‘Same as when we first met. Information. About where Harkness has stashed the money.’
‘I don’t know. Fran doesn’t know either.’
‘No? Well, maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s not. But she’s going nowhere till I’m sure on the point, and because I sense you’re still carrying a torch for her, that should be a good incentive for you to dig something up.’
‘How d’you expect me to do that?’
‘Dunno. If I did, I’d do it myself. But you and the fragrant Fran are tied into Harkness’s affairs pretty damn tight, so I give you a fair chance. There’s this panic room at Wortalleth West tickling my curiosity, but breaking into it won’t be easy, so I’m giving you the chance to spare Fran a more … shall we say intensive level of questioning by coming up with what I need. How does twenty-four hours sound for a deadline?’
‘I can’t—’
‘Yes you can, Don. I’m backing you to do it. Call me on this number when you’ve got something to report.’
‘I want to speak to Fran.’
‘You do? See, that’s another thing I’d never say about my ex-wife. You’re a softy, Don, that’s your problem. OK. Here she is.’
There was a pause and a rustling in the background. Then Fran’s voice was in Don’s ear, hoarse and strained. ‘Don? Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘If there’s anything you know …’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. But—’
Suddenly, French was back on. ‘That’s enough pillow talk for now. Twenty-four hours, Don. You got that?’
‘I—’
The call was over.
Don’s shocked. He doesn’t know what to do. This is worse than anything he was expecting. Looking for clues about what happened to Jane Glasson was one thing. The risks we were taking were all kind of theoretical. But kidnapping is on a whole other level.
He sits down on the bed, the phone cradled uselessly in his hand. His brain’s whirling. I can sense – I can share – the mess his head’s in. ‘They must’ve grabbed Fran somewhere between her hotel and her appointment with Pawley in Helston. And they’re holding her till she or I or someone else gives them what they want.’
‘The whereabouts of Harkness’s money?’
‘Exactly. And I’ve no more clue where he’s hidden it than I’m sure Fran has.’
‘She might’ve gone back to Wortalleth West. They could’ve been waiting for her there. Or she could’ve walked in on them while they were trying to get into the panic room.’
Don nods glumly. ‘Could well be.’
An idea comes to me. ‘Gimme your phone. I’ll call Glenys. She’s an early riser. She won’t have been to the house yesterday, but she might know something.’
Don hands the phone over. His expression doesn’t convey a whole lot of confidence that Glenys is going to be able to tell us anything valuable. I punch in the number.
It rings a long time. It’s a landline with no answering service, so I guess she’ll wait a while to see if the caller gives up. I don’t. Eventually, she picks up. She doesn’t actually speak. But that’s how it’s been whenever I’ve called her, so I’m not surprised.
‘Glenys? It’s Blake.’
‘Blake? You’re up with the lark and no mistake. Where are you?’
‘Don’s place in London.’
‘Homely, is it?’
‘Not so you’d notice. Listen, have you seen anything of a solicitor called Fran Revell at Wortalleth West?’
‘Yeah. She was there Monday. With Pawley, the estate agent.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Far as I could tell. I’ve not been since.’
‘You’re going over there this morning?’
‘No. Funny you should ask that. I had Harkness on late last night.’
‘Harkness?’
‘He told me not to go in. Stay away till further notice. That was the gist.’
‘Why doesn’t he want you there?’
‘Didn’t say. He’s not someone you can cross-question. You know that. But he laid it on the line. Don’t go in.’
‘And you won’t?’
‘He’s paid me till the end of the month. I guess he has the right to pay me not to work if he wants to. Though that’ll only make more work for me eventually, specially if we get any rain.’ Glenys pauses. I can almost hear her thinking. ‘What’s up, Blake?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Do as Harkness says. Stay away.’
‘OK,’ she responds hesitantly.
‘Got to go, Glenys. Take it easy.’
She chuckles. ‘Wouldn’t know how.’
‘’Bye for now. I’ll be in touch.’
