The Fine Art of Invisible Detection

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Is that what you wish me to tell him?’

  ‘Tell him his offer is not good enough.’

  ‘What would be good enough?’

  ‘I will release Dr Morrisette and Mr Miller if he surrenders himself to me in person. If not, they will die. He must do so within forty-eight hours’ – Nishizaki consulted his gold-braceleted watch with an elaborate cock of his wrist – ‘of now.’ He sat back and gazed along the table at Wada. ‘He can choose where and when in those forty-eight hours. I will give him that. But it is all I will give him. Is that clear?’

  Wada nodded. She couldn’t find the breath to speak.

  ‘You should say it is clear, Wada.’

  She summoned her voice. ‘It is clear.’

  ‘Good. Now you should call him and get his answer. There is a roof terrace. You can speak to him from there.’ He glanced towards the windows. ‘I think it has stopped raining. If not, there is shelter. So, I suggest you go and report to him. And then return with his answer.’

  Wada took the lift up to the roof terrace, where, to her surprise, she found a Japanese tea garden, complete with a bamboo teahouse and an array of trimmed shrubs screening the part of the roof given over to air-conditioning units and ventilation ducts.

  The rain hadn’t in fact stopped, but the sun was out to the west and the clouds were moving fast. Wada took shelter under the eaves of the teahouse and called Driscoll’s number.

  As before, he answered instantly. ‘Wada-san?’

  ‘I am sorry, Driscoll-san. He has rejected your offer.’

  ‘Ah. He has, has he? Well, it was to be expected.’ Certainly, Driscoll sounded as if he had been expecting it. ‘It was worth a try. Thank you for trying. What are his terms?’

  ‘He will release Dr Morrisette and Mr Miller if you surrender to him in person within forty-eight hours. You may stipulate where and when you will surrender within those forty-eight hours.’

  ‘That won’t solve his problem with the victims of the Emergence fraud.’

  ‘He said your offer would not solve his problems either. There would be nothing to stop you telling his enemies how to find him.’

  ‘I would have given him my word. But that, I suppose, wasn’t likely to be good enough for him.’

  ‘He said his enemies could force the information from you even if you tried to withhold it.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he would have had a head start. Still, he’s made his choice. And I must make mine.’

  ‘What answer do you wish me to give him?’

  ‘Did you ask for an assurance that he would leave you and your family alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I did not think I would be able to believe any assurance he gave me. And I have no wish to be deluded by a false sense of security.’

  ‘Logical, but … regrettable.’

  ‘What answer do you wish me to give him?’ she repeated.

  The rain had almost stopped now. A faint rainbow had formed somewhere to the north. ‘Tell him I agree,’ said Driscoll.

  ‘You realize—’

  ‘Just tell him, Wada. I know what it means.’

  He knew. And so did she. ‘I will tell him.’

  ‘As to where and when … six o’clock tomorrow morning, Porthtowan beach.’

  ‘Porthtowan?’

  ‘It began there forty-two years ago, when I crawled ashore after leaving Alison to drown in that cave under Nancekuke. So, it may as well end there. Tell him I’ll wait at the western end of the beach, near the tideline. He should deliver Nick and Dr Morrisette to the eastern end. Nanoq will meet them and confirm they’re OK. Then I’ll be … at Nishizaki’s disposal.’

  ‘Is this the only way, Driscoll-san?’

  ‘Yes. I rather think it is.’

  ‘Then I will deliver the message.’

  ‘Thank you. Will you be there too?’

  ‘At Porthtowan?’

  ‘I think you should be. I think you’ll regret it later if you’re not. Go up on to the western headland above the beach. You’ll see it all from there.’

  ‘Why—’ Wada began.

  But Driscoll had already rung off. Leaving her to watch the rainbow slowly dissolve and to wonder why he thought she needed to see what was going to happen at Porthtowan twenty hours in the future.

  She went back down to the boardroom. She was puzzled, as she approached from the lift, by the absence of the guard. She knocked on the door and entered.

