Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  He went back downstairs to the living room. His tea arrived a moment later.

  “It’s a terrible situation,” the man said.

  “Yes.”

  “Lucy’s mother worries herself sick.”

  Belsey leaned back on the plump sofa. He looked at the soft-focus shots of the dentist’s daughter: in ballet gear, in ballroom gear. No one ever believes the threat is in their own homes. Even when it’s them. Even as they’re bludgeoning the members of their close family to death.

  “We’re going to find whoever’s responsible,” Belsey said.

  “How can they live with themselves?”

  Lucy came downstairs in fresh makeup, skirt and knee boots with a fake fur jacket over her arm. It didn’t seem like she was about to turn in for the night. She looked from Belsey to her father and back at Belsey.

  “He’s a policeman,” her father said. She frowned.

  “I’ve told you everything already.”

  “I think you might have forgotten some details,” Belsey said. “I’m interested in the company Jessica kept. You know—sweethearts. That kind of thing.” The girl’s expression changed rapidly to one of panic. She turned again towards her father to read his face but caught only blissful ignorance. “Shall we talk somewhere private?” Belsey suggested.

  This seemed to be a good idea. They went to her room.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “Sit down.” Belsey shut the door. She sat on the edge of her bed. “I want to talk. You ever get clients who say that? They just want to talk?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What did you mean when you lied to the police?”

  “What did you tell my father?”

  “That you’re a cynical little whore. What did you tell Sky?”

  “Fuck you. You don’t care about Jessica.”

  “Don’t I? Do I care that you might be in a lot of danger yourself right now?”

  “You’re all incompetent.” She turned away, but not very effectively, and not without having heard his last words. He sat on the bed beside her. He gave her the casino photograph. “I’d like to know about this—this night, this man. I think, the more I can find out, the safer everyone will be.” She spent a while looking at it. She seemed to be checking it was real, then it felt like she’d stopped looking at the picture and was trying to see its implications.

  “He’s called Pierce,” she said finally.

  “What does Pierce do?”

  “He’s a businessman. Very rich.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I only saw him that night.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “We were at this club, a casino.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me, Jess, Alexei.”

  It felt bizarre, in this teenager’s bedroom, to finally find the person who had set eyes on him; to be at one remove from someone he had almost stopped believing ever existed.

  “You met Alexei Devereux?” Belsey said.

  “Yes.”

  “When was this?”

  “A week last Wednesday.”

  “What was he like?” Belsey asked.

  “Quiet.”

  “Did he like to have two girls with him?”

  “No. I don’t know why he wanted me there. Then, when we met Pierce, I spent most of the time with him and Alexei stayed with Jessica.”

  “They were close, Devereux and Jessica?”

  “They were in love.” Lucy lowered her gaze to the carpet as she said this. Suddenly she seemed young, with her defenses down.

  “And what about Alexei and Pierce? Did they know each other well?”

  “No. They just met that night. They got talking.”

  “Really?”

  “Really what?”

  “They just met and started talking?”

  “I think so.”

  “About what?”

  “Business. They wouldn’t let us hear.”

  “Do you think maybe Devereux knew Pierce was going to be there?”

  “Maybe. Pierce said he was there a lot. He liked playing blackjack and a game called craps.”

  “Did he pay you?”

  “Mr. Devereux paid.”

  “Did Pierce know you were working?”

  She shrugged. He figured there were scenes where everyone was working one way or another.

  “What else do you remember about Pierce Buckingham?”

  “He had cold hands,” she said. And she looked very young and very lost now. Belsey got off the bed and pulled a seat out from a dressing table. He leaned towards her but not too close.

  “I think I can find out what’s going on here, what happened to your friend. I can make sure that you’re not in danger. But I need you to tell me what you know.”

  She reached under her mattress and pulled out a menu: a single, printed piece of paper headed “Villa Bianca.” She gave it to him.

  “Did you go here?”

  “No, they did. She gave it to me.”

  “A menu?”

  “Look on the back.”

  Belsey turned it over. Someone had written a short note with an expensive pen. It was the same elegant handwriting as the suicide note.

  Dear Jessie

  You have made me so happy. I know I can’t tell you everything and that upsets you. You say we don’t know each other. But does love always mean knowing someone? Maybe you could love someone you don’t know very well at all. Is that possible? My snow tiger, my little fighter and dreamer—whatever happens, I think we know each other now.

  It was signed “A,” with a single kiss. Belsey read the note again. Snow tiger. It was touching. It was odd. His vision of Devereux became more complicated once again.

  “When did she give this to you?”

  “The night before she died.”

  “Why did she want you to have it?”

  “In case something bad happened.”

  He turned the menu face up again. It was dated Sunday, 8 February. The day’s special was salmon tortellini. It matched the receipt in Devereux’s wallet. It seemed to Belsey something bad happened soon after.

  “I think she would want you to help us find out who did it,” he said.

