‘OK.’ Coleman flung up his hands. His eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Have it your way. I get the message. You don’t want anything to do with it.’
‘I’m afraid not. Sorry, but there it is.’
‘Well, I may as well take a look around on my own account while I’m here.’ Coleman drained his espresso, then headed for the door. ‘There’s a basement, right? I’ll start with that.’
For a moment, Don was too surprised to react. Then he hurried after Coleman. ‘Hold on.’ When Coleman did not oblige, Don laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘I said hold on.’
‘I heard you.’ Coleman turned and glared. ‘Thing is, Don, I don’t plan on passing up this opportunity to find out what Harkness has been using Sympergy technology for. Could be a secret self-contained accounting system for his nefarious deals. That’d definitely be a tradable asset. Which might also get me some of the publicity the elusive Herr Schmitz originally implied would be mine for the asking. So, unless you intend to try and stop me – which I really wouldn’t recommend – I suggest you just let me get on with it.’ He switched his glare to a superior smile. ‘OK?’
Don never got the chance to respond, because at that moment Glenys Probert walked into the doorway behind Coleman. She was in her gardening kit and was carrying a hoe, which the steely expression on her face suggested she was capable of using for more than weeding if she had to.
‘Don?’ she said, with an upward tilt of her eyebrows. The use of his Christian name seemed calculated to imply an acquaintance between them that did not in reality exist.
‘Hello, Glenys,’ said Don, playing along.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded Coleman. She was blocking his way, so he could hardly ignore her.
‘I’m on the staff here, Mr Coleman. Comings and goings aren’t usually anything to do with me, but they can be if they need to be.’
The implication of Glenys’s words was clear. And it looked to Don as if she would be willing to back them up. It must have looked the same to Coleman, because much of his bluster suddenly left him. ‘Dunno what you’re talking about. I was just having a chat with Don here.’
‘I reckon we’ve said all we needed to say, haven’t we, Mike?’ Don suggested in a tone of sweet reason.
Coleman’s lip curled. He was not ready to take both of them on. ‘S’pose so,’ he conceded. ‘For the moment.’
‘I’ll see you out, then.’
Glenys stepped aside and Coleman set off at a moody plod towards the front door, with Don in close attendance. Nothing was said as they crossed the hall, though Coleman shot several suspicious glances around him, as if he might spot what he was looking for at every step.
At the door, he stopped and treated Don to a hostile stare. ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he said sullenly.
‘Is that so?’ Don leant past him and opened the door. ‘Well, thanks for dropping by.’
Don waited until Coleman’s Mercedes had roared off down the drive before he returned to the kitchen. Glenys, however, was nowhere to be seen. Exiting through the rear door, he spotted her up by her pick-up, in front of the garage block. He waved to her as he approached, but if she acknowledged the wave at all it was with the faintest of nods.
She was smoking a roll-up and drinking tea from a plastic Thermos mug. ‘He’s gone, then,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘You seemed to know him.’
‘Better than I know you. Seen him here a couple of times. And I’ve seen him drunk in St Keverne on Ox Roast Day. Likes the sound of his own voice does that one. And getting his own way.’
‘Thanks for, er …’
‘No need to thank me. I was looking out for Blake. Told her I’d call in today and see she was all right. Thought she might be in the house. Recognized Coleman’s car. Decided to take a look.’
‘Glad you did.’
‘He’s a bully. I know how to handle bullies.’
‘So I saw.’
‘Where’s Blake?’
‘She’ll be back soon. She’s fine.’
‘She should leave here.’
‘So I keep telling her.’
‘She likes you.’ Glenys ran her eye over Don as if he was a shrub that did not suit the local soil. ‘And she trusts you.’
‘Really?’
‘Right to, is she?’
‘I hope so.’
Glenys nodded. ‘So do I.’
‘What can you tell me about Harkness, Glenys?’
‘He pays me regular as clockwork. Must make me more or less unique, from what I read about him.’
‘A man of secrets?’
‘Of a good many, I dare say.’