I end the call and hand the phone back to Don. ‘Did you get that?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Harkness has told Glenys to stay away from the house.’
‘Yeah. Weird, right?’
‘He knows something’s wrong. Maybe French has spoken to him as well.’
‘If French has spoken to him, what’s he planning to do?’
Don shakes his head. ‘God knows.’ Then his expression hardens. ‘But he can’t leave London, can he? He can’t even leave his house without the police knowing. Not while he’s ankle-tagged.’ He stands up. ‘I’m fed up pussy-footing around. Let’s go and see him.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah.’ Don heads for the door. ‘Right now.’
The scene outside 53 Belgrave Square that soft June morning was not what Don had expected. Jack Harkness’s house should have presented a mute and motionless frontage to the world, like its big, high-porched neighbours. Instead, there were two marked police cars and a third unmarked car parked out front with radios crackling. A uniformed policeman was slumped in one of them and another was standing by the half-open front door. Several bystanders were watching what was going on.
As Don and Blake approached slowly from where they had left the MG, another car sped into view, with a flashing blue light clamped to its roof. It surged to a halt outside number 53 and two burly, grim-faced detectives jumped out, hurried up the steps and vanished indoors.
‘Something’s happened,’ Don muttered.
‘You think so?’ said Blake, with a hint of sarcasm.
‘If you’re so smart, find out what.’
‘OK. Guy with the schnauzer looks like he might be chatty.’
Schnauzer Man was stationed by the gate into the gardens in the centre of the square. He was sixtyish, sallow-skinned, with curly grey hair and a moustache, dressed in smartly creased trousers and a light, expensive-looking zipped jacket.
They crossed to his side of the road and Blake made a beeline for the dog, who seemed delighted to be ear-ruffled and generally cooed over. Its owner was hardly less delighted. He enthused about the animal and made a lot of beaming eye contact with Blake. He spoke with an accent – Spanish, maybe – and his manner was mildly flirtatious.
Schnauzer Man – Miguel by name – lived in the square. During his regular morning stroll with Luisa – the dog – he had been surprised to see a man hammering on Harkness’s door. ‘You know of Jack Harkness? Maybe you have read about him in the newspaper. Except, of course, someone of your age, señorita, does not read a newspaper.’
‘We’ve heard of Jack Harkness,’ Blake smilingly assured him.
‘Bueno. So, there is a strange man at Harkness’s door, shouting and banging. What is he shouting? “Come out here. Come out and talk to me, you bastard.” That is what he is shouting.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Don.
‘Ah, tall, grey hair, but straight, not like mine. Glasses. Big chin. You know him?’
‘No,’ Don replied. But he did know him, of course. The description fitted Peter Revell to a tee.
‘Don meant did he look dangerous?’ Blake cut in, covering his tracks and shooting him a reproving glance.
‘Dangerous?’ Miguel considered the point. ‘Quizá. It
is possible. Certainly loud. It was very not Belgrave Square. I think the policeman at the Turkish Embassy called the station. A car was here soon. Then another. The man, he went on shouting. They took him away. But then they started knocking on the door too. The police, I mean. The housekeeper came up from the basement to let them in. They said to her a lot, “Where is Harkness?” She said he was not there. That worried them, it seemed. I was not surprised. He should have been there. Or they should have known where he was.’
‘Because of his electronic ankle tag,’ said Don. ‘I read about that.’
‘The tag. Yes. Exactamente. Harkness cannot be … unlocated.’
‘But he is.’
‘Si.’ Miguel nodded and grinned, enjoying his story-telling role. ‘Ausente. Gone. Disappeared. Pfff.’ He waved his hands. ‘Lots of police then. Lots of in and out and round and about. These other people’ – he gestured to the other onlookers with a superior curl to his lip – ‘come then. They want to see the show. No reporters yet. But soon they will be here also. Where is Harkness? Where has he gone? And how? Big mystery. Big story.’
‘For sure,’ said Blake.
Miguel suddenly frowned. ‘Are you reporters?’
