‘The guy Mona’s lawyer sent to survey the house found a void of some kind behind the master-bedroom closet, extending downstairs.’
‘Did he now?’
‘So … what is it?’
‘There’s no panic room in the house, Blake. You have my word. I let you live there because I trusted you to leave everything of mine well alone. And you have, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ I look him in the eye. I don’t want him to think I’ve been poking and prying. And there’s just the hint of a threat in his voice. You better not have. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. Enough said, then. Any other questions?’
He’s not going to be pushed. That’s clear. He’s not going to be riled either. That’s also clear. ‘There have been some strange characters hanging around.’
‘Besides the guy Mona’s lawyer sent down?’
‘I didn’t mean him.’
‘Who, then?’
‘An American called French. With some Russian sidekick. Zlenko.’
‘I don’t know them.’ He’s got to be lying about that, specially if Zlenko worked for Drishkov, like Perkins says he did. But I can’t mention Drishkov without revealing I’ve been doing some serious checking up on Harkness, so I bite my tongue. ‘I’m afraid Quintagler have set quite a few unsavoury types on my tail. I’m sorry if you ran into a couple of them. No wonder you decided to leave. Probably wise in the circumstances.’
‘Then there’s that renewables salesman, Coleman.’
Harkness sighs. ‘A major pain. Sorry again.’
‘And Wynsum Fry.’
‘Ah. The witch. I’d almost be disappointed if you didn’t mention her.’
‘She thinks you murdered her brother.’
He laughs. ‘I know. Absurd, isn’t it? What possible reason could I have had to kill Jory Fry?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There you are, then.’ But there could be a reason. I get that if nothing else. He could have had a reason.
‘I lived at Andrew Glasson’s house in Helston before I moved into Wortalleth West. You know that, of course.’
‘Yes. Which brings us, I suppose, to the witch’s even more absurd belief that I had a hand in the disappearance of Glasson’s daughter.’
‘You didn’t though, did you?’
‘What do you think?’ The question is a dare as well as a challenge.
‘You did know her, right?’
‘Slightly. She worked as a waitress at a café in Mullion. It closed before you came to the area.’
‘That was it? You didn’t know her otherwise?’
He smiles. ‘She was twenty years younger than me, Blake. What are you suggesting?’
Yeah. What am I suggesting? ‘Apparently, Jane had strong environmentalist principles.’
He nods. ‘She did. She told me about them a few times.’ While serving him coffee at Sea Breeze? There’s the hint of a contradiction here, but he doesn’t seem to care. I can’t make out whether he wants to brush me off or draw me in. ‘She didn’t approve of the pharmaceuticals business, to put it mildly.’
‘So, there’s no way she could’ve worked for you, is there?’
He chuckles, amused by the idea, apparently. ‘We wouldn’t appear to have much in common.’ There’s the ambiguity again. He hasn’t given me a flat-out denial.
‘No. You wouldn’t.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive, of course. But can you imagine any way in which they could be as deceptive as that?’
I shake my head. ‘Not really.’ And I can’t. But I can’t get rid of the idea that there might be.
‘Is there something bothering you that you haven’t mentioned yet, Blake? Only I don’t want us to miss the best of the light.’ He glances over his shoulder towards the window.
‘The light?’
‘It’s gorgeous just now. The first softening at the onset of evening. Come up on to the roof with me. The city looks beautiful from up there.’ He jumps up and refills his wine glass. He pours more wine into my glass as well. ‘We can take our drinks. And this.’ He grabs his phone from the low table in front of the sofa and sets off.
I follow. I’m not sure I should. The roof sounds kind of worrying. I don’t feel frightened or even threatened by Harkness. But I wonder if actually I should. There’s just so much about the guy I don’t understand. He doesn’t seem to do anger. He hasn’t tried to patronize or intimidate me. He’s treated me almost like his equal. Maybe that’s what should worry me.
