‘You can count on that. And you?’
‘Likewise.’
‘Thanks for, er … earlier.’
‘Did it help?’
‘A lot.’
‘I’ll check in whenever I can.’
‘Me too.’
‘Until then …’
‘Make good choices.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘So will I. Night-night.’
I look at the time on the phone in the second before the screen goes black. It is tomorrow, already. I lie back on the pillow and gaze up into the darkness above me. I know what I’m going to do. I wasn’t sure, when I was speaking to Don. But now I am. It’s obvious. It’s inevitable. And maybe it’s even right.
We’ll see. Very soon.
THREE
THE MORNING MOCKED Don’s problems with its crisp early summer refulgence. He drove down the main road to the foot of the peninsula, through a landscape of glowing greenery, while the deep blue sea shimmered and glistened between folds of field and heath on either side.
From Lizard village he followed the sign for the National Trust car park. The narrow lane was made narrower still by sagging swags of wild mustard. The sun was climbing in the sky. In the clear, strong light, everything looked as solid as marble. Only his confidence was insubstantial.
Lizard Lighthouse appeared ahead of him, white and glaring. He turned into the car park, saw the ticket booth was unattended and took a looping route to a patch of grass distant from any of the few other vehicles that were already there.
He stopped and looked into the bag on the passenger seat beside him. The money was there, in banded wads: 2.5 million Swiss francs. He saw the reality of it, though he could scarcely believe it. Out to sea, waves broke lazily on shelves of rock and specks that might have been seals bobbed in the swell. Through the open window, he could hear a skylark singing above the soft whisper of the surf. He was as ready as he would ever be. And he did not feel ready at all.
He climbed out of the car and stood, leaning back against it. Even the dusty bodywork of the MG looked golden in the brazen light. He felt the breeze on his face and wondered how long he would have to wait. According to his watch, he was five minutes early.
But French, as it turned out, was early too. His bulky black 4WD nosed into the car park with a couple of minutes still to go till eight o’clock.
He pulled up alongside Don, but facing in the opposite direction. When he climbed out of the driver’s seat, sunglasses obscuring whatever look there was in his eyes, he was within touching distance.
‘This is a surprise, Don,’ French said in a neutral tone. ‘I didn’t expect you to come through.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘You haven’t. It’s a pleasant surprise. Assuming you really do have what I asked for.’
‘How’s Fran?’
‘She’s good.’ French smiled humourlessly. ‘Roughing it these past couple of days won’t have done her any harm. Now, show me what you’ve got.’
‘I’ll think you’ll be impressed.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Where’d you get the information from, anyway?’
‘Just come and see.’ Don led the way round to the other side of the MG.
‘This got anything to do with Harkness going on the run? According to this morning’s news the police think he’s flown out of the country on a fake passport.’
‘I hadn’t heard that.’ Don opened the door and flipped back the flap of the bag where it lay on the seat. He gestured for French to take a look inside.
French frowned and prised the bag open. Don heard his sharp intake of breath at first sight of the money. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘Two and a half million Swiss francs.’
French turned and stared at him in amazement.
‘That’s what the fuck this is,’ Don said, holding French’s gaze.
‘I asked for the whereabouts of the money Harkness stole from Quintagler Industries.’
‘Sorry. I can’t oblige with that. But the bag contains half of what Harkness is willing to pay for Fran’s freedom – on condition you call off your search for Quintagler’s money.’
‘You’re … working with Harkness?’
‘We both have Fran’s welfare at heart.’
‘Where the fuck is he?’
‘Do we have a deal?’
‘We had a deal, Don. Fran’s release in return for full particulars on where Harkness has stashed the cash. Which amounts to way more than a few million Swiss francs.’
‘But this is all yours. To bank and spend, no questions asked. And I’m guessing it’s way more, to use your own phrase, than the commission you’re on with Quintagler.’
‘Harkness thinks he can buy me?’
‘Well, you are for sale, aren’t you?’
French suddenly tensed. A hand shot out. He grabbed Don by the collar. ‘What did you say?’
‘We know where you’re holding Fran,’ Don said, forcing himself to ignore the pressure at his neck. ‘You give the word and Harkness will deliver the other two and a half million to Zlenko and take Fran off his hands. It can all be done right now – done and dusted.’
The anger squirming in French’s face suggested he did not like being made a counter-offer – especially one that was too good to refuse.
‘The money’s gone,’ Don continued, the voice of reason. ‘Where or on what I don’t know, but Harkness has spent it all. Quintagler will never pay you a cent, because you’ll never recover a cent for them. That’s how it is. It’s this or nothing. And this is a hell of a lot more than nothing.’
French’s grip slackened. He let go of Don and delved in the bag, pulling the band off one wad of notes and fanning them out to check the denominations. Then he dropped them back into the bag.
‘You can count it if you want to,’ said Don.
‘You’ll count it. In front of me.’
‘Does that mean we have a deal?’
French’s tone was regretful, but resigned. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘We’ll need Zlenko on board as well.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’ French glared at Don. ‘I don’t like Harkness. I don’t like how easily he solves his problems.’
‘This solution is easy for you too.’
