Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  Gareth opened up his bag and took out a small black tile about a centimetre square which he laid on the coffee-table. ‘This,’ he announced, ‘is what they call a sapper. It’s magnetic. All you have to do is attach it to Ingrid Denner’s laptop. It won’t be obvious against the black of the case. As soon as she logs on, I can remotely access all her files, including whatever she has on Jane.’

  ‘Assuming she has anything.’

  ‘There’ll be something,’ said Blake, glancing sharply at Don.

  ‘She knew I was barking up the right tree,’ said Gareth, sounding confident on the point. ‘That’s why she made the offer she did. But I turned her down, so she’ll be suspicious of me.’ He looked at Blake. ‘She won’t be suspicious of you.’

  ‘It’ll still involve quite a bit of sleight of hand,’ Don objected. ‘And a lot of luck. What if la Denner doesn’t bring her laptop along when Blake meets her – or keeps it buried in her bag the whole time?’

  ‘I’m betting she’s never parted from it,’ said Gareth.

  ‘You’re betting? That’s it?’

  ‘She’ll have it with her, Don,’ said Blake. ‘She’s bound to. As for me planting the sapper on it, that’s where you come in.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘You’ll be close by. If it looks like we need to seriously divert her attention for me to get at the laptop, you’ll have to do the diverting.’

  ‘Any ideas how?’

  ‘Not yet. We don’t know where I’ll be meeting her. But we’ll come up with something.’

  ‘Even if we do, she’s sure to notice the sapper sooner or later.’

  ‘I’ll only need a few seconds,’ said Gareth.

  ‘But she’s bound to suspect you’re behind it.’

  ‘It won’t matter by then. We’ll have what we need. Call her now.’ Gareth was clearly eager to get on with it. ‘Let’s see if she bites.’

  ‘I need to use your phone, Don,’ said Blake. He handed it over. ‘Harkness didn’t give me Ingrid’s number. But we can get hold of her at the Dorchester.’

  ‘I’ve got her number,’ said Gareth.

  ‘But I haven’t.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ said Don, treating Gareth to a superior grin.

  Ingrid Denner has returned to the Dorchester. The hotel puts me through to her room. I imagine a glammed-up ball-breaker in some over-the-top suite. The voice kind of fits. Very American, as Gareth said.

  ‘You called by earlier, evidently,’ said Ingrid in a slightly echoey voice. ‘Who was the guy you went off with?’

  ‘He said his name was Lawler. But I didn’t go off with him. I just sensed it would be best to speak to you without him hanging around.’ Gareth looks anxious at the turn the conversation’s already taken. Don doesn’t look exactly optimistic either. But I know how to play this.

  ‘Did he say what he wanted with me?’

  ‘No. And I didn’t ask. I concentrated on shaking him off.’

  ‘Good girl.’ It sounds like she believes me. But I guess that’s part of her job. ‘Harkness has spoken to me about you.’

  ‘Has he?’ He didn’t say he would. But maybe he wanted to find out if I’d contacted Ingrid after all. Or maybe he was just trying to help me. I have no idea what his real motives are.

  ‘I dunno exactly what you hope to get out of this, Blake.’

  ‘A fresh start, I guess.’

  ‘Well, there probably is something I can do for you. But don’t get your hopes up unrealistically.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I can meet you tomorrow morning. Early.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘There’s a café in North Audley Street called Le Truc Vert. I’ll see you at one of the pavement tables at nine o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘You better be. I won’t wait.’

  Don could not deny Blake had managed her telephone conversation with Ingrid Denner artfully. Nor, having promised to, could he refuse to play his part in the stunt she planned to pull the following morning. Blake did not tell him what exactly she had in mind until Gareth had left.

  They had Gareth’s phone number, but, as Don reflected, they knew precious little else about his current existence. He lived in Clapham, though they did not have his address. He worked in the oil industry, though for which company was unclear. What he had done with his life since Jane Glasson’s disappearance was also a blank, though his obsession with Jane suggested it had not featured much in the way of stable relationships.

