“Give Johnny Cassidy protected informant status,” Belsey said. “Tell the judge he’s provided significant assistance.”
“John Cassidy?” Northwood said. “He’s involved?”
“He’s helped me, yes. I’ll be able to reveal how at a later date. And take a look at the escort agency, Sweetheart Companionship. They use underage girls. And I believe the only reason they haven’t been shut down is because the boys at West End Central have a working agreement and take part in orgies, sometimes filmed, with animals and drugs involved.”
“West End Central?”
“Check their hard drives. Can I get some air?”
They unlocked him and he got up, rubbing his wrists. The Command team were already at action stations, radioing instructions, calling up the Yard. It was going to be a busy night. Belsey moved between them, out to the terminal. Jesus Christ, he thought, surveying the scene. Then Northwood was beside him, grim, still furious, but very faintly vulnerable.
“What are you going to say?” he demanded.
“To who?”
“To anyone.”
“Nothing.” Belsey sensed a shift of power, small but significant. They faced each other beside the trashed and bullet-pocked Burger King.
“Going to tell more lies to your friends at the Mail?”
“I’m going to do what I can to ensure no serving officer is brought into disrepute,” Belsey said. Northwood digested this sceptically.
“There’s going to be a lot of issues,” Northwood said.
“I thought, given the number of issues, I’d leave it to you.” Belsey’s eyes glinted. “How does that sound?”
“That would be the first sensible thing you’ve done in a while.”
“Do I have a job?” Belsey asked.
“I think we can arrange something.”
“Then I should probably get some sleep.”
Belsey was assigned a chaperone: a young, serious-looking constable who walked beside him to a panda car. They were closing the airport, stringing tape across the front. One horse lay on its side receiving medical attention. The rest were being rounded up. The flashing lights of seventeen emergency vehicles lit the animals and a line of shell-shocked travellers being marched to the Premier Inn.
The constable gestured for Belsey to take the passenger seat of the police car.
“What are you meant to do with me?” Belsey asked.
“Ensure you go straight home,” he said.
Straight home. Belsey laughed. He heard voices behind him: Northwood sorting the press conference, forensics arriving with expressions of disbelief. Then, once they had started to drive, the wind blew all their voices away and it was quiet again.
64
In the end he told the chaperone to drive him to Kilburn. The young police constable dropped him off on the High Road but didn’t leave immediately, watching from the parked car as if Belsey might explode into sudden insubordination. Belsey turned into a residential cul-de-sac, waited to hear the car drive off, then walked in the direction of Ridpath’s home. He didn’t know what to expect.
The inspector’s car was still there. It was low on its suspension, with a heavy boot. A light glowed dimly within the house.
Belsey rang the bell. He heard someone approach the door and stop.
“Let me in,” Belsey said. There was no answer. “I’m alone, unarmed.”
After another moment Ridpath opened the door, checked the street and walked back into the house. Belsey saw him return a knife to the kitchen drawer. It passed through Belsey’s mind that he had already killed a man, not so long ago. But Belsey didn’t feel in danger. He entered Ridpath’s home and closed the door. He collapsed onto the sagging sofa. “Thirty-eight mil,” Belsey said. “That’s quite a haul.”
“How long have I got?” Ridpath said.
“Six hours, tops. I wouldn’t stop to take any pictures.”
“You didn’t tell them about me?”
“It slipped my mind.”
Ridpath stared at him. He gave a small nod. Finally he said, “What do you want?”
“Maybe I want to say good-bye.” Belsey looked around the room. He got up and found the rest of the Scotch in the cupboard, took a mug from the sideboard and poured a drink. “Do you really think you can get away?” he said.
“It’s still a big world.”
“Maybe.”
Belsey offered the bottle to Ridpath but it was declined. A life on the run, Belsey thought: Was that anything to envy? Watching your back every hour of the day? But then thirty-eight million could make for some slick running.
Ridpath turned the gas off and found his coat. Belsey poured himself another whisky. The inspector rummaged beneath the sink and produced a stack of documents and a clear bag of hair dye, scissors and glue. Belsey watched him standing very still in the kitchen with the getaway kit.
“Was there a passport on her?” the inspector asked suddenly.
“A passport? On Jessica, you mean?”
“Yes. Was she going to come with me?”
He said it like someone painfully aware of themselves, exposed to ridicule and stiffened against it. How had Jessica’s friend described Devereux? He was kind, wealthy. Belsey wondered if the transformation could ever be repeated. Maybe Ridpath was already planning his next billionaire. He would be omnipotent again. Maybe Devereux and his charm were gone forever.