‘Yeah. And I don’t like that either. Wait here.’
French returned to his car, climbed in and slammed the door shut, then tried to make a call on his phone. It did not go well. A few seconds later, he was back out of the car and stalking towards high ground, muttering incredulously about how anyone could live in an area with such poor signal coverage. He was about fifty yards away before contact was established. Several minutes passed while he prowled around, phone to his ear. Then he hurried back down the slope to rejoin Don – and the bag of money. ‘We’re good to go,’ he growled.
‘Zlenko’s OK with this?’
‘Just call Harkness and tell him Zlenko’s expecting him, Don. Then we’ll go join them. You and Harkness have got yourselves a deal, OK? So, let’s get it over with. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned. And I’m guessing that goes for you too, right?’
It did. Beyond question, it did. Don nodded. ‘Right.’
I get to the side entrance of the Limmatquai building just as a couple of guys are arriving early for work. I follow them in. They head up the stairs, hardly noticing me, chatting away about something – last night’s football, maybe.
Then, when they’ve gone into their office, I press the button numbered 7 on the intercom panel.
Jane answers almost at once, like she’s expecting someone. Not me, obviously. ‘Hallo?’ she says. But she’s wary. She doesn’t say, like, ‘Filippo?’
‘Hi,’ I respond, keeping my voice cool and calm. ‘Can I come up, please?’
‘Sorry? Who are you?’
‘I’m Blake. You don’t know me. But I know you. Like, who you really are.’
‘I’m sorry. I—’
&nb
sp; ‘You need to speak to me before you meet Ingrid Denner. You really do … Jane.’
Long pause. Heavy. She hasn’t bargained for this. Then: ‘There’s no one here called Jane.’
‘We both know there is.’
‘You’re mistaken. I’ll have to ask—’
‘Don’t make me tell Ingrid what I know. What I can prove. That’d be stupid. And you aren’t stupid, are you? You’re actually very clever. You must be, to have … totally reinvented yourself. So, can I come up … Jane?’
Another long pause. I can almost hear her thinking. Then: ‘All right.’
I take the lift. I want her to hear me coming. When I step out on the seventh floor, there’s a difference in the light that tells me her outer door is open.
But she’s not there. The door’s just standing ajar. I push it open and look up a flight of steps.
She’s waiting for me at the top, in the doorway. She’s wearing tailored black trousers and a white blouse. Brisk and business-like. My guess is she’s already dressed for the noon meeting in Zug.
‘Leave the door open,’ she says. ‘Who are you?’
‘Blake. I used to work for your father, Andrew. At the house in Helston. They never moved. Well, I expect you know that.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let me in. Can I come up?’
She doesn’t say anything. But there’s a kind of nod that means I can.
I go up and walk past her into a wide, wood-floored lounge. There are big dormer windows on either side. I guess we’re directly below the roof terrace. The furniture’s angular and modern. There aren’t many personal touches. It’s all clean and neat and kind of soulless.
Except there’s a painting on one of the walls I recognize. Well, I recognize the style: sweeping lines, blocks of colour. The sea? The land? Or something in between, seen from above. I turn and look at Jane.
‘That’s a Lanyon, isn’t it?’
She doesn’t react. She’s hard to read. Maybe she’s trained herself over the years to be blank, to give nothing away. But it’s not actually blankness. It’s like she’s just stopped smiling, or frowning, or something. But you can’t tell what.
‘Did Harkness give it to you? I think he likes Lanyon. There’s one at Wortalleth West. I worked there too.’
‘My name’s Astrid Townsend,’ she says, sounding totally sane and reasonable. ‘I can prove that.’
‘That’s weird. I can prove you’re Jane Glasson.’
Actually, what’s really weird is what she says next. ‘Why would you want to?’
Why? The question catches me unprepared. Why do I? Really. Is it because she ran away from a loving family for no reason that makes any sense? Am I just angry that she gave up on something I never had? Do I resent how easily, how irreversibly, she turned her back on them? I wouldn’t have. I’d have cherished what I had – what she had.
‘What brought you here?’ She frowns slightly. ‘Have I seen you before?’
‘Why did you go to the Zoo yesterday, Jane?’
‘You followed me.’
‘What did you say to the tiger?’
She takes one step towards me. She looks into my eyes, trying to analyse me. ‘What do you want?’
‘The truth.’
‘I told you. I’m Astrid Townsend.’
‘You walked out of your old life twenty-two years ago. I want to know why. I want to be able to explain it to your father.’
‘If there was any truth in what you say, it’d still be none of your business. People are free to lead their life as they choose.’
She’s right. They are. Interrogating her is totally against what I believe in. But still I have to do it. ‘Tell me there was a good reason, Jane. I want to believe there was.’
‘There have been good reasons for everything I’ve done.’
‘You talk like Harkness. You work for him, don’t you? Why? Tell me how the green campaigner winds up boosting the profits of Big Pharma.’
‘What did you say your name was? Blake?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where do you come from, Blake?’
‘It doesn’t matter. This is about you, not me.’ That isn’t completely true. I know that. But she isn’t going to.
