Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  “I’ve found out why certain Hampstead residents might not have wanted him moving in next door.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was very into his gambling, his casinos and racetracks. Ran a lot of racetracks in Afghanistan and Russia. There was concern about animal welfare. The horses being run into the ground. There were races where the last one standing won. Big money, apparently. Not my scene.”

  “The petition was sent to the paper by Devereux himself.”

  Charlotte frowned. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He made it all up.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Me neither. Maybe he did it to let people know he’d arrived. Maybe he liked trouble. Something else you might be interested in: Guess who sponsored Devereux’s visa application.”

  “Who?”

  “Granby himself. Devereux was meant to be at a party thrown by him last night—a get-together for compassionate industrialists and financiers. Devereux made a donation to the City Children’s Fund. Then, a few weeks before he died, he had a UK visa sponsored by Granby. The two might be connected. Granby denies ever meeting him, but he’s not shy about wanting his investment.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Briefly. It all concerns something called Project Boudicca. That’s all I know. That’s why Devereux was in London. Are you going to be OK here?” She seemed fully recovered. Her hair was still mussed from the encounter.

  “I’m going into the office,” Charlotte said. “It seems I’ve got quite a story on my hands now.”

  Belsey walked her to Archway tube station. You never knew when another investigative thug was going to jump out. At the tube she kissed Belsey on the mouth, which took him by surprise. She kissed hard and he kissed back, ignoring the pain in his lip.

  “Was that trust?” he said when they parted.

  “No. That was me being stupid.” But she didn’t say it like someone who thought they were being stupid.

  “Charlotte, do you have any holiday time left?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought maybe we could go on holiday. When all this is over.”

  “Maybe. Where would we be going?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere with no extradition treaties, relaxed banking laws, a long, porous border.”

  “Sounds nice,” she said.

  The Archway Tower caught them in its winds, wrapping shopping bags and old pages of newspaper around their legs. He was being stupid, toying with the possibility of continuing to know her. But it had been a while since he’d let himself feel like that. At least this relationship he’d destroyed in advance.

  “I want to find out what’s going on first,” Charlotte said. “Do you think our escape can wait?”

  “Sure it can,” he said.

  37

  PS Security had gone big-time in the last eighteen months. Belsey walked into their office between silently sliding doors and saw they’d refurbished. Now there was a front desk with a logo behind it and a coffee table with copies of the FT and The Economist. The logo was a stylised take on Justice as she appears on top of the Old Bailey, with her blade out. There are PI agencies that play it very bland and there are ones that like to dazzle the client with gadgetry and framed black-and-white photos of European capitals. Starr had gone for the latter. In some ways it was a better front. It suggested espionage depended on sleek professionalism rather than the goodwill of a few crooked contacts.

  “I’m here for Chris,” Belsey said.

  “He’s just with a client. He’ll be with you shortly.”

  Belsey took a seat and picked up a brochure. The cover had a picture of the globe being orbited by a laptop and a fingerprint. Inside it introduced PS.

  The premier private detective and investigation agency, based in the heart of London, operating throughout the centre of the capital for the past 25 years.

  A lie.

  Our private detectives and private investigators will undertake all manner of investigations, particularly in the financial, criminal, civil and commercial fields. We offer a confidential and sensitive telephone or office consultation, without obligation. You will find us understanding and professional.

  Services included: Matrimonial/Domestic, Electronic Security De-Bugging, Adoption/Birth Parents, IT Crime and Forensics. There was a wing of subsidiaries that did more muscular protection: escort convoys, bodyguards, babysitting for billionaires on a city break.

  Belsey put the brochure down and picked up The Economist. After five minutes a man in a beige suit came out of Starr’s office, flushed, followed a moment later by a stocky man in a grey suit carrying a see-through bag of shredded paper. The second man had a goatee and a shaven head exposing rolls of pink flesh that cushioned his skull from his spine. It was a police look. He read Belsey with a police officer’s undisguised suspicion. After another moment Starr appeared in the doorway with a grin and an outstretched hand.

  “Nick, come in.”

  Starr’s sparkle had turned seedy, the healthy glow a little too defiant. But he still had the air of a showman. He wore a blue suit, matching tie and pomade. He was everything a well-dressed private investigator ought to be and he gave Belsey the shivers.

  “What can I do for you?” Starr beckoned Belsey into his office and gestured to a seat. Belsey shut the door and sat down. Starr sat down. “Have you remembered something about our journalist friend?”

  “No. Actually I’m looking for my birth parents.”

  “Who isn’t? Mine owe me three grand.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Truly unbelievable.” Starr flashed his white teeth. There was a fine band of perspiration beneath his hairline. He glanced at his watch. “What can I really do for you?”

  “You can tell me how you’re involved with the Starbucks shooting.”

  Starr’s smile set like concrete. His fingers wove together on the desk as if to keep themselves from Belsey’s throat.

  “What makes you say we are?”

