkedIn profile needs updating about your sudden departure to become … what shall we call it? Freelance?’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘I want us to help each other.’ French leant back against the wing of the MG. ‘I need information. You need money, I’d hazard a guess. Unemployment at your time of life can be an uncomfortable experience. Whatever Mrs Revell’s paying you I’ll more than double for anything you can dig up about where Harkness has squirrelled away the money.’

  ‘Assuming he really has squirrelled it away.’

  ‘Yeah. Assuming that. But, believe me, my employers wouldn’t have hired me if they weren’t seriously out of pocket. I don’t come cheap.’

  ‘What about your friend?’ Don nodded towards the sullenly staring driver of the 4WD.

  ‘Zlenko? Oh, he’s on my payroll. There are some things I don’t do personally. Negotiation’s my forte. Whereas Zlenko … isn’t a negotiator.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘Who owns the house – legally?’

  ‘That’s confidential information.’

  ‘Confidential. But not hard to come by. Or to guess at. The soon-to-be-ex-wife, maybe?’

  ‘All right. Yes. Mona Jackson.’

  ‘Ah. She’s already dropped his name, has she? I suppose it’s not an asset any more.’

  ‘It’s her house. She wants to sell it. There’s nothing more I can tell you.’

  ‘That’s entirely possible. We went through the place last night. While you were out boozing with the girl.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice?’

  The answer to that was no. Don had noticed nothing amiss. Although it was also true he had not been in much of a state to.

  ‘You weren’t meant to, of course. We take pride in our work, Zlenko and me. Anyhow, I may as well tell you we drew a blank. Nothing. Zilch. Not a damn thing. Majorly disappointing, I have to say. Which I suppose is why we’re having this conversation, you and me.’

  ‘If you found nothing, what makes you think I can do any better?’

  ‘Incentivization. An important consideration in my line of work. You see, if you can’t help us, or won’t, we’ll have to look elsewhere. The girl will inevitably enter the frame.’

  ‘Leave her out of this. She’s just a housekeeper. Not even that. A cleaner.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you seem to be on good terms with her. Also, according to Zlenko, with Mrs Revell. I’d have to waste time on introductions. Whereas you can tap both of them on my behalf. But if you’re not willing to … I’ll have to deal with them directly. That’s something you might want to avoid, if you have their best interests at heart.’

  ‘The girl knows nothing.’ Don was surprised to find himself trying so hard to protect Blake. ‘And Mrs Revell is Mona Jackson’s lawyer, not Harkness’s.’

  ‘Whether Blake’s as ignorant as you say remains to be seen.’ French smiled thinly. ‘I do know her name, Don. Now, Frances Revell. Fran, as you call her. You and she were an item once, right?’

  Don sighed. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Excellent. That gives you something to work with. Thing is, we have reason to believe her loyalties may be divided. Mona’s lawyer or not, she’s also met Harkness a couple of times recently, in circumstances you could call covert if you were of a suspicious frame of mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me lay this on the line for you, Don. I’ll pay handsomely for information pointing me towards where he’s stashed the cash. Exactly how handsomely will depend on the value and accuracy of the information. How, where or from whom you get it is your affair, although I’ll expect to be kept apprised of progress. As a bonus, Blake and Fran will hear nothing from me. I’m giving you the opportunity to earn some money – maybe a lot of money – by charming or wheedling out of them – or otherwise learning – what I need to know. It’s a time-limited opportunity, naturally. I can spare you a week. I have other leads to follow up in the interim, but if, after that week, you’ve got nothing for me, well, then I’ll have to try a more forceful approach, if you catch my drift.’

  Don caught it. And catching it left him confronting a problem he had little hope of solving. This was where accepting a favour from his ex-wife had led. He should have known better.

  ‘So,’ said French, ‘are we in business?’

  I’m on my way back up the beach from the tideline – nothing worth collecting – when I hear the MG growling down the lane. I hear it, in fact, well before I see it, but I guess at once it’s Don. He’s come back from Church Cove, the long way round by road, through Gunwalloe and Cury. He must’ve got up much earlier than I expected.

  He sees me as he takes the bend just before the bridge over the stream. I wave from the path between the dunes. He waves back and signals he’ll pull into the car park on the other side of the lane.

  He stops the car, gets out and walks across to join me. He looks rough, unshaven and probably hungover. But he manages a smile.

  ‘How you doing this morning, Don?’ I ask brightly. I feel fine – just as long as I don’t think about the future, even in the short term. Or the panic room, of course. I can tell myself a hundred times there can’t be anyone inside. But still I know there might be, even so. There might be – and, at any moment, they could come out.

  ‘Fair to middling.’

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I should ask what yours are.’

  ‘You’d better tell me. I mean, how long can I persuade you to persuade Fran to let me stay here?’

  ‘Fran? Did I mention her name?’

  ‘You did.’