‘And what am I … about, Blake?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You should leave it that way.’
‘I’ve found out too much already to do that.’
‘And what exactly have you found out? Tell me.’
‘OK. You disappeared twenty-two years ago. For most of the time since then, you’ve been working for Harkness Pharmaceuticals as some kind of consultant, under the name Astrid Townsend. I don’t know why you want to hide what you’re doing from your family. It can’t just be because it goes against your environmentalist principles. Holly Walsh told me about those. You’re funding her Ditrimantelline treatment, aren’t you? And Ditrimantelline’s a Harkness drug.’
She doesn’t react to any of this. She doesn’t seem to be shocked or angry. She studies me like she’s trying to spot a weakness, a flaw. She studies me like I’m under a microscope and she’s looking down it.
‘I spoke to Gareth Lawler. He saw you at Paddington station earlier this year. He came here to find you. You arranged to meet him yesterday morning. But he wound up in hospital instead.’
‘That was an accident.’
First mistake. She’s admitted something now. She can’t go back. ‘I know it was an accident. But maybe you were relieved because it got you off the hook. Sorry. It didn’t. I followed you from the hospital. To the Zoo. Then here. And then I followed Filippo Crosetti.’
‘You should stop, Blake. You should drop this and go. Whatever you think you’re doing, you’re wrong. You’re interfering in something you don’t understand.’
‘Make me understand, then. Tell me the truth.’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’
‘You do. If you want to stop Ingrid Denner finding out what I’ve found out.’
‘Say what you like to her.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Don’t I?’
A mobile phone rings somewhere behind Jane, then stops. She glances over her shoulder, then looks back at me.
‘It’d be best for you if you left now, Blake.’
‘Is that Filippo? You’ve been expecting him, haven’t you? Are you travelling to Zug together for the meeting with Ingrid?’
‘Leave. Please.’
‘What have you and Filippo been doing for Harkness? What’s in the panic room at Wortalleth West? What is this all about?’
‘Walk away, Blake.’
‘I want to know the truth.’
‘You don’t. Not really.’
‘But I do.’
‘You carry on like this when Filippo arrives and I don’t think we’ll just be able to drop it.’
‘I don’t want to drop it.’
‘You should.’ The look in her eyes. What is it? Sincerity? Fuck. I think it just might be.
‘It’s too late for that. I’ve come too far.’
‘Too far?’ Jane nods. ‘Yes. You have. Maybe we all have.’
There’s a noise behind her. The clunk of a door closing. Then footsteps on the stairs.
‘You should’ve left, Blake,’ Jane says quietly. ‘While you had the chance.’
In the course of forty-eight hours, Fran’s terror had congealed inside her, till she was exhausted by the weight of it. She could no longer judge her chances of survival and had stopped anticipating what the future held. She thought more about the girls and how their lives would be altered if she died. She held on grimly to as much dignity and optimism as she could find within herself as her world shrank around her.
It comprised now the bare space she was confined to. She was handcuffed to a steel frame, supporting a sink. The room was small and windowless, lacking all utilities beyond the sink itself. T
hrough a half-open door ahead of her, she could see part of a kitchen and a window looking out on to a yard.
She knew the layout of Chybargos from her arrival there on Tuesday morning – a pair of slate-roofed stone cottages, knocked through and partially modernized, on one side of a cobbled yard; a part-converted barn on the other.
There was a camp-chair for her to sit on, along with a mattress and a sleeping bag. There was soap in the sink for her to wash herself. Since arriving she had only left the room for visits to the loo, closely supervised by Zlenko. He had a gun, which she knew he would use if the need arose. And she also knew he was capable of killing her quite easily without using the gun. She had heard, though not actually seen, his grisly despatch of Mike Coleman, who had made the fatal mistake of suggesting a rise in the price of his cooperation, in addition to displaying what Zlenko had called ‘bad attitude’.
If and how either Don or Harkness would react to French’s terms for her release Fran did not know. She was confident Don would try to save her, but was doubtful of his ability to do so. With Harkness it was the other way round. As for Peter, she knew he would be in a desperate state following her disappearance. He must have gone to the police by now. But what they would do, if anything, she had no way of knowing.
French had barely spoken to her since leaving Wortalleth West. He had evidently concluded she could be of no help in penetrating the panic room or leading them to wherever else Harkness had hidden the money they had been hired to recover. Her value now, in his estimation, was as a hostage only. And that left her in Zlenko’s charge.
Though brutal and ruthless when called upon to be so, Zlenko was also bewilderingly amiable, even considerate. He kept telling Fran to ‘Not worry.’ He even consulted her about what topping she wanted on her microwaved pizza.
‘Could be worse’ was another of his repeated reassurances, which she failed to be reassured by. On one occasion, when French, as far as Fran could tell, was absent, Zlenko opened a bottle of vodka and drank most of it. The only discernible effect was that he began reminiscing about his experiences as an eighteen-year-old conscript in the Soviet army clearing up in Chernobyl after the nuclear accident back in 1986. Vodka, to hear him tell it, was the sole reason he had not succumbed to radiation poisoning, as many of his comrades had.
Panic Room Page 30