  Nishizaki wasn’t there. A slim, trouser-suited young Japanese woman with long and lustrous black hair rose from a chair at the table to greet her. They exchanged clipped but courteous bows. ‘Wada-san,’ the young woman said. ‘My name is Nambu.’

  ‘Where is Nishizaki-san?’ Wada asked.

  ‘Do you have an answer for him?’ Nambu asked.

  So. Nishizaki didn’t intend to give Wada the benefit of any further discussion with him. He’d known what Driscoll would do. ‘Driscoll-san accepts the terms,’ she said.

  ‘I am instructed to ask: where and when will he surrender?’

  ‘Porthtowan beach, six o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Porthtowan?’ Nambu picked up her smartphone. ‘Can you spell it for me?’

  Wada spelt it out in English. Nambu tapped at her phone, which provided her with what she needed. She frowned quizzically at the screen. ‘Porthtowan, Cornwall, is correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ Wada went on to detail the arrangements as Driscoll had specified them to her.

  Nambu dutifully noted them on her phone, then read them back. ‘Correct?’

  Wada nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Six tomorrow morning. Nishizaki-san will be there.’

  ‘As will Driscoll-san.’

  ‘Would you like me to show you out?’ The question was a delicate way of indicating that their business was concluded.

  ‘Not necessary. I know the way.’

  ‘Before you go, Wada-san …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nishizaki-san asked me to give you this.’

  Nambu flicked open a folder that was lying on the table and took out a sheet of paper which she handed to Wada.

  The paper was so thick it was almost card. A statement was written on it in Japanese. Wada found herself admiring the penmanship. There was a fluid elegance to the characters.

  Wada Umiko and her family have and will have nothing to fear from me. Nishizaki Hiroji. Heisei 31, fourth month, twenty-fifth day.

  It was hard to know how to react. What Wada had asked for on Driscoll’s behalf hadn’t been granted. What she hadn’t asked for on her own behalf had. She stared at the statement in silent incredulity.

  ‘You should take good care of that, Wada-san,’ said Nambu in a low, confidential tone. ‘I have never seen anything like it before.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE STRAIN OF isolation was beginning to take its toll on nick. He’d moved through fear and anxiety into a state of nervous exhaustion, in which long hours passed unmarked while he and Michaela lay on their mattresses in their separate cages, staring into space. He no longer thought about what the future held for them. He simply didn’t think.

  All they could do was wait. Because the only certainty was that their imprisonment wasn’t permanent. Nishizaki had a plan for them. And their captors would put his plan into effect. When the time came.

  Wada sat in a coffee shop in Marylebone High Street, trying to decide whether she should act on Driscoll’s recommendation and be at Porthtowan the following morning. Her room at Claridge’s had been booked and paid for until the following week. She could stay there, cocooned in luxury, if she wanted. Or she could fly home to Tokyo. Or back to New York to spend more time with Haruto. They were all choices she was free to make.

  But was Driscoll trying to tell her something? Was there some reason why he needed her to be at Porthtowan? Somewhere deep inside herself, she knew she’d already made her choice.

  Michaela insisted, whenever she and Nick ta
lked to each other, that they should remain optimistic. ‘While there’s hope, there’s life, right?’ Nick wasn’t sure, but he didn’t dispute the point. ‘Your wife will be moving heaven and earth to find you, won’t she?’ There was no doubt Kate would be doing everything she could. And by now she was bound to have learnt from April – who’d be in a high state of panic – that Nick had misled her about his trip to Iceland. How much else she was likely to have uncovered he couldn’t summon the concentration to imagine. When they met again, he would have a lot of ground to make up.

  If they met again.

  Wada sat on the train. She was following Peter Driscoll back to his beginning, to the place where he’d ceased to be Peter Ellery and become this other version of himself that had taken him so far – but not quite far enough. She was following. To see his beginning become his end.

