Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  Pawley arrived bang on time, in a practical estate agent’s Ford. He seemed delighted to set foot inside the house, exhibiting an almost childish pleasure in seeing the internal layout and design. This, Don supposed, was how someone with a genuine vocation for the business behaved. It made him feel old and cynical.

  Enthusiastic though he was, Pawley did not appear to notice anything odd about the dimensions of the rooms. Neither had Don, of course, until he got busy with his measurer. And he had no intention of letting Pawley do any actual measuring. As for the structural ambiguity he had mentioned, he spoke vaguely of a concern about the foundations and how they related to the basement. Not surprisingly in the circumstances, Pawley seemed to think he was worrying about nothing.

  The room-by-room tour ended in the kitchen. Don did not press Pawley for details of his encounter with Troke of Planning until they had sat down at the kitchen table and Pawley’s observations on the house – ‘extraordinary’, ‘stylish’, ‘very special’ – had begun to subside.

  ‘So what did you learn from your Planning contact, Robin?’ Don asked in a casual tone.

  ‘I was just coming to that, naturally.’ Pawley beamed at him. ‘Just wanted to be sure you appreciate how keen I am to be involved in marketing this property.’

  ‘Oh, I appreciate it, I really do.’ Don beamed back. ‘And I’ll be recommending it.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m sure we can work well together.’

  ‘Me too. So …’

  ‘Ah yes. John Troke. Well, I had to wheedle it out of him, actually. And he told me in confidence. So you will keep what I tell you under your hat, won’t you?’

  ‘It’ll be strictly between us, Robin.’

  ‘Good. Well, it’s all more than a little odd. When I asked him about the original planning application for this place, he said I was the second person to have asked him recently.’

  ‘Someone else has been digging around?’

  ‘Yes. And as a result, John was able to tell me what he’d already discovered in response to the first enquiry. The Wortalleth West file isn’t in the system.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘It’s missing. No trace at all.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Clerical error, I suppose. Who knows?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ Don did not for a moment believe the loss of the file was a bureaucratic blunder. He was not sure Pawley believed it either. As to the first person who had asked after it … ‘I assume this Mike Coleman is the other interested party?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Met him a couple of times at business gatherings. A bit larger than life, if you know what I mean. He runs Sympergy, a renewables outfit. They supply wind turbines and solar panels, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Why should he want to know about this house?’

  ‘I really can’t imagine. You could ask him. Sympergy’s offices are in Helston. Water-ma-Trout Industrial Estate. And he lives on the Lizard.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Not sure. But he gave John Troke his card.’ Pawley laid the card on the table and slid it across to Don. ‘Apparently, Coleman was a serious pain.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ Don glanced down at it. Sympergy’s mission statement was Harness the power of nature with Devon and Cornwall’s leading wind and solar energy experts. Address, telephone, email, website: the usual particulars. On the back were two handwritten phone numbers, one landline, one mobile. ‘Maybe I’ll give him a call.’

  Don saw Pawley on his way with repeated thanks and assurances that his involvement in the marketing of Wortalleth West was more or less in the bag. As soon as his car had rumbled off down the drive, Don headed for the phone.

  There was no answer on the landline. Don decided to try the mobile number before leaving a message.

  ‘Yeah?’ came the gruff response through a lot of crackle.

  ‘Mike Coleman?’

  ‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’

  ‘My name’s Challenor. Don Challenor. I hear you’re interested in, well, the construction of Wortalleth West.’

  ‘Construction’s an interesting choice of word, Don. What’s your interest? Fuck me.’ The sudden change of tone and a blare of horns revealed Coleman was on the road, though quite possibly with his mind elsewhere. ‘Sorry, Don. Fucking tourists, hey?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Look, er, I was wondering—’

  ‘What’s Wortalleth West to you, Don?’

  ‘I, er, represent the owner.’

  ‘You do? Harkness the pharma king?’

  ‘He’s not the owner.’