  “That’s all I know.”

  “What did Mr. Devereux sound like? What was his accent?”

  “Something foreign. It’s hard to say, he spoke so quietly. He didn’t like speaking. He said his English wasn’t good.”

  “It’s OK in the note.”

  “I guess so.” She thought about this.

  “Did Devereux mention a project?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something he was working on.”

  “I don’t know. They were excited about something. They got champagne.”

  “Why?”

  “Something had come up. An opportunity.”

  “Do you think it was this opportunity that got Jessica killed?”

  “She was worried something would happen. She knew it.”

  “What did she know?” Lucy shook her head, empty of everything apart from confusion. “She looked up to you. Bought the same clothes,” Belsey said.

  “Yes.”

  “She was a quiet kid. Then Mr. Devereux comes along and sees in her everything she wanted him to see.”

  “She wasn’t quiet. Not inside.”

  “What was she?”

  Lucy thought about this. “She was sad. Mr. Devereux changed her. He was kind, wealthy. They were going to run away and live together.”

  He was wealthy. It didn’t tell Belsey much that he didn’t already know. There are people who get called rich and there are people who get called wealthy. There aren’t many who get called kind in the process.

  “Why do you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Turn tricks.”

  “I’m on my gap year.”

  Belsey laughed. He felt bad for laughing but couldn’t help it.

 
“That’s a big gap,” he said.

  “I need the money.”

  He heard footsteps: two people coming up the stairs.

  “But what do you want?” He looked at her. All he saw was a young girl who’d lost a friend, or as close as things got to a friend; saw she was all alone in the world with a nice home, too many clothes, and an endless supply of men who’d pay to sleep with her. “Where were they running away to?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Somewhere far, Jess said. But she couldn’t decide.”

  “Couldn’t decide what?”

  “Whether to go with him.”

  Belsey thought once more about the letter in the handbag. She’d decided. The question was why Devereux never made the rendezvous to find out. Lucy began to cry. She reached for a box of tissues beside her pillow. Her father opened the bedroom door.

  “What’s going on?” he said. The mother appeared beside him in a matching dressing gown, clutching a small white dog.

  “Lucy?” she said. “Precious?”

  The mother had good teeth. The whole family had good teeth.

  44

  Belsey tore back into town to meet Max Kovar at the Ritz. On Charing Cross Road he stopped and ducked into an adult video emporium. Its ground floor was disguised as a bookstore. Most people headed straight for its basement, leaving the shelves of yellowing hardbacks deserted. Belsey found a glossy monograph with a painting of a horse on the cover, shook the security tag onto the floor and walked out. In the pub next door he asked for a pen. He wrote “To Max Kovar” on the first page, and signed Devereux’s name beneath.

  Details. A con rides on the details; the subconscious.

  Belsey arrived at the hotel just in time. The Rivoli was shifting clientele, from dining tourists to late-night bar sharks. It was as splendidly tasteless as he remembered. He called Charlotte’s mobile from the bar’s phone.

  “Hey, Charlotte. I know it’s late.”

  “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “I remembered you,” Belsey said. “I got you a present. He’s called Pierce Buckingham and he died in EC4 this evening.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s being played quiet, so feel special.”

  “I heard there’d been a shooting in the City. They haven’t released a name. I didn’t hear any more.”

  “You probably won’t, unless you hear it from me. Pierce Buckingham: that’s your name. But move fast because they’re going to try to suffocate this. Buckingham connects to investors going by the name of the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium. He was drinking with Devereux a week last Wednesday.”

  “Where do I look?”

  “You could start with an investigations firm called PS Security. You’ve already met one of their operatives. Take a look at their working relationship with serving police officers close to Chief Superintendent Northwood. At the very least it will give you some leverage.” Belsey watched Kovar walk in. “Listen, Charlotte,” he said. “Do me a favour and call back on this number in three minutes, say it’s Alexei Devereux.”

  “What?”

  “It would be doing me a huge favour. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait—”

  Belsey hung up and told the barman he was expecting a call. Kovar had taken a table at the back. Belsey joined him.

  “You’re punctual,” he said. They shook hands. Belsey saw a few dark suits in the lobby outside who may have been security, and may have belonged to Kovar, but the speculator had come into the bar alone. “Here.” Belsey gave him the book. He watched him open it and read the inscription.

  “Well, that’s very kind. Where’s Mr. Devereux?”

  “There’s been some trouble.” Belsey glanced around the bar with what he hoped looked like a combination of caution and impatience. “He’s sorting it out.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “You’ll see. It might work in your favour.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Belsey fixed Kovar with a stare. “The thing you told us about Pierce Buckingham—well, we acted.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “You were right. And now we’d like to reward you with a proposal.”

  “Like what?”

  The barman came over. “You have a phone call, sir. An Alexei Devereux.”