We go up two more flights of stairs, the second flight much narrower than the others. We’re in the attic now. The rooms are bare, though there’s a stack of cardboard boxes in one. Beyond the stack, beneath a dormer window, a stepladder’s standing ready. Harkness climbs up on it, opens the window and steps out into the gully behind the low parapet at the front of the house.
‘Are you coming?’ he calls back.
I climb out after him. He offers me a hand, but I don’t take it. He smiles and sits down sideways on the parapet, one knee raised. Sunlight gleams in his glass.
‘Great, isn’t it?’
The light’s got a golden, fuzzy tinge to it. The garden in the centre of the square is half in shadow. The lowering sun has bathed the whole city to the east in a sort of soft mellowness. There are all the buildings I can’t name and just a few I can. There are all the thousands and thousands of rooftops and the millions and millions of people beneath them.
But not a single one of those people is in sight. Except Jack Harkness. We’re utterly alone. He sips his wine as the feathery breeze stirs his hair. He squints into the distance. Then he looks up at me, where I stand, trying not to notice the long sheer drop beyond the parapet to the basement area five floors below.
‘How’s the funky furniture business going?’ he asks.
I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have expected him to know what I do to earn some bread. ‘How’d you hear about that?’
‘The Web.’
‘I’m not on it.’
‘Yes you are. You just don’t know it. Everyone is. We can’t move in this world without leaving a trace. Unless we’re very very careful. And you haven’t been quite careful enough.’
It’s the first hint of something faintly menacing. He’s still smiling, still amiable. But there’s a shadow stretching towards me that distorts and lengthens his posture into something almost predatory.
‘I assume you don’t have any savings,’ he says quietly.
‘I don’t even have a bank account to put my savings in – if I had any, which I don’t.’
‘That can easily be remedied. You haven’t put down many roots, have you, Blake?’
‘No, Jack,’ I say, trying to keep a grip on where we’re going. ‘I haven’t.’
‘I’m not going to ask why. I’m not going to ask anything at all about your past.’
‘OK.’ I get the disturbing idea he doesn’t have to ask – that he already knows.
‘I like you. As a matter of fact, I admire you. But poverty’s no fun, Blake. Even at your age.’
‘I get by.’
‘You should do more than that. Grasp the opportunity you’ve been given. Travel. See the world. Taste its pleasures – while they’re still there to be tasted.’
‘Are they going somewhere?’
‘We’re wrecking the planet, Blake. Haven’t you heard? We’re in a new geological era: the Anthropocene. Man is shaping the future. And it’s not a future you’ll want to live in. Heat. Drought. Famine. Thirst. War. Conflict. And extinction for thousands, maybe millions of other species. Deforestation. Desertification. Hell and damnation. Here’s to us. All of us.’ He takes a swig of wine. ‘What I’m saying is: enjoy yourself while you can.’
It should seem strange to hear a pharmaceuticals billionaire talking this way after all the chemicals his company has shoved into the biosphere over the last twenty years. But somehow it doesn’t. ‘Where’s the opportunity you reckon I should grasp?’ I ask.
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, her name’s Ingrid Denner. My fellow Board members at Harkness Pharmaceuticals have hired a New York crisis management firm she works for to limit the damage caused to the company by my difficulties with the US Justice authorities. The decision was taken in my absence. A waste of money in my opinion, but hey ho. Anyway, Ingrid’s over here handling the London end of the operation. Staying at the Dorchester, which doesn’t come cheap, of course. Now, one of her roles is to stop people passing embarrassing or compromising information to the press. Her usual method is a substantial cash payment in return for a signed non-disclosure agreement.’
‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘Maybe you’ve come across some revealing documents while you’ve been living at Wortalleth West. I’ll tell her it’s all too likely.’ He flourishes his phone. ‘She won’t want to take any risks. It can be a nice pay day for you, Blake.’ He grins. ‘I wouldn’t settle for anything less than fifty thousand if I were you.’ His grin broadens. ‘You can do a lot of globetrotting with that.’
He’s joking. He’s got to be. But, looking at him, I don’t think he is. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’ He waggles the phone. ‘Want me to make the call?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Come on. Why miss out? I can make this happen. I really can.’