  ‘He isn’t? Weirder and weirder.’

  ‘Can I ask why you wanted to see the building plans?’

  ‘Who said I did, Don?’

  ‘The Planning Department.’

  ‘So much for fucking confidentiality, hey?’

  ‘Why did you want to see them?’ Don pressed.

  ‘They’re public documents. I don’t have to give a reason. Just a pity the planners didn’t take better care of them is all I can say.’

  ‘Maybe we’ve got off on the wrong foot, Mr Coleman.’

  ‘You can call me Mike, Don. Everyone does.’

  ‘OK, Mike. Look, I’m not complaining about your request to see the plans. I just want to know what you were hoping to find out.’

  ‘Are you some sort of lawyer, Don?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘How come you represent the owner, then?’

  ‘I’m trying to sell the house for her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Mona Jackson.’

  ‘Who?’

  Don sighed. Prevarication seemed pointless. ‘Mona Harkness.’

  ‘Ah. So that’s how the wind’s blowing, is it? And you’re … an estate agent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which company?’

  ‘You won’t have heard of us. I’m down from London.’

  ‘But phoning on a local landline, I see.’

  ‘I’m at the house.’

  ‘Wortalleth West? Are you really? Well, why don’t I drop by on my way home? Maybe we can help each other out.’

  ‘That’d be—’

  ‘See you soon.’

  Don comes into the workshop to tell me Pawley’s gone but this guy Coleman’s arriving before long. I stop fiddling with the blade setting on my plane – I’ve not been able to settle to anything serious – and listen to Don’s account of his phone conversation with Coleman, who sounds like a total dickhead. I suddenly feel I need some air. Don can deal with Coleman. I suggest taking his phone with me to see if Holly Walsh has responded to his email. He hesitates, then remembers he trusts me, so hands it over.

  ‘Don’t worry, Don,’ I tell him as I wander out. ‘I promise not to scroll through every one of your messages for the past year.’

  I take my bike, aiming for the track from Angrouse Farm up on to the headland. I’ll get a signal somewhere along there. Just after I ride out into the road, though, I hear a car roaring up from the cove. I look round and see it turn into the lane leading to Wortalleth West. It’s a big red Mercedes convertible, with the roof down and music booming out. I see the driver and figure he must be Mike Coleman: ruddy-faced, lots of sun-bleached blond hair, a face like it’s been moulded from Plasticine. That’s when I realize. I’ve seen him before. At Wortalleth West.

  It was the last time I saw Harkness. He’s never turned up while I’ve been living in the house, though we’ve spoken a couple of times on the phone. Back last October, while Vera was still working for Harkness and I was helping out part-time, I heard him and Coleman arguing in the study, though I didn’t know who Coleman was then. I didn’t even catch his name. I didn’t know what they were arguing about either. Coleman did a lot of shouting, a lot of fucking this and fucking that. Harkness didn’t raise his voice much. He kept his cool, like he always does. I heard something smash just before Coleman stormed out. I remember what he bellowed back at
Harkness over his shoulder. ‘It’d be really nice if just for once I could get a straight fucking answer.’

  He was angry. He was like very angry. But when he noticed me he still spared a moment to look me up and down, getting to my face last of all. Oh, and he gave me what he obviously thought was a seductive smile. A lech, then, with a short temper. Yuck.

  I went into the study to see if Harkness needed anything. He was sitting calmly behind his desk. There was a broken glass on the floor and a pool of what smelt like whisky. I asked him if he wanted me to clear it up.

  The faraway expression he had on his face is how I always think of him. Grey hair, handsome features, velvety brown eyes, sixty plus but looking good on it. Poised. In control. Yeah. That’s Harkness. Never surprised. Never wrong-footed.

  ‘I’m going to have a swim later,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘You can do it then.’

  I prop my bike against the five-bar gate near Seven Pines bungalow. In the middle of the field is one of the old platforms for the Marconi masts. I feel relieved I’m not at Wortalleth West while Coleman’s there. It’ll be interesting to hear what Don makes of him.