  Michaela was in the middle of one of her periodic exercise sessions. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up, Nick,’ she reminded him breathlessly, as she went through the routine he was by now familiar with: press-ups, sit-ups, running on the spot, pulling herself up on the cage wire. Nick was tempted to ask why, but he didn’t. Nothing would be gained by denting Michaela’s spirit, which seemed to be stronger than his. Nothing, in truth, would be gained by saying or doing anything.

  Six hours after leaving London, Wada reached Porthtowan, by taxi from Redruth station. A golden evening was stretching itself along the north Cornish coast, mellow light thrown up from lazily rolling surf. The beach looked a little like those of Okinawa she’d seen – as she’d seen so much of her homeland – only on television.

  Wada had booked a room at Jubilee Villa B & B on the inland side of the village. It was a short walk to the shore. But Wada went straight to her room. She didn’t know if Driscoll and Espersen were already in the area. Or Nishizaki, come to that. But she reckoned it was safer for her to lie low. Until morning.

  The pizzas were delivered as usual. Michaela had devised nicknames for their captors, in an attempt to humanize them which she said would also diminish them as threats. This sounded like self-delusory nonsense to Nick, though he played along. Baseball bat man had become Chas, pizza man Dave and their limping accomplice Butch. Chas seemed to have run out of sarcastic remarks. He and Dave went about their business that evening in silence. Not that there was any need for them to speak. Nick and Michaela both knew the drill. Stand back against the wall. Take delivery of supper and a clean bucket. Push the used bucket out. Eat supper. Wait for the lights to go out.

  As they did, an hour or so later.

  And then, after an unmeasurable period of time, they came on again.

  The roller door rattled up. Nick was so dazzled by the sudden glare that he never actually saw Chas and Dave crossing the floor towards him. He heard the jangle of the key in the padlock on his cage. He began to scramble to his feet, his vision still blurry. The door of the cage was flung open. Chas grabbed him and pushed him back against the rear wall of the cage. He heard Michaela shout his name, perhaps in warning. But it was too late. He felt a familiar stabbing sensation in the side of his neck. He knew what was happening to him, but knowing made no difference. He seemed to be falling. The fall accelerated. Then there was only darkness.

  When he recovered his senses, he was in the rear of the van, half folded in an oil-stained sheet, his left arm snagged above him. He looked up and saw he was handcuffed to the grab-rail next to the side door. Michaela lay beside him, still unconscious, handcuffed like him to the grab-rail.

  The van was moving fast but smoothly through the night. The only light was from the dashboard display, which he could see through the wire barrier separating him from the driving compartment, and the headlamps of oncoming vehicles, their beams moving at intervals across the windscreen. Chas was behind the wheel, while Dave and Butch sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench seat. The droop of Dave’s head suggested he might be asleep. Tina Turner was singing ‘I Can’t Stand the Rain’ on the radio and Chas was accompanying her in a tuneless mumble.

  Nick glimpsed an illuminated sign ahead and craned his neck to see what it said, hoping for a clue as to where they were going. Honiton 15, Exeter 28. So they were in Devon, heading west. But why? What was their destination?

  Chas must have noticed Nick moving in the rear-view mirror. He turned the volume down on the radio and reached up to adjust the mirror. ‘Look lively,’ he said, nudging Dave. ‘One of the sleeping beauties is awake.’

  Dave snorted and jolted into consciousness. He half turned and squinted at Nick through the wire. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he grunted.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  ‘You may as well tell me.’

  ‘We may as well tell you fuck all.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Chas cut in. ‘We’ll soon be saying goodbye, Nicko,’ he went on in a louder voice. ‘You and the climate queen are going to the seaside. Pity you didn’t bring your buckets with you, really. You could’ve made sandcastles.’

  ‘You’re going to release us?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. In my experience, these things don’t always go according to plan.’

  ‘Where are you taking us?’

  ‘Like I said, the seaside. I haven’t been on a beach in God knows how long. It’ll make a nice change.’

  ‘The seaside where?’

  ‘Porthtowan, down in Cornwall. Know it, do you?’

  Porthtowan? Why would they be going there – of all places?