  The only comfort was that Gareth knew as little about them. This, however, did not reassure Don. ‘Has it occurred to you, Blake,’ he said, as he poured himself a large Scotch, ‘that if we get what Gareth wants, he could just take off with the information and freeze us out?’

  ‘There’s no reason why he should. And we’re not going to get the information any other way. Besides, you’ll be there to stop him doing that.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘D’you know this place where I’m meeting Ingrid?’

  Don pulled a battered A–Z out of the bookcase and thumbed it open at the large-scale page covering Mayfair. Blake pressed the book flat on the coffee-table and peered intently at it. ‘Grosvenor Square can’t be more than five minutes from any café in North Audley Street,’ she announced after a minute or so. ‘Gareth said he’ll be waiting there to download whatever we get from Ingrid’s laptop. So, you can join him as soon as I’ve clamped the sapper on.’

  ‘After staging this diversion you’re planning?’

  ‘If I can’t get to the laptop without it, yeah. Give me fifteen minutes with her. Then walk by on the other side of the road. If I’ve got my teacup in my hand, you’re needed. If it’s in the saucer, you’re not.’

  ‘And what is the diversion?’

  ‘You’re holding it.’

  Don looked at his glass. ‘Whisky?’

  Blake smirked at him. ‘You’ll make a great early morning drunk.’

  It was only later, after Don had rustled up sandwiches – bacon for himself, cheese and tomato for her – that she revealed any more about her encounter with Harkness. Gareth, she said, was an open book compared with the founder and president of Harkness Pharmaceuticals.

  ‘I just don’t understand him, Don. I don’t get where he’s coming from. He’s got to have a hidden agenda. He’s too clever to let all this shit just happen to him unless it suits his purpose. But what is his purpose?’

  ‘Maybe Jane knows.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Blake munched thoughtfully on her sandwich. ‘Which is one more reason to find her.’

  ‘The pay-off from Ingrid Harkness has lined up for you …’

  She frowned at him suspiciously. ‘What about it?’

  ‘You could do worse than take it. Tell Gareth you messed up with the sapper then start thinking how best to spend the money.’

  She looked not so much annoyed as disappointed. ‘You know I’m not going to do that.’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘Just like you know you’re not going to let me down tomorrow.’

  Don sighed. ‘I suppose not.’

  As he lay in bed that night, tired but finding sleep elusive, Don asked himself why he was still helping Blake in her pursuit of the truth. The answer was more about him than her. His brief taste that day of life before Blake had made him realize just how empty it was. He had urged caution and compromise. But Blake was having none of that. Her determination was contagious. And if she was set on taking risks, he could not allow her to take them alone.

  Some roads insisted on being followed. And this was one of them. Where it would take him he could not imagine. But he knew now, for all his protestations, that he was going to find out.

  FIVE

  FRAN LEANT OUT of the window of her room at the Polurrian Bay Hotel and breathed in deeply. The air was cleansingly pure, borne in on a sea-scented breeze. For the first time, she was actually glad she had been obliged to come to Cornwall.

  Ro
bin Pawley had shown himself to be compliant and efficient. He had noticed the same spatial discrepancy in the layout of the master bedroom and the library-cum-study as Don had, but had not made the slightest fuss when told to disregard it. He clearly knew which side his bread was buttered. He was also no slouch when it came to earning his commission. Draft particulars for the sale of Wortalleth West would be available for Fran’s inspection and approval later that morning. There seemed no reason why she should not be able to catch a late afternoon train back to London.

  The gloriousness of the vista had lulled her into a self-indulgent mood. She would have a leisurely breakfast before checking out and proceeding to Helston for her appointment with Pawley. She might even suggest lunch with him to mark the satisfactory conclusion of her visit. Harkness would pay, after all, one way or another.

  In Grosvenor Square, Gareth Lawler sat on a bench near the Roosevelt Memorial, fiddling with his iPhone. A laptop also lay open in front of him. Office workers hurried past on their various routes across the square, paying Lawler no heed. He was dressed casually, in trainers, jeans and a hoodie, with a white Nike baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Viewing him from twenty yards or so away, it struck Don that the guy could melt into the crowd more or less at will, dressed as he was. He was the epitome of anonymity.