‘D’you think he killed Jory Fry?’
‘No sense asking me. No sense you asking at all. I garden. You sell houses. Stick to what you know, Don, that’s my advice. As for Harkness …’ She drew thoughtfully on her roll-up and narrowed her gaze. ‘You’ve never met him and you probably know him as well as those who reckon they’re close friends of his. He’s not someone who can be known.’ She nodded in evident satisfaction with her analysis of Harkness’s character. ‘That’s his real secret.’
When I get back to Wortalleth West, I find Glenys strimming a lawn edge while Don stares at a wall – literally. Glenys doesn’t break off, just gives me a nod that tells me she’s satisfied I’m all right. As for Don, I have to pat him on the shoulder to get his attention above the roar of the strimmer.
‘If it had just been painted, I’d have guessed you were watching it dry,’ I say as he whirls round.
‘Have you ever looked at this?’ he responds, gesturing with his working thumb.
‘At the wall?’
‘No. At the photovoltaic film on it.’
‘The what?’
‘See?’ Don takes my hand and guides my fingers over the surface. It’s smooth and, I realize, plastic: a clear layer of the stuff over the white render beneath.
‘I wouldn’t have noticed that. What is it?’
The roar of the strimmer dies as I’m speaking, so I end up sounding as if I’m shouting. Don smiles. ‘It works like a solar panel. Harkness bought the system from Coleman’s company, along with a massive back-up battery. He seems to need a lot of electricity. Coleman wanted to know where the battery is.’
‘But Don sent him packing,’ says Glenys, walking up behind me.
‘Actually, Glenys sent him packing,’ Don says shamefacedly.
I turn and look at Glenys. Her expression gives nothing away. ‘I know how to deal with his type,’ she says.
‘Any news?’ Don asks.
I tell him Holly Walsh is willing to see us. I don’t tell him I’ve already arranged for her to see us. That can wait a little.
‘I’ll be off now,’ says Glenys. I get the strange feeling she knows I’ve spoken to Holly and said Don and I will go and see her – knows and is pleased. It’ll get me away from Wortalleth West, of course – at least for a while. ‘Give me a call if you’re going anywhere, won’t you?’ She looks slyly at me. ‘Just so I know I don’t have to worry about what’s happening here.’
We go into the house and I make tea. I ask Don how he’s feeling. He says the nausea seems to have stopped and his wrist doesn’t ache so badly, though that could be due to the paracetamols he’s been packing down. I show him Holly Walsh’s email and he fills me in on Coleman. He doesn’t say what I know he must be thinking. The battery’s in the panic room. All this electricity is to power something in there. Maybe Coleman’s on the right track, even though he doesn’t know where it leads. Or maybe not. You don’t need much power to maintain secret financial records, do you? The way I see it, the power’s got to be for something else, something bigger. I reckon that’s how Don sees it too, though he doesn’t straight out say as much.
We take the tea out to the table by the swimming pool. The sunshine is warm and mellow. It’s time to tell him. I can’t put it off any longer. ‘I phoned Holly Walsh, Don. I spoke to her. And I made a date for us
to go and see her. Tomorrow.’
He’s surprised, to put it mildly. That wasn’t part of the deal as he remembers it. And he’s right. But when I read Holly’s email again, sitting down at the cove, I suddenly thought: why wait? All this agonizing about whether to stay or leave. All this fretting about the panic room. Not to mention Wynsum fucking Fry. I’m not good at waiting things out. Never have been. Let’s get on with it. If I can find out what really happened to Jane Glasson – whether or not Harkness is involved – it’d count for something. And maybe go a little way to making up for something else. So, I called Holly. Like I go on to tell Don, she sounded nice. Kind. Concerned. Still very concerned, in fact, about her long-missing friend. I explained my connection to the Glasson family and why Andrew felt he couldn’t contact her. I didn’t say exactly what we want to ask her about, but she guessed anyway. ‘I know what you’re wondering,’ she said. ‘I’ve wondered too.’ There was a silence her end then. I didn’t rush her. I let her get her head round whatever it was that made her hesitate. I wasn’t sure she was alone. I couldn’t quite read her by her voice. Then she said, ‘I don’t think I can talk about this now.’ I said I understood, though I didn’t really. How about if we visited her? I said Don was a friend who also knew the Glassons, which is kind of true. I said we wouldn’t put any pressure on her. I did a better job than Don would have if he’d called her, that’s for sure. I can see that thought forming reluctantly in his mind as he listens to me.