  ‘Yeah. You know it. I can tell. That good news or bad?’ Nick said nothing. ‘Mmm. Sounds like you’re not sure. Well, never mind. Not long before we find out. Should be an interesting morning. One way or another.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  WADA WAS UP before dawn, but not, it transpired, before mrs Griffiths, her rosy-cheeked landlady. ‘Morning, deary,’ she trilled from the kitchen as Wada came down from her room. ‘You’re a bit early for breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, I realize that, Mrs Griffiths. I am … going for a walk.’

  ‘Catch the best of the day. Good idea. Birdwatcher, are you? Or hoping to spot some seals?’

  ‘I, er, enjoy nature,’ Wada replied noncommittally, drifting towards the front door.

  ‘Got a pair of binoculars? You won’t see much with the naked eye.’

  ‘Binoculars? Er, no.’

  ‘Well, borrow these.’ Mrs Griffiths lifted a pair off a hook and handed them to her. ‘It’ll be like you’re standing right next to whatever you’re looking at.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Is it … low tide, do you know?’

  ‘Should be. Good as. It was high tide around midnight.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Be back by half past nine if you want breakfast.’

  Wada slipped the binoculars into her shoulder bag as she headed along the road towards the beach. The sky was mostly clear, although purple-tinged clouds were massed on the horizon. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet. Wada moved fast in the almost monochrome light, head down, still cautious about showing herself but aware that the decisive moment in the life of Peter Ellery/Evans/Driscoll was fast approaching.

  Driscoll had said she should go up on to the headland above the western end of the beach. According to the large-scale map of the area helpfully displayed on the wall of Mrs Griffiths’ guests’ lounge, there was a lane leading up it, which Wada followed past cottages and holiday chalets whose occupants weren’t up and about yet. The beach revealed itself in stages as she climbed, smooth sand lapped by lazy, white-crested breakers. There was virtually no wind at all. There was a stillness everywhere around her – a stillness of waiting.

  She reached the summit, where the lane ended. There was no view from there of the beach directly beneath the headland. For that she had to follow a footpath off to the right. A fence had been erected across it with a sign attached: Path closed due to cliff instability. She ignored that, rounded the fence and moved up to the overhanging edge of the cliff, where s
he knelt down.

  Immediately beneath her was an open stretch of sand, dotted with rocks. Away to her right was the main apron of the beach, the sand there furrowed by the rivulets of a brook flowing down the valley in which Porthtowan sat. At the other end of the beach was a cluster of buildings reached by the main road through the village. A black four-wheel-drive was parked at the extreme end of the road, where the land began to climb towards the eastern headland. Closer to her there was a lifeguard station, with a car park behind it, backing on to a bank of dunes. The only vehicle in the car park was a big silver-grey SUV. It looked like the kind of vehicle Nishizaki might have travelled there in.

  Wada studied the 4WD and the people-carrier through Mrs Griffiths’ binoculars. The 4WD appeared to be empty, while the windows of the people-carrier were tinted and reflective, so there was no way to tell if there was anyone inside.

  The sound of a car engine caught her ear. Lowering the binoculars, she saw a black Transit van driving along the road towards the other end of the beach. It slowed as she watched, pitching and rolling through potholes and over humps of sand.

  The van pulled up some metres short of the 4WD. Its engine died. Silence was restored. Nothing moved.

  Wada checked her watch. It was a few minutes to six. The sun had strengthened in the short time she’d been there. It was casting weak shadows now, including one of herself, zigzagging behind her across the tussocky grass of the clifftop.

  A door slammed. It was like a gunshot in the still air. She raised the binoculars and looked at the van. A man dressed in black had got out. He was smoking a cigarette. She saw him cough and thought she could hear the sound as well. He glanced at the 4WD, looked back at the van and shook his head, then moved to the top of the slope that led down to the beach, limping as he went. Wada realized then who he was: the man who’d crashed through the shed roof at Dr Morrisette’s house while chasing her. She instinctively dropped from her knees to a prone position. The man wasn’t looking in her direction. But she didn’t want to be seen. By anyone.