  Lawler glanced towards Don and they acknowledged each other’s presence with the faintest of nods. Then Lawler switched his apparent attention back to his phone and Don pressed on across the square.

  He planned to approach Le Truc Vert along the opposite side of North Audley Street, arriving on cue at a quarter past nine. By then he would have taken a swig from the plastic bottle in his pocket, containing not sparkling water, as per the label, but Bell’s whisky, rolling it around his mouth to ensure it would be evident on his breath. A suit way overdue for donation to Oxfam, a frayed shirt, an unshaven chin and uncombed hair already made him look like a middle-aged dropout from the rat race. Breakfast-time whisky was sure to complete the effect.

  For the rest, it was all down to Blake. She was making the running. And he would have to do his best to keep up with her.

  Ingrid said she wouldn’t wait, but it’s me doing the waiting as nine o’clock comes and goes. Le Truc Vert is a popular happy-feeling café on the corner of a side-street. I’ve ordered green tea and French toast with bananas and maple syrup. Seeing it on the menu made me feel hungry. And I guess Ingrid’s paying.

  Ingrid arrives just after the waiter brings me my tea. She’s smaller than I expected, stylishly dressed in a pale grey trouser suit. Her face is way too immaculate, like her volumized blonde-tinted hair. She’s probably ten years older than she looks. I can’t see much of her eyes behind extra-dark sunglasses. Her smile is wide and dazzling, but there’s no smile in her clipped, twangy voice.

  ‘Blake?’ she says, sitting down opposite me. She’s carrying an expensive tooled-leather briefcase, which she dumps on another chair. I’m guessing that’s where the laptop is, along with quite a lot else. ‘Hi,’ she goes on. ‘I’m Ingrid.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘You having breakfast?’ She nods to the knife and fork I’ve been given.

  ‘French toast.’

  ‘Nice.’ She leans back and waves through the open door of the café, making a cup-holding-and-drinking gesture. ‘I’ve gotten to be quite a regular here since being posted to London,’ she explains. ‘They know it’s just strong black coffee for me every time.’

  ‘Harkness keeping you busy?’ I ask in a casual tone.

  ‘You mean the corporation or the man himself?’ She gives me more of her girl-of-the-world smile.

  ‘Both, I guess.’

  ‘Well, I’m busy, for sure, so let’s get into it, shall we? I understand you’ve been working for Harkness as some kind of live-in housekeeper down at his place in Cornwall.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I grin, shaping my persona to fit what she’ll expect of me. ‘Harkness seemed to think you needed to consider my … situation.’

  ‘And that’s what we’re doing. Mind if I take a few notes?’ She unclasps the briefcase, prises it open and pulls out her phone. She doesn’t close the case. I can see the laptop inside. I could lean over the table and touch it. I have the sapper in the coin-pocket of my jeans. This is going to work. I’m sure of it. ‘First name?’ Ingrid opens, her eyes trained on the phone.

  ‘Just Blake.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘My own business.’

  Sunlight gleams on Ingrid’s teeth as she smiles at me. ‘Are you gonna say that to every question I ask?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then we’re—’

  The waiter appears with her coffee and my French toast. She says nothing while he sets them down. I thank him as he leaves. Ingrid takes a sip of coffee. I pour the maple syrup over my French toast and cut it into bite-sized portions.

  ‘That looks good,’ she says.

  ‘Want some?’

  ‘No thanks. Bad for the figure. Not something you need to worry about, though.’

  ‘D’you use Elixtris, Ingrid?’

  The question surprises her. I can see that from the tilt of her head. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘I will need a few particulars if I’m to do anything for you, Blake.’

  ‘Why? Either I represent some kind of minor risk Harkness Pharmaceuticals needs to insure themselves against or I don’t.’ I swallow a scrumptious mouthful of French toast and prong another.

  ‘You don’t believe in the soft sell, do you?’

  ‘Do you?’ Down goes the second forkful.

  ‘It kinda depends … on the context.’