‘Are you trying to bribe me?’
‘No.’ He smiles at me like he’s exasperated. ‘I’m trying to do you a favour. Quite a big favour, actually. But I’ve always been generous. And whatever Quintagler or my fellow directors say, it’s my money, so why shouldn’t I spend it how I like?’
‘If I took it, they’d think I really did know something.’
‘Not at all. Ingrid operates on a precautionary basis. And the Board’s given her carte blanche. As long as you keep out of their hair, they won’t be interested. Besides, with that sort of capital to play with, you can go wherever the mood takes you. You can … disappear.’
I catch his eye. ‘Like Jane Glasson?’
He sets the phone down on the parapet and looks at me with an expression I can truly only describe as protective. ‘The offer’s open, Blake. Go and see Ingrid. Or don’t. It’s your call. She’ll contact me if you do and I’ll tell her she’d be wise to offer you a substantial settlement. That’s all there is to it. No strings. No traps. No treacherous small print. This is something that seems too good to be true, but really is true.’ He smiles. ‘And as for disappearing, I didn’t mean literally.’
‘How could you?’ I meet his gaze and engage with it. ‘No one – like – literally disappears, do they?’
He smiles. ‘No. They don’t.’
‘Why would you want to make me rich, Jack?’
The smile broadens. ‘Fifty thousand isn’t rich, Blake.’
‘It is for me.’
‘Good. Then take it. Or hold out for more. If that’s how you decide to play it. Either way, use it. Have fun. On me.’
‘You really mean it, don’t you?’
He nods, holding the smile. ‘I don’t know why you even need to think about it.’
‘I always look before I leap.’
‘Good policy. But don’t look too long.’ He glances away, across the square. ‘There’s a lot of world out there for you to explore. You should get started. Take the money … and run with it.’
When I walk away from the house, Harkness is still perched up on the parapet, wine glass in hand, surveying the world from his roof. I can’t see the expression on his face, of course, but I bet he’s smiling. He does a lot of that, even though most people would say the guy has nothing to smile about.
I don’t get him. I just don’t understand him at all. But he doesn’t mean me to. He’s got some kind of secret agenda. You get the feeling everything’s turning out just like he’s planned.
I’m not in his way. I’m not a problem. Unless I want to be.
Not turning myself into one has become a much more attractive option, of course, thanks to him offering to arrange for Ingrid Denner to buy me off. He says it’d be easy and I believe him.
Money’s money. I can put myself a long way away from everything with fifty thousand quid. It’s tempting – just like he knew it would be. But the problem is … what is he trying to stop me doing? And does this mean I’m closer to the truth than he wants me to be?
I walk round the Wellington Arch and the war memorials at Hyde Park Corner, wondering what I should do. Don wants me to give up looking for the truth. Harkness is happy to reward me for giving up. All I have to do is talk my way into a pay-out from Ingrid the crisis management consultant and then … I’m free to go anywhere and do anything.
The Dorchester Hotel is just a short walk away up Park Lane. I can’t ignore Harkness’s offer. I can’t pretend he didn’t make it. Or that I didn’t like the look of the future he dangled in front of me.
Seeing Ingrid Denner isn’t the same as taking the deal. I can get the measure of her without committing myself. I can listen to what she has to say and tell her I’ll think about it. Discussion isn’t decision. And who knows what I’ll learn from her?
I’ve got to give it a go. In the end, it’s obvious. There’s no other choice that makes any sense.
I walk into the foyer of the Dorchester trying to look like grand hotels are my natural turf. There’s a lot of gleaming marble, a lot of high fashion, a lot of uniformed deference.
I tell the guy behind the desk I’ve come to see Ingrid Denner. He’s very polite and as helpful as he can be. But Ms Denner, he says, is out. She’s left instructions, however, that if anything urgent crops up, he can call her on her mobile. Is this urgent? You bet.
He’s standing with the phone to his ear, waiting for Ingrid to answer, when someone pops up beside me and says, ‘Excuse me. I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re here to see Ingrid Denner?’
