Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  “No idea, Nick.”

  “Other people have an idea.”

  “They haven’t fingered him for that.”

  “Like fuck they haven’t.”

  Belsey cleaned up. Cassidy’s mind wasn’t on it. He lit a second cigarette off the first and Belsey watched his face in the light of the cherry. Belsey had met the son once or twice. Johnny had been a good footballer, trials at Arsenal, and when that didn’t work out a cage fighter, part of a crew that trained at Legend’s Gym behind North Lambeth tube station. That was before he went to Ibiza and discovered ecstasy. A few months later he was smuggling it from Holland. Belsey fed fifty pence into the table and racked up again.

  “What are they saying?” Cassidy asked.

  “Three witnesses.”

  “With a name?”

  “With his full postcode, Niall. It was 3 p.m. outside the job centre. Not quite the perfect crime.”

  “He was just joking about.”

  “Fucking funny. I remember last time someone stabbed me. I couldn’t stop laughing. I thought I was going to wet myself, Niall. Know what I mean?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I heard it was a fancy knife. Not the sort of thing he would have had on the plane. Where’d he get that?”

  “I haven’t got anything to say, Nick. I haven’t seen him.”

  “Where did you get the cigarettes?”

  “What?”

  “The health warning. Fumar puede matar. That’s Spanish, isn’t it? Filthy habit in any language.” Cassidy’s face fell. “Want to put some money on the next game?” Belsey said.

  Niall Cassidy chalked his cue. Other times he would have been calling Belsey pig scum by now and describing the delights that awaited him when he ended up in Pentonville Prison. But the wind had gone out of his sails. It happens, even with the dedicated.

  “It’s the paperwork I’m worried about,” Belsey said. “It’s all paperwork these days. Mountains of the stuff. It’s why you never see us on the streets anymore.”

  “I know. I reckon you need a holiday, Nicky. Look, how’s this?”

  He took a roll of dirty notes out of his back pocket and put three hundred in twenties on the table. “Reckon you could do with getting away for a while. Treat yourself.”

  Belsey counted it, kept twenty and returned the rest. “I am going away. But I’m going to need a fuck of a lot more than this.”

  “What are you after?”

  “Six grand.”

  “Don’t treat me like a cunt, Nick.”

  “You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say. Because I’m asking if I can do you a favour.” They weren’t playing anymore: standing with their cues upright on the ground. The light above the table caught the lower half of their faces but not the eyes. There was no sound from the pub. “Put a tune on the jukebox,” Belsey said. “Something lively.”

  Cassidy did. That alone told Belsey he was in control. Interview-room practice, get them cooperating on small things, dancing with them, leading them. He figured Cassidy had reached a point. And besides, the things you can do to someone are nothing compared to what you can do to their family.

  The music came on. “Careless Whisper.”

  “I said something lively.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “There’s a brand-new Porsche Cayenne parked outside. I’m going to give you that with a TV and a DVD player.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Because you’re my millionth customer, you see, Niall. And now I’m out of here. I do you a flat-screen TV, video, blender, microwave. Everything a modern home requires. Porsche thrown in, and an amazing trick where Hampstead CID lose all Johnny’s paperwork. I’ll make sure no one touches him. I need six grand in cash by the end of tomorrow.”

  “Six grand? Jesus Christ, Nicholas, what are you up to?”

  “I’m going on my toes, Niall. I’m starting again.”

  Cassidy stared at him. “I’m straight now. The whole family’s straight.”

  “I know,” Belsey said. “I know. Me too.”

  14

  A regulation 163 notice sat in his in-tray: notification of the Internal Affairs investigation. It didn’t mention any suspension. Beneath it was an envelope from the Mental Health Assessment Team. He removed the items and dropped them in the bin. Trapping walked into the office with his arms full of old Offender Profiles.

  “Nick. IPCC trying to get hold of you. And a lawyer, from Riggs.” He dropped the files on his desk.

  “OK.”

  “What’s that about?”

  “I’m being headhunted. They want me to lead a new anti-corruption squad. What’s the paperwork?”

  “Have you not heard? We just got John Cassidy in.”

  “In here?”

  “He’s downstairs. Our friend Tony’s giving a statement.”

  Belsey walked down to the cells, swearing. He checked the board: John Cassidy, number 5. He walked to the cell door and slid the shutter. Johnny was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall. The pose took Belsey by surprise. He had his eyes shut. He looked in good shape. How long had he been out of cells? A day in Spain waiting for the flight, two in London on the run. Belsey could hear Johnny’s brief arguing with the custody sergeant at the end of the corridor. He went over. The legal aid was an obese, raw-skinned man called William Balls, or Billy Balls-Up, depending on whether he was present. Balls wore a shiny navy suit and always stank of stale smoke.

  “Detective Constable Belsey,” Balls said, spotting a more pliable representative of the force.

  “Boss.”

  “You know Tony, don’t you? Mad Tony? You wouldn’t call someone like that a reliable witness.”

  “Mad Tony’s not his real name. Where is he?”

  “Waiting outside the interview room,” the custody sergeant said.