  “Oh.” Belsey glanced at the watch. “Would you excuse me?” he said to Kovar. The message had had an electrifying effect on the speculator. He excused Belsey. Belsey took the call at the bar.

  “What is this?” Charlotte said.

  “I think you’re very special,” Belsey said. He hung up and came back. “Well, the good news is he likes you or he wouldn’t have phoned to apologise.” Kovar nodded. “The bad news is that he sends his apologies.”

  Kovar took this well, all things considered.

  “The proposal,” he said.

  “What proposal?”

  “When Mr. Devereux called, you were saying you had a proposal.”

  “Thirty percent. That was the slice Buckingham was responsible for and now we need it covered. That was going to be the Hong Kong Gaming share but they’re out of the picture. A clean thirty percent and it’s yours if you want it.”

  “Thirty percent of what?”

  Belsey rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Max. Mr. Devereux told me you’d be hard, but now you’re testing my patience.”

  “Listen,” Kovar said. “Before I put money into a project I like to smell it. Do you understand? I smell what I’m investing in. I touch it, I taste it. That’s why I travel. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Delay your flight. I’ll give you something in the next twenty-four hours and you can taste it or do whatever you want with it. I can get you another room if you need one. You can use one of our jets if you have a problem arranging travel.”

  “Delay my flight? Can you give me some indication of what I can look forward to?”

  “Do you really not know?” Belsey said.

  “No.”

  “I can’t talk about it here. Will you be in London tomorrow?”

  “I guess I’ll have to be.” Kovar was exasperated. He looked like someone who’d never been played before. Now he was the one chasing, and that was the best way to remind someone they wanted something. When someone sees themselves chasing it’s hard for them to believe they’re wrong.

  “Listen, Max, I’ll give you a piece of advice, because I think you’d be good to work with. Buckingham was a crook, but he made Mr. D feel loved. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “The window of opportunity, the window in which to demonstrate your love, is becoming increasingly small. We’ll be moving on from London in the next day or so.”

  “I see.”

  “So prepare yourself for a speedy handover. If there was anything you wanted to give Mr. Devereux. And don’t pay too much attention to what they’re going to say on the news.”

  “About what?”

  “About Pierce Buckingham’s death.”

  Kovar looked bewildered. Belsey shook his hand and got up from the table, moving rapidly out of the bar, towards Piccadilly Circus.

  City of London Police divided into two territorial divisions, with stations at Snow Hill and Bishopsgate, and an HQ at Wood Street. The shooting was geographically closest to Wood Street, and Wood Street was the base for Specialist Crime. Belsey guessed this was where he’d find them. He walked into the front inquiry office and there was a crowd of detectives lining up beside the reception desk, saying they’d been requested to attend by Chief Inspector Walker, regarding the shooting.

  “He’s in an urgent meeting with senior officials,” the duty constable explained. “You can wait in the office.”

  They shook their heads wearily and went up. Belsey walked around the block, found an empty box file in a Dumpster and came back, flashing his badge.

  “Nick Belsey for Chief Inspector Walker.”

  “He’s not taking anyone at the moment.
Everyone’s waiting in the office.” Belsey sighed. The door buzzed and he walked through to the stairs.

  The Specialist Crime office was big enough to accommodate ten separate workstations, with three more offices to the side and a door to a conference room at the far end. It had already filled with officers, and the air was stale. Thirteen men and women gathered beneath harsh fluorescent strip lights: inspectors, sergeants, detective constables, waiting in the open-plan area. They leaned on desks or paced, gripping paper cups of coffee, all with one eye on the conference-room door. There were a lot of anxious faces.

  “Where’s the chief?” Belsey said. One nodded to the conference room. Belsey headed for the door.

  “I wouldn’t if I was you.” This came from a DS with a moustache and a south London accent, restlessly tapping an unlit Benson on its packet.

  “We’re all waiting,” said a second man: a lanky grey inspector Belsey half recognised from the Money Laundering Unit. Belsey stood exasperated in the centre of the room.

  “So what the fuck’s going on here?” he said. He went and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Are you from Murder Squad?”

  “Operation Fortress. City Gun Crime Unit.”

  “Walker’s in with brass. We’ve been told to hold tight.”

  Belsey asked the frustrated officers what they knew. It seemed that something about Buckingham had set off a silent alarm. According to the waiting talent, two MPs, a civil servant and several officers from Special Branch were holed up in the conference room, with a total media ban imposed, which left a lot of elite detectives sitting on their hands and shooting theories.

  “It can’t be Buckingham,” Belsey said.

  “It would be about time,” someone muttered.

  “Bucking Bronco?” Another officer laughed. “I always said he’d dig himself a hole.”

  Belsey propped himself discreetly in a corner. He imagined going to sleep. He listened.

  “Not exactly short of enemies,” one man chipped in.

  “We were a couple of days from getting our hands on his Italian accounts when the judge fell out of a window.”