He’s a medium-height, medium-build guy in a suit like a hundred others I’ve already seen today. The suit’s grey and his skin matches, like he puts in a lot more time in an office than out in the sun. He’s wearing a tie, but the knot’s loose. He’s bald, with what hair he’s got left shaven. He looks about forty-five. There are lines round his eyes and mouth. The eyes are a nice dark brown, ever so slightly enlarged by his rimless specs. I get a feeling of sadness – and wariness. He’s spoken to me, but he’s not sure he should’ve.
‘Thing is,’ he goes on, licking his lips nervously, ‘so am I. I wondered—’
‘Ah, Ms Denner,’ says the guy behind the desk. ‘Anton here, from the Dorchester.’
‘Can we talk?’ asks the Suit.
‘There’s a young lady who wishes to see you on a matter that’s evidently quite pressing. Her name? Excuse me.’ Anton looks at me enquiringly.
‘Tell her Harkness sent me to see her,’ I say, dodging the question.
‘Is that true?’ asks the Suit.
‘What’s it to you?’ I fire back.
‘Jack Harkness seems to have a lot of secrets. Are you one of them?’
‘Are you?’
‘Ms Denner would still like to know your name, Miss …?’ Anton puts in after conferring with Ingrid.
‘My name’s Gareth Lawler,’ says the Suit. He’s sensed my reluctance to identify myself. But what he can’t have sensed is the difference this name is going to make to me.
‘Gareth Lawler?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Miss?’ Anton says with a touch of impatience.
‘Where were you twenty-two years ago, Gareth?’ I ask, already sure I know the answer.
‘Why d’you—’
‘Just tell me.’
The forcefulness of my interruption makes him take a step back and blink at me. ‘OK. I was a student. King’s College, Cambridge.’
‘You’re right. We should talk.’ I look round at Anton. ‘Sorry. Tell Ms Denner something’s come up. I’ll get back to her.’
We stand out the front of the hotel, where the taxis pick up and drop of
f and the doorman hovers. Gareth looks a bit better in the open air, less grey, less woebegone. He’s still nervous, though. He keeps glancing round, as if he’s afraid someone’s spying on him.
‘You were Jane Glasson’s boyfriend at Cambridge, weren’t you?’ I ask.
He shakes his head in mystification. ‘How the fuck d’you know that?’
‘What d’you want with Ingrid Denner?’
Gareth runs his hand over his shaven head. ‘Were you actually alive twenty-two years ago?’
‘Yeah. The last summer before primary school. Definitely alive.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Blake.’
‘That’s it? Just … Blake?’
‘That’s my name.’
‘What’s your connection with Jane?’
‘Why don’t we go and get a drink somewhere?’ I don’t want to lose Gareth now I’ve found him. I can’t risk frightening him off. Maybe a drink will help.
‘Well …’
‘You said you wanted to talk.’
He takes a deep breath. Then: ‘OK. There’s a pub up the road. Let’s go there.’
We set off. There’s a church up ahead, with a clock showing the time. It’s nearly eight. Don will be wondering where I am. Gareth lights a cigarette and offers me one. I don’t take it. ‘No one seems to smoke actual cigarettes any more,’ he says as he coughs out a lungful of smoke. ‘I gave up myself, until …’ His voice tails off.
‘Until?’
‘I need to know who you are, Blake, before we …’
‘Andrew Glasson’s ex-housekeeper.’
‘You worked for Jane’s father?’
‘Ever met him?’
‘Er, yeah. He came up to Cambridge with Jane’s mother after she …’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Did Harkness really send you to see Ingrid Denner?’
‘I’ve been working as his housekeeper too. In Cornwall.’
‘So, what’s your …’
‘Buy me a drink and we can tell each other all about it.’ I smile encouragingly at him. I need to get inside his head. I need to find out what he knows. But he has to want to tell me. And I have to make him want to tell me.
‘OK,’ he says, though he’s still hesitant. ‘OK.’
Panic Room Page 19