  “I got a call from you asking for leads on a perfectly innocent young lady called Charlotte Kelson. Why are you interested in her?”

  “Because she’s interested in us.”

  “She was looking at some business that I reckon ties to the assassination of Jessica Holden.”

  “What do you know, Nick?”

  “Still want to put me on the books? I’m cheap.”

  “If you have information I suggest you share it. It might put you in a very awkward situation if you don’t.”

  “I hate awkward situations,” Belsey said. “All I know is you’ve got very defensive all of a sudden. It was just a guess.”

  “We’ve got nothing to do with any assassin.” He let the word hiss between his teeth.

  “So what were you just shredding?”

  Starr leaned forward and pointed to the door. “Fuck off out of here, Nick. I don’t need you around.”

  Belsey stayed seated. He looked at the office and thought.

  “Let me put it to you that you’ve been supplying information to a client who then used that information to carry out a hit. You didn’t know they were going to hit someone, but it doesn’t look good for a man with as many friends as yourself. Doesn’t look good full stop.”

  Starr sat back again and waved this away.

  “Crap,” he said.

  “But you got details of the girl,” Belsey said. “Intercepted an arrangement to meet. Maybe you were bugging her phone.”

  “Who we got details of is our business. Between us and our client.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  “I thought you were a clever guy, Nick. That’s why I asked you to work for us. I’m glad you didn’t have the balls to apply. So don’t push this one. It’s a mess, and it’s not one you’re going to sort out.”

  “Who was at Charlotte Kelson’s place?”

  “Why?”

  “Tell him he throws a lousy punch. Tell him to leave her alone.”

  “Wh
y? Are you fucking her?”

  “You tell me.”

  Starr leaned forward again, face red. “Go fuck who you want, Nick. But don’t get caught up in this. It’s not something you need to care about or can handle.”

  Belsey considered his face, the tensed hands, the vein at the side of Starr’s neck, pulsing. On a card player they would be the tells of someone ready to crumble. It began to dawn on him that things were far worse than he realised.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I obviously know things that might help. I know things about Alexei Devereux.”

  The name had its usual effect. Starr went very quiet and thoughtful. Eventually he said: “Nick Belsey,” with a shake of his head and something like a groan, which could have been awe, Belsey thought, but was more likely frustration.

  “Why are you interested in him?”

  Starr sat back and took a deep breath. His eyes narrowed.

  “We were paid to be.”

  “And what’s gone wrong?”

  “We’ve lost one of our men,” he said.

  “Lost?”

  “Gone. I don’t know where. But he was working on Alexei Devereux.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago.” He looked down at the carpet, furious and reluctant to concede this fury. “So, you see, it’s our business and it’s our business. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Are you done?”

  “No. Who was he?”

  “Graham Dougsdale. Used to work in Covert. He was one of our best: a pursuit man, a watcher. Graham vanished. He was on a recce where he got photographs of Devereux. Do you know how hard it is to get photographs of Alexei Devereux? We get a call from Graham at 2 p.m. on Sunday saying he’s tailing and he’s had a result; he’s following the Russian. Then nothing. No contact.”

  Belsey thought about a strip of exposed subsoil in the corner of The Bishops Avenue garden. He wondered what time of year you were meant to plant bulbs.

  “Where did you lose him?”

  “Hampstead somewhere.”

  “Did you get the photographs?”

  “No.”

  “Where was the call from?”

  “Whitestone Pond. We’re searching everywhere: the Heath, everywhere. We’ll find him. And get the pictures.” It sounded as if he’d rather have the pictures than the missing investigator.

  “Photos of what?”

  “Devereux and whoever he was with. Some business going on. I don’t know. Something Graham thought was significant.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Some people.”

  “And Jessica Holden—did these people ask you to investigate her?”

  “No comment, Nick. Tell me your side of the story.”

  “Did you tell your client where they’d be able to find her? Did you know they were going to fill her with bullets?”

  “We haven’t broken any laws.”

  “Oh, thank fuck for that. Let’s all sleep easy. Who are they, Chris? Who’s paying?”

  “Clients.”

  “Why are they upsetting my neighbourhood?”

  “I don’t know.” Starr looked sincere.

  “Something they’re angry about.”

  “I’ll say.” He leaned back and massaged his face, then removed his hands and stared at Belsey.

  “I think that’s why you were asked to gain information as to where Jessica Holden was going to be that morning,” Belsey said.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Maybe I’ll go to the police.”

  This elicited a scornful expression from Starr.

  “How popular are you with your fellow police these days, Nick?”

  “What’s that meant to mean?”

  “I hear about you.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “Your luck’s running out.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Tell me what you know about Alexei Devereux,” Starr demanded.

  “Tell me who’s hiring you.”

  “No way.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They want to know who’s associated with this Devereux. They want to know everything about his life. What happened to Graham?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” Belsey said, rising.