‘So,’ he says when he’s calmed down, ‘you talked her round.’
‘I did.’
‘I suppose I should say, “Well done.”’
‘You should.’
‘When’s she expecting us?’
‘When we get there.’
‘And where’s “there”?’
‘Brockenhurst. New Forest.’
‘That’s a lot further than I can drive as things are.’ He raises his right hand. ‘Have you forgotten this?’
‘No. Which is why we should call on Wynsum Fry this evening.’
Don groans. ‘Christ, no.’
‘You agreed earlier.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I gave in earlier, you mean.’
‘If you don’t believe she has special powers, talking to her can’t do any harm, can it?’
He’s got no answer to that. Except the wrist. ‘She lives in Helston, right? I’m not sure I can get even that far.’
‘No probs. I can drive us.’
Don frowns. ‘I thought you said you couldn’t drive.’
‘Did I?’
He nods. ‘Yes. You did.’
‘I meant I haven’t driven. Much. Lately. But … yeah, I can drive.’ I remember the practice runs out along the Redditch road with Terry, the only one of Mum’s boyfriends I liked, which is probably why he didn’t last long. The countryside was pretty scrabby, but it was for sure better than the inside of our house. ‘You’ll have a car of your own one day,’ Terry used to say. He never was any good at prediction. It was probably lucky for him Mum chucked him out. But not for me. Because that’s when—
‘How’s your little finger feel, Blake?’ Don asks.
‘My little finger?’ He’s lost me. ‘Fine. Why?’
‘It should feel quite tight. With me wrapped round it.’
‘Come on, Don. You know this makes sense.’ I force a smile out of him.
‘You leaving here makes sense. What we’ll learn from Holly Walsh and what good it’ll do I don’t know. But OK. We’ll go and see her. As for Wynsum Fry …’ He shrugs. ‘Have it your way.’
‘Great.’
‘The New Forest’s more than a day trip, though. Whoever’s driving.’
‘I guess we’ll have to stay over somewhere.’
‘And then?’
‘Dunno. Depends, doesn’t it?’
He drinks his tea and looks at me over the rim of the mug. I can see what he’s thinking. Once he’s got me away from Wortalleth West, it’s job done. He won’t be bringing me back. He won’t be coming back himself either. Not if he can help it. This’ll be out for both of us.
It might be true. I’m not sure, though. It doesn’t feel like out to me. It feels like further in.
Don sets his mug down on the table. He’s about to say something. But a sound from the open doorway leading back towards the kitchen stops him. It’s the telephone.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it, Don?’ Blake asked, looking across the table at him.
‘You could answer it,’ Don retorted. ‘You move faster than I do.’
Blake shuddered. ‘I don’t want to end up talking to French again.’
‘Let whoever it is leave a message, then.’
‘That phone doesn’t take messages.’
The ringing continued. The caller was not giving up in a hurry. Eventually and reluctantly, Don stood up and marched into the house.
He reached the kitchen. The telephone was still ringing. He waited another moment, hoping it would stop. But it did not. He grabbed the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Don.’ It was Fran. Don winced.
‘Hi, Fran. I’ve been meaning to get back to you.’
‘Have you really?’
‘Yes. I’ve just been, er … rather busy.’
‘So have I.’ Fran’s voice had an extra ratchet of tightness to it that Don recognized as not boding well. ‘Mr Matheson of Home Security Electronics has been on to me. The technician he sent to look at the panic room ended up in hospital. He’s trying to blame me. Apparently, the technician claims he was harassed by two men after leaving Wortalleth West.’