‘Absolutely no—’ Don broke off when he saw movement at the top of the steps leading up from the basement of number 53. A thin, dark-haired young man in a T-shirt, combat shorts and bright white trainers appeared, his arms handcuffed behind his back, a policeman in close attendance. He was pretty clearly under arrest. A door in one of the patrol cars was being held open for him.
‘Look at his left ankle,’ Blake said quietly, nudging Don.
Don saw it as she pointed: an electronic ankle tag.
‘That’ll be the housekeeper’s nephew,’ Blake murmured.
Don and Miguel both gaped at her. How she knew he was the housekeeper’s nephew was a mystery to them. But it was evidently not all she knew.
‘And that’ll be Harkness’s tag on him. Somehow they’ve switched. Harkness has given the police the slip. Probably just like he was always planning to.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Don.
‘Extraordinario,’ said Miguel.
As the young man was loaded into the car, Blake shook her head slowly. ‘No one will have any idea where Harkness is now. Or what he’s doing.’
They left Miguel then and walked back quickly towards the MG. With Harkness gone, there was nothing to be gained by lingering in Belgrave Square.
‘How’d you know about the nephew?’ Don asked.
‘Harkness mentioned him to me. It was only a guess. But it makes sense. Harkness always finds someone to do what he needs doing. He’ll have paid him well.’
‘He always does, doesn’t he?’ Don sighed. ‘As to what we’re going to do …’
‘I figure he’s headed for Switzerland … or Cornwall.’
‘Then we can’t both go to Switzerland.’ Don glanced at his watch. ‘We ought to be starting for Heathrow soon.’
‘But only one of us is getting on the plane?’
‘I can’t just abandon Fran, Blake. I have to do whatever I can to help her.’
‘Maybe Harkness has gone to help her.’
‘Maybe. There’s no way to know.’
They reached the car and climbed in. The moment of decision had come.
‘I could tell the police about the phone call from French,’ Don said slowly. ‘But it’ll take them for ever to get their heads round what’s going on. Peter will tell them most of what they need to know anyway, little good though it’ll do him, at least in the short term. And the short term is what we have to contend with where Fran’s concerned.’
‘You’re going to Cornwall, then?’
Don nodded. ‘I think I have to.’
‘Then I’ll go to Switzerland. Don’t worry. I’ll have Gareth to help me. And I might learn something that’ll help Fran. This is all connected, y’know. Everything. It all comes back to whatever the fuck it is Harkness is planning.’
Don looked round at her. ‘You know I talked you into leaving Wortalleth West because I thought it’d be safer for you in London, don’t you?’
‘’Course I know. But I had my own reasons for letting you.’
‘The truth can be overvalued, Blake. Life teaches you that.’
‘I don’t reckon this truth can be.’
‘You can’t rely on Gareth. You don’t know enough about him.’
‘I’ll rely on myself. Always have. As for you …’ She leant over to her bag on the back seat, unzipped it and pulled out a small brown paper bag which she handed to Don.
He frowned. ‘What’s this?’
‘If you’re going back to Cornwall, you’re likely to run into Wynsum Fry again. That’s insurance … against any trouble she gives you.’
‘Insurance?’
‘Or protection. The dewitcher Maris went to for help after Fry started messing with her head said the best way to break a witch’s hold was to burn something she’s worn next to her skin at the place of her birth.’
‘What?’
‘Wynsum Fry was born at Tredarvas Farm. The ruins of the house are still there, in a field off Ghost Hill.’
‘And this parcel contains …’
‘You don’t want to know. All that matters is it’s what the dewitcher said Maris needed. Maris never actually did anything about it.’
‘But you did?’
‘I took it from the old bitch’s airing cupboard while you were having your doorstep chat with her Saturday evening.’
Don nodded. ‘You came and went via the bathroom, didn’t you?’
Blake looked surprised. ‘How’d you know?’