  Belsey found Tony Cutter sitting bent over his knees in the corridor. He was shaking. He used to steal steaks from Tesco and sell them to women on the estates. Every few days they’d bring him in with his coat stuffed and the station filled with the smell of thawing meat. Now he made his money begging and selling on prescription drugs. Psychosis and alcoholism contended for the upper hand. The corridor reeked.

  “Nick.” His face lit up. Tobacco smoke had stained one side of his face and the teeth that remained.

  “Tony. How’s life?”

  “I saw it, Nick. I was just having a beer. I didn’t want to get involved. It looked like God’s work.” Belsey checked his ink-black pupils.

  “Is that right?”

  “God’s own handiwork. It’s evil, Nick.”

  “Certainly sounds it.”

  Belsey walked back to the cell corridor. The custody sergeant was nowhere to be seen. Balls sat on a plastic seat, wiping his forehead with a blue hand towel.

  “Let’s get some air,” Belsey said. They stepped out to the parking lot. “Tony’s not going to be a problem,” he said.

  “It’s not him I’m worried about. They found twenty grams of ketamine and a converted replica handgun in the freezer of Johnny’s girlfriend. She’s rolling over, washing her hands of him.”

  Belsey groaned. “How did Johnny know he was ratted out?”

  “It’s not rocket science.”

  “He knew where to find him.”

  “The job centre was an OK bet.”

  “Why don’t you claim that police leaked the informant’s name to him. Make some noise about it. Mix things up.”

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. Is he getting bail?”

  “Trying.”

  “Does his old man know?”

  “Not yet.”

  He returned to the office and sat down, shattered. The best laid plans of mice and men . . . It was not, on reflection, the best laid plan. He washed a ChestEze down with some cold coffee. It would be very important to divide his mind, to watch out for what he was doing. Sleep on the plane—that would be his m
antra. He went to the front desk.

  “I’ve locked myself out of the office,” he said. “Can I get the master key?” They gave him the master key. He went upstairs, let himself into Gower’s office and sorted through the day’s post until he found the IPCC envelope. He took the envelope and locked up and returned the key.

  He’d be fired when he chose to be fired.

  He called the Well but Niall wasn’t in. There was nothing else he could do for now. He drove back to The Bishops Avenue. There were no more footprints outside the mansion, not as far as he could see in the glare from the security lights. Belsey hung back, watching the house, walked past it twice, then entered.

  Home sweet home.

  He walked into the safe room and stared at the solidified convex drips, the streaked map of blood on the wall. He sat in the swivel chair and picked up the Reflections Funeral Plan and admired the swans. Swans sing their own funeral song—wasn’t that what the legend claimed? Never sing a note until they are dying, then they begin. Belsey unclipped the cheque and held it, then slipped it back into the brochure and left them on the desk.

  He went to the living room and began unplugging the electrical goods. He worked methodically: hi-fi, cabinet speakers, DVD player. He left the TV in the living room for the moment and took a smaller model from upstairs. Then he took the microwave from the kitchen and the trouser press from the bedroom. He found a screwdriver and stepladder in the utility room and started unscrewing the smaller chandeliers. The curtains were open and Belsey went to draw them. At the window he saw he was too late. The security guard for the house opposite stared back at him through the darkness.

  On The Bishops Avenue, neighbourhood watch came with a uniform. Belsey crossed the road. The house facing Devereux’s own was built from pink marble, modelled on the Acropolis. It had its own name—“Summer Palace.” Belsey showed his warrant card to the security guard.

  “How long have you been working here?” Belsey said.

  “Five years. Why?”

  The guard had an Israeli accent and sharp, grey eyes.

  “The man who lived opposite, we’re investigating his death. At the moment it looks like a straight suicide but I’d like you to keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously.”

  “OK.”

  “Did you ever see him around?”

  “No.”

  “You’d notice.”

  “Right.”

  “Vehicles coming in and out?”

  “Cleaners, gardeners. That’s all.”

  They both watched a moped idling at the roadside, checking a map, trundling on.

  “Is your boss in?” Belsey said.

  The guard waved him towards the front door and lifted a radio to his mouth. Expensive set-up for a doorbell, Belsey thought. The owner answered in a camel-hair coat and silk scarf, holding his car keys. He was thick-set, broad-shouldered, with a lot of children running around in the background.

  “I’ve got some questions about the man who lived opposite,” Belsey said, badge out.

  “What happened?”

  “He died.”

  The neighbour glanced briefly at the sky and muttered Hebrew. He bounced his car keys but didn’t say anything, looking at Belsey, waiting to hear what the proposition was.

  “Did you know him?” Belsey asked.

  “No. I only spoke to him once. He seemed a very cultured man. He said I should come over for drinks, but I’m rarely in the country.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Mr. Devereux.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He had a hard time of it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “All his family, I believe, perished in Russia many years ago.”

  “Perished?”

  “Prisons. I don’t know. I heard this from Russian friends of mine. Everything he had he made himself. Every penny.”

  “How did he make it?”

  “He was an entrepreneur. I’m not sure of the details. But he believed in capitalism.” The neighbour gave a slight smile. “Before it became fashionable over there.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I haven’t seen him since that first time. I’ll ask my wife, she sees everything on this street.” He went to ask his wife and came back shrugging.