  I pick up my teacup and take a sip. I glance up the street. There’s no sign of Don. I put the cup back in the saucer. ‘I’ve got no intention of telling anyone – press, creditors, investigators – about anything I’ve seen at Wortalleth West.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘But is it good enough?’

  ‘From the point of view of Harkness Pharmaceuticals, probably not.’ She purses her lips. She’s choosing her words very carefully. ‘My brief is to supply them with certainty regarding the potential dissemination of negative, unhelpful or misleading information regarding the company’s founder and his current legal difficulties.’

  ‘And certainty has a price?’

  ‘Everything has a price, Blake. You’ll realize that as you grow older.’

  There’s Don. I can see him now, appearing and disappearing between parked cars on the other side of the road. Even at this range, he looks like shit. I pick up my cup and take a sip. This time, I don’t put it down.

  ‘I’m willing to put together a confidentiality agreement, which you’ll have to sign at the offices of the company’s lawyers here in London.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘There’ll be a one-off payment to reflect the company’s appreciation of your willingness to enter into such an undertaking.’

  ‘One-off? Right.’ I’m stalling now, playing for time. ‘And, er, like, er, how much would that be?’

  ‘Piece of advice, Blake. Don’t be over-eager in negotiations like this.’

  I’m still holding the cup. Don’s nearly opposite us. He sees me watching him. He grimaces slightly as he realizes he’s going to have to go through with the plan. He starts across the road, then stops for traffic.

  ‘I’ll email you a full proposal based on what you’ve so far told me.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘OK. But forget the email. Do me a letter. I’ll collect it from your hotel.’

  ‘I’ll need an address for you.’

  ‘I’m kind of between addresses at the moment.’

  ‘The lawyers won’t let you get away with this mystery-girl routine, Blake, believe me.’

  The traffic clears. Don hurries across the road towards us.

  ‘I’ll give them whatever details they want once I know the deal’s g
ood enough.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be good enough.’

  ‘No problem, then.’

  Here comes Don. I signal to him with a glance that the laptop’s in the briefcase. She doesn’t see Don or hear him. He’s behind you.

  Then he isn’t. ‘You ladies … spare any dosh?’ he slurs, half falling on to the table.

  ‘Oh my God,’ cries Ingrid, seriously shocked. The smell of whisky is obvious. I just hope Don hasn’t drunk as much as he smells like he has.

  ‘Careful,’ I say, sweet saint that I’m not.

  ‘No need to—’ Don begins, then he artfully loses his balance and topples sideways, knocking over the spare chair and sending the open briefcase thumping to the ground.

  Ingrid jumps up and tries to push Don away. The laptop’s slid out of the case, along with a slew of files and other paperwork. I’m out of my seat and round the table after the laptop while Don grasps Ingrid’s arm and mumbles something about meaning no harm.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ Ingrid shouts.

  ‘Sorry, I—’

  The waiter’s out now, to see what the trouble is. Don stands up unsteadily. He raises his hands like he’s surrendering to the cops.

  ‘No harm done,’ he gets out. ‘Just a … misunderstanding.’

  I bend down and grab the laptop. The sapper’s in the palm of my hand. I slap it on to the machine, black on black, as I move to gather up the scattered files and papers. Ingrid’s still vocalizing her outrage. ‘Call the police,’ she demands. ‘This guy’s totally out of it.’

  The waiter doesn’t look desperately keen on that idea. Nor does Don. ‘Can’t, er, apologize enough,’ he says in a clearer voice. ‘Inexcusable. ’Fraid I’ve, er, disgraced myself. Best thing I can do is, er, get out of your way.’

  He’s off then, heading towards Grosvenor Square with a bit of a stagger that doesn’t look quite real to me but convinces Ingrid. ‘Horrifying,’ she declares. ‘You’d think this was Soho at midnight.’

  ‘Not cool.’ I hoist her briefcase up on to my chair while cradling the laptop, etcetera. ‘I picked everything up before he could trample all over it.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Ingrid only now registers what has happened to her possessions. She glances around to see if I’ve missed anything. Then she holds the briefcase open while I lower the stuff back in. ‘Thank you, Blake,’ she says.