‘Never mind. But come off it, Blake.’ Don stared at the parcel in a mixture of bafflement and disbelief – and just a sliver of horror. ‘You can’t be serious about this.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s the kind of stuff Wynsum Fry deals in. The kind of stuff she believes in.’
‘And if I’m desperate enough to try it …’
Blake shrugged. ‘Then I guess you’ll be glad I gave it to you.’ A moment passed. Then she added: ‘And I guess I’ll be glad too.’
Don and I are standing in the Terminal 5 departures hall at Heathrow Airport. I’m about to fly for the first time in my life. Loads of people who’ve flown loads of times are milling around us, lugging bags, pushing trolleys, shepherding children. Don’s holding the plastic packaging of a phone he’s just bought for me. He couldn’t believe it when I told him I didn’t have one, even though he’s spent most of the past week with me. Like I explained to him, you don’t stay off the grid by making yourself easily contactable.
But he and I have got to stay in touch now we’re going our separate ways. We’re a team, I guess, though I can’t exactly get used to the idea. Neither of us has a clue what we’ll be walking into at the end of our journeys. It’s leap-in-the-dark time.
‘This is for you as well,’ says Don, handing me a credit card. ‘I’ve got three, so don’t worry. I won’t be strapped for cash. The pin is four five double two.’
I smile as I pocket it. ‘I could max you out, Don.’
‘Buy some Swiss francs, a decent hotel room and a few square meals with it. Basically, whatever you need.’
‘You’re a trusting guy, aren’t you?’
‘Just be careful, Blake. That’s all I ask.’
‘I’ll be as careful as you.’
He smiles weakly. ‘I guess you will.’
I glance up at the departures board. There’s my flight. Wait in lounge, it says. I feel nervous. More nervous about flying, actually, than whatever’s waiting for me in Zürich. ‘I better go,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’ Don nods. ‘Good luck.’
‘You too.’ I lean forward and kiss his cheek. I wonder if he knows how big a deal that is for me. ‘’Cos we’ll both need luck, right?’
‘Call when you land. And when you’ve spoken to Gareth.’
‘Will do.’
It’s time
to go. I pull my rucksack on to one shoulder and head for the security gate. I don’t look back. When you’ve said goodbye you’ve said goodbye. That’s just the way it has to be.
I suddenly regret not looking back when I’m shuffling forward in the queue to have my rucksack X-rayed. It’s a surprising feeling. I realize then how much I’m going to miss Don. And I know he’s going to miss me.
We’re on our own now.
FOUR
DON TOOK THE same route to Cornwall he’d used the week before. Just a week, a fragment of a life. But it felt to him his life had changed – had moved – in that short space of days. If he’d turned down Fran’s offer of a job, he’d have missed it all. But it would have happened – some version of it, anyway. Harkness’s secret would still be the same secret.
Blake would also still be in danger. Somehow, he felt certain of that. Nothing could have stopped her going after the truth. He was not sure he really understood her, but he knew she was honest, direct and single-minded – bloody-minded sometimes.
He wished he could have gone to Switzerland with her and shielded her from danger. But he could not abandon Fran. Which was ironic, as he fully intended to remind her some happy day, since she had abandoned him seventeen years ago in preference for the hapless Peter. So far as he could tell, she had never regretted ditching him.
But maybe – just maybe – she did now.
There are newspapers in bins at the bottom of the ramp leading to the plane. I glance towards the pile of FTs as I pass. Force of habit, I guess. And there’s Harkness’s name in the headline. Bribery allegations against Harkness Pharmaceuticals spread to encompass addictive painkiller prescriptions. I grab a copy and step on to the plane.
The paragraph on the front page leads me to a full-page article inside. I sit down in my aisle seat and have to stand up more or less straight away to let people into the seats beside me. I check my new phone for messages, which is crazy, since only Don knows the number and what’s he going to tell me? I switch the phone off and follow the preparations for take-off. Everyone else has probably done it hundreds of times. It’s all new to me. But I try to look as if it isn’t.
Panic Room Page 25