  Don rubs his brow and eyes. ‘You got any paracetamol back at the house?’

  I suspect he technically knows the answer to that question. But maybe he’s forgotten. ‘No. I’m not that into pharmaceuticals.’

  Don smiles ruefully. ‘If everyone was like you, Harkness would be penniless.’

  I shrug. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Can we sit down?’

  There are several picnic tables set out for use by customers of the beach café, which is still several hours away from opening. We walk over and sit down at one.

  Don squints towards the sea. ‘Time was this would have been the perfect moment for a cigarette,’ he muses.

  ‘But you’ve given up?’

  ‘Feels like it gave me up.’ He rasps his hand round his chin. ‘Still, you’ve got to know when to quit something.’

 
‘Are we still talking about smoking?’

  ‘No.’ He looks directly at me. ‘You should leave Wortalleth West, Blake. As soon as you can.’

  ‘Why the rush? No madman with an axe came out of the panic room during the night, did he?’ I’m trying to make light of the threat the panic room poses. I want Don to make light of it too.

  He grins. ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘I’ve got workshop space and a nice flat. It’s a lot to walk out on.’

  ‘Still, you should. Not just to help me sell the house. For your own safety.’

  ‘You think it’s not safe?’ Why might he think that? Has something happened he’s not telling me about?

  ‘Well, it might not be. I mean, all this money Harkness is supposed to have stolen. People could come looking … for what they can get.’

  ‘But Wortalleth West isn’t his, is it?’

  ‘They wouldn’t necessarily care about that.’

  ‘What sort of people are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Don spreads his hands, but somehow I don’t buy his ignorance. Somehow, I get the feeling he does know. ‘I just don’t think you should stick around to find out.’

  ‘I’ve nowhere to go.’

  ‘Where were you living before?’

  ‘Helston. I was live-in housekeeper to a guy called Glasson. Retired accountant. In poor health.’

  ‘Why’d you leave?’

  ‘His daughter took against me.’ I’m not in a hurry to tell Don why she took against me, though I expect him to ask.

  And he does. ‘What was the problem?’

  ‘Personality clash.’ And then some. What really bugged Muriel, as far as I could tell, was that I cared more about her family than she did.

  ‘She lives with her father?’

  ‘No. Bristol. She doesn’t come down much. Well, she didn’t while I was there. Even so, she didn’t like the idea of help living in. Not when that help was me, anyway.’

  ‘How did her father feel about you leaving?’

  ‘He didn’t want me to go.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘Oh, round the turn of the year. She came down for Christmas. Didn’t like how I was doing things.’

  ‘But Glasson – the man you actually worked for – did?’

  ‘Yeah. He and I got on just fine.’

  ‘Maybe you could go back there.’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘What if I put in a word?’

  He’s offering to act as a go-between. I’m surprised. I mean, I know he wants to help me. But this is going the extra mile and then some. Ordinarily, I’d tell him to stop interfering. But maybe interfering is just what I need him to do at the moment. ‘You’d speak to Andrew – Mr Glasson – about re-hiring me?’

  ‘Why not? It’s worth a try, isn’t it? If he liked having you there, he probably misses you. If I explain you’ll soon be homeless, well, he might volunteer to take you in and to hell with what his daughter thinks. Then he’ll get his favourite housekeeper back and you’d have somewhere to live. Would that be so bad?’

  ‘No. I liked it there. But …’ Why is Don so anxious to move me out? To earn his fee from Fran, obviously. But there seems to be more to it. ‘Nothing did happen in the night, did it?’ I wouldn’t have slept well so close to the panic room, that’s for sure.

  ‘Of course not.’ He smiles innocently. ‘I slept like a baby. Well, a baby whose milk had been spiked, anyway.’

  ‘So, where’d you get this idea about debt collectors coming to call?’

  ‘I just think you can’t be too careful, Blake. Harkness is obviously mixed up in some murky business. Best to detach yourself from him completely.’

  ‘Plus getting rid of me makes Fran happy.’

  ‘I’m thinking of you, not her.’ Strangely, I believe him. He is thinking of me. Which isn’t necessarily reassuring. ‘What have you got to lose by letting me try to persuade Glasson to take you in?’

  I shrug. ‘Nothing, I s’pose.’ I’ve had no contact with Andrew since I left his house on New Year’s Eve. That’s more than five months ago. He won’t be expecting to hear from me again. I don’t believe he’s got the nerve to defy Muriel. If I’m right, Don will just be wasting his time. But maybe it’s easier to let him do that than try to stop him. And Don wasting his time gains time for me. ‘I thought you’d be heading back to London today.’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes.’

  ‘All right, Don.’ I still wish I’d been able to help Andrew more than I did. I’m not going to tell Don about that, though. I just wonder if Andrew will. ‘Let’s do that.’