  I perch on the top bar of the gate near the post and check Don’s phone. It takes a moment to get its act together. Then there’s incoming traffic.

  A text from Fran. Update me now please I don’t expect to have to ask again. Ouch. She doesn’t sound happy.

  There’s an email too. From Holly Walsh. Dear Mr Challenor, Ms Blake. Very formal. But prompt. And polite. I have always been willing to do everything I can to help Jane’s family learn the truth. I am not sure there is much I can contribute all these years after the event, but please feel free to contact me. She gives her phone number. No brush-off, then. No resistance. She’s open to an approach.

  I think about Andrew as I bike it back. He should’ve done this, whatever Muriel said. He shouldn’t have given up. Well, maybe we can do it for him.

  I don’t go straight back to the house. I want to give sleazy Coleman plenty of time to clear off. So, I drop down to Poldhu Cove and sit on the sand among the marram grass and the sea beet and let the breeze carry the cleansing scent of the ocean over me. There are children on the beach, laughing and screaming playfully, families relaxing in the sun, couples strolling, dogs scurrying. Everything’s ordinary, everything’s tranquil. I can almost believe it’s going to be all right.

  The burly, smirking bloke with too much beach-blond hair who emerged from the gleaming red Merc confirmed Don’s worst suspicions of Mike Coleman before he even said a word. He had also pulled up too close to the MG for Don’s peace of mind.

  An agonizingly powerful handshake followed, then the salesman’s patter about Sympergy Ltd. ‘We’re basically the face of renewables in the south-west, Don. The friendly face, as you can tell. Solar and wind farms, mostly. Plus initiatives in wave and tidal energy. It’s the way, the way ahead, trust me. We’re turning the future into the present.’

  Pioneering or not, Coleman struck Don as a classic product of the barrow-boy tradition. Pile ’em high and sell ’em cheap, whether they were solar panels or Gucci rip-offs. It took quite an effort to keep smiling and make appropriately impressed remarks about his business model. Don was surprised by his own resilience.

  ‘So,’ Coleman went on as they walked into the house, ‘you’ve got the job of shifting this place to top up Mona Harkness’s alimony, have you, Don?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Don replied, taking care to drain the irritation he felt out of his voice.

  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s a fucking amazing property. I’d be happy to have it as a seaside getaway.’ Coleman gazed up at the galleried landing.

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Oh yeah. A few times.’

  ‘On business?’

  ‘Well …’ Coleman smiled at Don. ‘Harkness and I have never exactly been buddies.’

  ‘I’m basing myself in the kitchen. Shall we?’ Don led the way.

  ‘Great. Any chance of a coffee? I’m seriously low on caffeine.’

  ‘No problem.’ Soon there were two double espressos between them as they stood by the breakfast bar.

  ‘Top of the range kit, I see.’ Coleman gestured towards the machine with his cup. ‘Only the best for Harkness.’

  ‘So, Mike,’ Don began, ‘your interest in the original plans for—’

  ‘The transfer to Mrs H is some kind of tax dodge, presumably,’ Coleman blithely butted in.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Don gave him a measured look. ‘It’s really none of my concern.’ Or yours, he could have added.

  ‘S’pose not. But Harkness is slippery as a fucking eel, isn’t he? His business partners are just beginning to find that out.’

  ‘I’ve never met the man.’

  ‘That probably explains why you’ve still got a shirt on your back.’ Coleman laughed. He appeared to have a high opinion of his sense of humour.

  Don smiled warily. ‘You said on the phone we might be able to help each other out. What did you mean?’

  ‘Well, I have a lot of connections, Don. A lot of affluent connections. Harkness isn’t the only rich bastard who likes to spend time down here. I’ve had dealings with quite a few of them. I could introduce you to the ones who might be interested in swapping their marginally less stylish homes from home for this place.’

  ‘I guess that could be useful.’ Don guessed no such thing, but he judged it best to draw Coleman out.