  “Don’t fuck me around,” Starr said. “Don’t make me angry when you’re in the line of fire.”

  “I’m in the line of fire?”

  “You’re putting yourself there.”

  38

  Disposal of a body is hard. People talk about acid, but even acid leaves teeth and gallstones. And who has acid? Burning anything in London is a nightmare, and you never get to a heat necessary to melt down bones, not even with petrol. Burial is just preservation. That’s if you were lucky. Less than two feet down and nature’s scavengers will reveal a body in a week or so.

  Belsey returned the response car to Hampstead station, swapped it for the more discreet unmarked CID Peugeot and drove back to The Bishops Avenue. The winter afternoon had turned dark as night. He left the car on a side road and walked the last block to Devereux’s. He let himself in, went to the garden and took a spade from the shed.

  Graham Dougsdale, the days of man are as grass, as a flower of the field so shall he flourisheth.

  The saplings came straight out when he pulled at them. They hadn’t been properly bedded. Belsey tore the trees out, threw the bulbs to the side and began to dig. After a minute he hit something. He’d cleared a small hole, just over one foot deep. Crouching, he could see the unmistakable colour of bone down through the rich soil. He checked the spade edge and it had caught some blood and a scrap of flesh.

  Belsey took a roll of bin bags and a fresh pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen. He put the gloves on and knelt beside the grave. After a minute of clawing at the soil he could see thick black hair. It didn’t make much sense. Belsey dug around and the hair continued. He took the gloves off and felt the hair. It was coarse. He dug some more until he could see a tail. Eventually he was able to wrench the corpse free. He pulled out a mixed-breed Dalmatian-pointer.

  Belsey stared at it for a moment. Then he used the spade to lift the dog into a bin bag and carried it to the kitchen, where he laid it on the breakfast bar. He turned the main light on. The dog was male, eyes misted, throat slit.

  Belsey gave Isha Sharvani a call.

  “Very funny, Nick,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The blood sample. You asked if it was the same.”

  “It’s dog’s blood.”

  “Right. I’m a busy woman—”

  “Which one is the dog’s blood?”

  “Your package labelled ‘Safe Room.’ The other’s human enough, the carpet fibre. But the safe-room sample’s got canine antigens. Did you not know that?”

  “Not until now.”

  “There’s no mistaking them.”

  Belsey returned the dog to its grave and piled the soil back in. He stepped softly up the stairs to the safe room and stood there for a long time looking at the dried blood. He felt the logic of the world shifting once again. There seemed plenty of reasons why someone might murder Alexei Devereux but he couldn’t see why they’d then go to the elaborate lengths of staging it as a suicide. That wasn’t the MO for revenge killings. A crime of passion, maybe, but not a hit. He sat down at the control panel for the CCTV.

  Belsey checked the system again, in case there were any early recordings that he had missed. He couldn’t find anything before his stay. He watched the recordings of the previous night.

  Each monitor gave footage from four cameras, the screen quartered. There was a camera at the front of the property, one in the hall, two cameras in the upstairs corridor, one in both the study and the living room, two in the garden. He watched himself sleeping on the living-room sofa. He had never seen himself sleeping before. One t
ime they raided a man’s home and found images of people sleeping, thousands of them over three hard drives, and had to figure out if there was anything illegal about it. Belsey sat watching the images. He thought about shutting himself in the safe room, drinking the mineral water, eating the tinned food and waiting for the emergency to pass. Then something appeared on the left-hand monitor.

  The clock said 4:32 a.m. Belsey was lying on the sofa with one arm over his face. A man entered the room.

  Belsey stopped and rewound. The figure walked in from the hallway, went up to the sofa and cast his shadow across Belsey’s chest and arm. He had no face. Something obscured his features entirely. Then the figure walked out again.

  Belsey felt the touch of that shadow cross him. A deep, superstitious instinct made him get up and walk through every room of the house, checking the windows and the doors to the outside world. Finally he could sit back down at the monitor and try to understand what he was seeing.

  The hallway camera caught the intruder as he entered the front door—he went straight to the alarm and punched the code in. He wore a latex mask. Then he went through the living room. He knew the place. Belsey tried to see the figure’s throat as if it might bear telltale scars: Devereux revisiting his past life, touching the surfaces, the furniture, looking for whatever it was that would allow him to escape limbo.

  Then he saw Belsey.

  The figure froze. Then very slowly he approached the sofa to look at the sleeping form. He continued out of the living room to the study.

  The shadow stood a long while in the study, then crouched down. He disappeared from view as he crawled across the floor, reappearing beside the desk. Four-forty a.m. He searched the bin and the fireplace. He faced straight into the camera and still there were no features.

  He must have seen the camera lights, Belsey guessed. A small red light beneath each camera told you the CCTV system was on. The intruder began to move towards the stairs. To the safe room, Belsey thought. He was on his way to stop the tapes. Then, suddenly, he fled. Some noise must have startled him into thinking Belsey was getting up.