‘That could be true.’
‘What the hell’s going on, Don? Why are you still there? Why haven’t you responded to my calls?’
‘I’ve been busy trying to deal with a … volatile situation.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You should’ve warned me this wasn’t a straightforward job, Fran. From what I hear, you’re closer to Harkness than his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s solicitor’s got any right to be.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’ve been seen with him.’
‘Says who?’
Don was about to reply when doubt suddenly sprang into his mind. Was this phone line secure? Was anything secure? ‘I can’t get into that now,’ he said hurriedly. ‘The point is you’ve put me in the middle of a serious mess. I’m not sure you understand just how serious either.’
‘Have you got rid of the cleaner yet?’
‘Never mind about Blake. She’s an innocent bystander.’
‘She’s a problem you’re supposed to have solved. And where are we with this panic-room nonsense?’
‘It’s not nonsense.’
‘Am I going to have your report on Monday morning?’
Since Don had not done any work on the report since measuring the rooms and taking a few photographs, the honest answer to Fran’s question was no. He plumped for something more evasive. ‘There could be some slippage on that.’
‘Slippage? You’re not being paid for slippage. The job I asked you to do is remarkably simple. Why haven’t you done it?’
‘There’s nothing simple about it, Fran, as I suspect you know.’
‘I certainly don’t.’
‘You have to—’
‘No,’ Fran cut in, her tone ominously clipped. ‘I don’t have to anything. I gave you this job as a favour, Don.’
‘Some favour.’
‘Obviously, I should’ve known better. Very well. You’re no longer acting for my client in this matter. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Hold on. I—’
‘I’ll email you confirmation of the cancellation of your engagement.’
‘But—’
But nothing. Fran had rung off.
Don slammed the phone back down and mentally waved goodbye to two and a half thousand pounds – and maybe a lot more. ‘Shit,’ he murmured to himself.
Then the telephone
rang again. Don smiled. Fran must have regretted giving him the boot. He snatched the receiver from the hook.
‘Hi, Fran.’
‘It’s not Fran, Don,’ said Amos French in his flat, frayed-around-the-edges voice.
Don groaned silently. ‘What do you want?’
‘Progress. Got any to report?’
‘No,’ Don replied dolefully, his capacity for prevarication drained.
‘What’s the news on the panic room?’
‘There isn’t any. It may not even be a panic room. If it is, it’s got no bearing on what you’re after.’
‘That so?’
‘Money stolen by the likes of Harkness ends up in tax-haven bank accounts. Grand Cayman. Panama. Liechtenstein. That kind of place. There aren’t going to be ziggurats of cash stashed in a hidey-hole in the man’s Cornish holiday home.’
‘Ziggurats? Kinda high-flown imagery for you, Don.’
‘I can’t help you. I explained that when we met.’
‘Do I strike you as the sort of guy who relies on folk to volunteer their help?’
Don drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘I haven’t got the information you want and I can’t see any way of getting it. You should be looking elsewhere.’
‘I don’t necessarily disagree with you there. In fact, I am looking elsewhere. If I find what I need, I’ll likely cut you out of the loop, which means you’ll miss out on a big pay day. But, hey, it’s not as if you need the money, is it? Or have I got that wrong?’
‘I’ll survive, thanks,’ Don said leadenly.
‘Don’t be too sure. Survival isn’t some kind of default position. You’ve got to work at it. How much does Blake know, Don? That’s what you oughta ask yourself. D’you want to find out? Or d’you want me to? If I draw a blank with these other leads and have to circle back to Wortalleth West, she and I will have to have a talk. Which is an experience you might want to spare her.’
‘She can’t help you any more than I can.’
‘Wish I could take your word for that. As it is …’ Silence echoed down the line. Then French said, almost in an undertone, ‘I’ll catch you later.’ And he was gone.
Don walked slowly back out to the poolside table, where Blake was waiting. He slumped down in the chair. ‘Fran,’ he said glumly. ‘And French.’
Panic Room Page 12