  ‘Now, you’re probably wondering what I want in return for a bespoke referral service. Cooperation, Don. That’s what I need. See, a few years ago, when as far as I know Harkness was still the legal owner of Wortalleth West, he hired Sympergy to set up a big solar array in a field he’d rented just half a mile or so inland from here, providing him with an exclusive power supply. It was supplemented by photovoltaic film installed on the south-facing walls of the house and garage block.’

  ‘What film?’ asked Don, suddenly curious. ‘I didn’t notice any.’

  ‘Good.’ Coleman grinned. ‘It’s intended to be inconspicuous. Ground-breaking stuff, actually. Transparent and less than a millimetre thick. Based on oligomer cells rather than silicon. We’ve always been ahead of the competition, as Harkness obviously appreciated. Still, I couldn’t help wondering why he needed so much electricity, especially when he also bought through us a radical new design of flow battery. It was the same story as it was for the PV film. We were the sole UK source, so he had no choice about buying the battery from us. Big beast it was too. Shed-loads of kilowatt hours. And pricey with it. But perfect back-up for when the sun don’t shine, which is all too fucking often in my experience. Flow batteries have it over lithium ion because—’ Coleman broke off and squinted at Don. ‘Am I losing you, Don?’

  ‘Battery technology’s not exactly my field, Mike.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll just give you the bottom line, then. Harkness tied up an independent power supply for this property that’s totally fucking excessive. I was happy to oblige, naturally, but it doesn’t make a scrap of sense. For instance, where is the flow battery? It was a full rack of modules, about the height of this room. Where did he put it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ That was not exactly true. An obvious answer had already occurred to Don. But he had no intention of telling Coleman about the panic room. ‘And to be honest—’

  ‘You don’t care, right? But maybe you should. See, I was hoping for a bit of publicity out of the deal. Pharmaceuticals billionaire sees benefits of renewables and calls in the best in the business. You get the drift? But I couldn’t get Harkness to play ball. I hadn’t dealt with him direct on the contractual front. The arrangements had been made by this guy Schmitz at Harkness HQ in Switzerland. Then Schmitz suddenly becomes uncontactable and Harkness’s HR outfit tell me they’ve never heard of him. I’d only ever communicated with him by email and when I checked the paperwork I discovered the bills hadn’t been paid by Harkness Pharmaceuticals. It had all been done th
rough some Swiss shell company. Anyhow, the money for maintenance of the system kept on coming, so you could ask what the fuck was I complaining about. Then Harkness gets arrested and accused of bribery, embezzlement and Christ knows what and I can’t help wondering if Herr Schmitz and a deniable little off-the-books operation isn’t part of something bigger. See what I mean?’

  ‘It certainly sounds odd.’

  ‘What I’m suggesting, Don …’ Coleman leant closer and lowered his voice, though since they were alone in the house the precaution seemed unnecessary. ‘Is you and me take a good look round this house, find where the battery is and what it’s powering, then consider whether we couldn’t do well for ourselves by selling the information to these Quintagler people in the States. I don’t know what Harkness has been up to here. It’s all deeply weird. I reckon he arranged for the original plans of the house to go missing to stop the likes of me finding out what it is. But if we can figure it out, Don, you and me …’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Then I reckon there’s money to be made. A lot of money. For both of us.’

  ‘You’ll have to count me out, Mike.’ Don tried to pitch his voice somewhere between reluctance and regret. ‘I can’t imagine Mrs Harkness – or her lawyer – approving of anything like that.’

  ‘They don’t need to know anything about it.’

  ‘It would simply be unethical.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, man, you’re not a priest in holy orders.’ Coleman looked incredulous that Don had said no to his proposition. ‘You’re an estate agent!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be happy about acting against her best interests.’

  ‘She might actually approve of blackening Harkness’s name. Think about it.’

  ‘Or she might not. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t approve of us nosing around here without her knowledge or consent.’