  The Glasson house was a sizeable art deco villa on the main road into Helston. Don approached the front door unsure about what he might gain from the visit. It was quite possible Glasson was content with the housekeeping arrangements his daughter had made for him since Blake’s departure. Fran was certain to have envisaged a more direct approach to the problem Blake represented than trying to find her a job elsewhere.

  But the problem now went beyond her living at Wortalleth West. His encounter with French had left Don genuinely worried for her. He had checked the house for signs of intrusion and had found almost none. He might have been able to persuade himself French had lied about searching it but for the fact that the filing cabinet in the study was unlocked now, where before it had definitely been locked. The ability of French and his silent henchman, Zlenko, to come and go without leaving any other trace of their presence only increased the threat they posed.

  Don felt protective towards Blake. The best thing he could do for her was to find somewhere else for her to live. And fast. That would also keep Fran happy and secure payment of his fee. Blake would be out of French’s orbit. Without knowing she had ever been in it. Don could head back to London, deliver the property particulars and drop out of the picture. He meant to warn Fran to do the same herself, though he doubted she would take his advice.

  There was an intercom by the doorbell of the house. When Don pressed the bell nothing happened for quite a while. He was about to press it again when the intercom crackled into life.

  ‘Yes?’ came a reedy voice.

  ‘Mr Glasson?’

  ‘Yes. What … can I do for you?’

  ‘I wonder if I could have a word with you, Mr Glasson. My name’s Challenor. Don Challenor. I’m here on behalf of your former employee, Blake.’

  ‘Blake?’

  ‘Yes. You remember her, I’m sure.’

  ‘What do you …’ The voice tailed away, then resumed. ‘What is it … you want?’

  ‘A chat, that’s all. To see if you can help Blake in any way.’

  There was a lengthy pause, during which Don thought he could hear laboured breathing. Then: ‘Come round the back.’

  Don set off, following a path that led, via a gate in a wooden fence, to an overgrown rear garden. Turning the corner of the house, he came to a conservatory.

  Several of the windows were open. At one of them, leaning heavily against the sill, stood a thin, balding, hollow-cheeked man Don would have put in his seventies. He was wearing baggy beige trousers, a grey cardigan and a checked shirt, the collar of which looked far too big for his wizened neck. His face was gaunt and pale, his eyes rheumy and magnified by large-lensed glasses. There was a dusting of white stubble on his chin. Round his neck, on separate cords, hung a nebulizer and a mobile phone.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Don as he approached the window.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ Glasson asked breathlessly.

  ‘Don Challenor.’ Don held out his hand, but Glasson made no effort to reach through the window and shake it.

  ‘How do you know Blake?’

  ‘Bit of a long story. Mind if I come in?’

  Glasson’s eyes flickered anxiously, though whether Don was the cause of his anxiety was unclear. ‘I’d like to know … what you are to Blake, Mr Challenor.’

  ‘Nothing, really. I’m an estate agent.’ Don flourished
his Mendez Chinnery card and offered it to Glasson, who took it warily. ‘We’re selling the house she currently lives in, which means she’ll soon be homeless. She told me she used to work for you on a live-in basis. I just wondered … if there was any chance …’

  ‘I could take in … your sitting tenant?’

  ‘I’m concerned for her welfare. I thought you might be too.’

  ‘Blake’s a good girl,’ Glasson said, nodding weakly. ‘I’d like to help her.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Where is she … now?’

  ‘A house near Mullion. I’m acting on behalf of the absentee owner.’

  ‘She used to do some cleaning … at Wortalleth West.’

  ‘That’s the place.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Will you be seeing her … when you leave here?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going straight back there.’

  Glasson gave another few weary nods. ‘That’s good,’ he said, for no obvious reason. ‘All right. Come in. It’s open.’ He flapped his hand towards the door into the conservatory.

  A wall of heat struck Don as he entered. Numerous large-fronded plants in giant pots added a heaviness to the air. Glasson half fell into a cushioned wicker chair. The exertion left him needing several sucks on his nebulizer before he could manage to invite Don to sit down.

  Glasson appeared marginally revived by the nebulizer. ‘Do you normally … go to this trouble … for a sitting tenant, Mr Challenor?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Blake’s a bit of a special case.’

  ‘Yes,’ Glasson acknowledged. ‘She is.’

  ‘She told me you didn’t want to lose her services.’

  ‘No. But my daughter …’ Glasson frowned. ‘Has Blake told you Muriel … insisted she leave?’

  ‘Well, she said she and … Muriel … didn’t get on.’

  ‘“Didn’t get on”? No. They certainly didn’t. But …’ Glasson’s focus shifted to Don from somewhere past his left shoulder. ‘I can’t take her back, Mr Challenor, much … much as I’d like to. Muriel simply …’

  ‘Does she have to know? I mean, how often does she come to see you? Even a temporary arrangement would be better for Blake than nothing.’