  “Never seen him. Have you asked the guard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”

  Belsey walked to the shops and bought superglue, Sellotape and talcum powder. It left him eleven pounds of Cassidy’s twenty. He asked for a shopping bag. That was everything he needed for a DIY fingerprint kit. Back at the house he took one of the jars from the fridge. Glass is every detective’s dream, as an instructor at a CID forensics training day had put it. Belsey had never forgotten the phrase. He took the desk lamp from the study and covered the bulb with glue, then switched it on and wrapped the bag around the lamp with the marmalade jar inside. The glue vapours would stick wherever there was grease, and then you could dust the surface with a little talc and it was as good as anything a lab would send you.

  Nothing. Belsey checked another jar, then a toothbrush, then the cover of a catalogue. He peeled Sellotape samples of lamp switches and TV screens. There were no prints. Devereux didn’t like using his fingers. Belsey took a flashlight from the garage and patrolled the house, searching surfaces, anywhere he knew he hadn’t made contact himself: the handles of drawers, the rim of the Jacuzzi, window frames, the underside of toilet seats. There wasn’t a print in the place.

  He sat in the living room and thought. Maybe death was not enough for Devereux. Maybe he had to wipe all traces of himself from existence. I have tried to ensure that all paperwork is in order so that you have no cause for further aggravation. The Marquis de Sade left instructions in his will: he was to be buried in a copse, in the woods of his property, the ditch covered over and strewn with acorns—in order that the spot become green again and my grave may disappear from the face of the earth as I trust the memory of me shall fade out of the minds of all men . . .

  Bullshit. The place was scrubbed clean. Someone had done a job on it.

  The cleaner would be a place to start. Belsey called three cleaning companies in Hampstead. Eventually he found the company that employed Kristina—Sprint Domestic Cleaners—and reached her on her mobile.

  “Mr. Devereux’s home, on The Bishops Avenue—did you clean it before you called the police?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “When did you last clean it?”

  “I mean, I didn’t call the police.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was trying to decide what to do. Then you arrived.”

  This threw him. Belsey called the control room.

  “Do you have details of the person who called in a missing person report on the morning of Thursday the twelfth?”

  It took them three minutes to get the record up.

  “Yes, the details are here.”

  “Was it a cleaner?”

  “No.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Detective Inspector Philip Ridpath.”

  “It was called in by police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s Ridpath?”

  “Someone in the Yard.”

  Belsey felt himself pitched deeper into uncertainty. He wrote the name on the back of an envelope.

  “What department?”

  “The Financial Investigation Development Unit.”

  “Financial Investigation?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Belsey thanked the control room and put the phone down. Things suddenly felt a lot more dangerous. He had walked into a scene that already had Yard attention. His first instinct was to walk away again, fast. But a deeper, more insistent voice told him he had a lead to follow. Fin
ally he reasoned that he would be safer knowing what he had stumbled upon. It was seven-thirty. He tried the number for the Financial Unit, just in case anyone was still around. A man answered with a nasal drawl.

  “Sergeant Midgley speaking.”

  “I’m looking for an Inspector Philip Ridpath. Is he still in the office by any chance?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Can you put me through?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s not answering his phone.”

  “He’s not answering his phone?”

  “He’s busy.”

  “We’re all busy,” Belsey said. “What the hell is this?”

  15

  Belsey drove through Victoria, through the glum suburbs of government. Whitehall’s outlying muscle clustered inelegantly alongside the cheap hotels and chain restaurants. Belsey had never liked the area. Buildings either crouched to the ground or were the size of cruise ships. Humans shuffled in the cracks between public-sector slabs as if it was the buildings they were serving. Belsey turned onto Broadway towards New Scotland Yard.

  The Kremlin, they called it. But Rome would have been a closer analogy. Like Rome, it was regarded with suspicion by its satellite districts, as a place where nothing actually happened, and to which everything was bound. To most police it was a still point in the centre of the machine, endless paper jammed in its endless wheels. The twenty featureless floors of mirrored windows enhanced the impression. From the outside it always looked empty. It never was.

  Belsey parked around the corner, far enough away not to have the car bomb-disposed. He straightened his hair and tie in the rearview mirror, then approached the Yard, stepping over the slabs of anti-terrorist concrete, past armed guards in bulletproofs.

  All white-collar departments got high security. Belsey knew it wasn’t going to be easy. They operated a system called sterile corridors, which meant even officers from other Yard departments needed permits to get through. He went through the visitors’ entrance, signed his name and department at the front desk and said he had an appointment with Ridpath. He was given a pass “to be worn around the neck at all times” and taken up to the fourth floor, where he showed the pass to get through the outer security of Economic and Specialist Crime. Then he had to talk his way into the warren, past Film Piracy, Stolen Vehicle, Computing, until the corridors were narrower, the pot plants thick with dust, and he was in the Financial Investigation Development Unit. The Yard has odd-shaped hollows worn by operational requirements, by a need for obscurity. It has nooks and byways into which careers fall, or lead themselves, away from daylight.