“I don’t know,” Belsey said. He thought about the farewell note, about the passport in the girl’s locker. “Sure. Why not?” He reached into his pocket and brought out the watch. “Do you want this? It still has the pictures on it.” Ridpath looked at the watch for a moment, then took it from Belsey.
“Wait here.” Ridpath went upstairs. Belsey stared at the kitchen, the washing-up still to be done, then at the awards lying on the shelves: In recognition of DI Philip Ridpath’s diligence and resourcefulness in the course of duty . . .
The inspector returned with a thick A4 envelope.
“What is it?” Belsey said.
“This explains everything.”
Belsey took the envelope. It felt heavy in his hand.
“What’s there to explain?”
“In case you have any trouble.”
They both left the house. Belsey watched him lock up for the last time. He waited to see Ridpath look round and drink it in, feel sorry for himself, but the inspector just got into his car and started the engine. No good-bye for Belsey either. Ridpath reversed out fast. He drove off towards Willesden Lane, into exile.
65
Belsey didn’t leave immediately. He wasn’t going anywhere. He sat on a garden wall across the road, watching the house, which seemed very small now, crouched to the earth, as if everything on the planet was resting low on its suspension. He was tipsy. It had been a long day. He watched the house and the sky above it, searching for stars. Finally he looked at the envelope in his hands. How much did he want explained? He stabbed the packet and tore it open, took out a bank-sealed wad of notes. Then he took out another. There were wads of crisp fifties and twenties. Belsey crouched by the side of the road and made neat piles on the pavement, trying not to laugh or cry. Twelve piles. He estimated eighty grand, maybe ninety. Well, he thought. He stuffed some in his pockets and the rest back in the envelope and sat there, breathing. Well, he thought again. And, after another moment: That’s a start.
It deserved a celebration. He took a cab to the Dorchester hotel and hit the bar. The place was lively, polished tables occupied, bar staff doing brisk service. The bar was long and curved and there were a lot of mirrors and men and women who looked famous. Belsey ordered a bottle of Krug Grand Cuvée. He watched the ceiling lights, the glass sculptures, the velvet. He drank the most expensive champagne he had ever tasted. But it wasn’t a drink to enjoy on your own. After half a bottle Belsey slipped a band off one of the wads and caught a cab across the river to the Wishing Well.
“My round,” he announced to the bar.
“Nick!”
The Well’s infamous Sunday-night lock-in received him warmly.
“What am I done for now, Officer?” He took friendly blows to the shoulders and pretended to fight back. He bought a round. The crowd seemed to swell when he started getting drinks in.
“What are we celebrating?”
Men got on their phones and spread word of a party. Belsey bought the two dusty bottles of Cava that had been behind the bar for as long as he had drunk there. He downed a lot of sambuca and some stale beer. Eventually he went to a public phone box on the street outside.
He called St. Thomas’ Hospital. Charlotte Kelson had been discharged. The hospital refused to give him any details. Belsey tried her mobile but she didn’t answer. He stood in the phone box and thought about visiting her house.
He went to Lorenzo’s.
“Nicky, you’re back.”
“Nicky, what are you having?”
He arrived in time for the shambolic end of what must have been a birthday or a hen party, with a drunk DJ and women dancing on tables who looked like they weren’t hired entertainment. The floor was sticky. The landlord was bandaging his arm.
Belsey bought a lot of rounds and made some new friends. He found himself behind the bar, fixing people drinks. At one point he was talking to a girl and she said, “What do you do? Are you a barman?” And he said, “I’m a police detective,” and it felt OK.
He moved on to Roxy’s, then across the road to the Blue Eyed Maid: tourist traps and pubs for people who didn’t go to bed. Then, when even the stalwarts closed on him, Belsey caught a cab to Soho, to the Spanish Bar. There was a man who worked for a ferry company and they were drinking vodka martinis and watching shop assistants set light to shots. After his fifth or sixth Belsey must have left because he was walking up the Euston Road. Even without a home he had the sensation of walking away from home. The night was young. London restrained a smile, finding him still there. So, it seemed to say, the two of us again.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Judith Murray for making it happen; to Alex Bowler for making it a pleasure. The excellent people of FIE provided good times and accommodation, both of which were invaluable. Charles Harris has been a huge source of inspiration and advice; Elaine Harris supplied pretty much everything else. Emily Kenway was the book’s first reader and her comments improved it greatly. It’s dedicated to her for less literary reasons.
About the Author
OLIVER HARRIS holds an MA in Shakespeare studies from University College London and an MA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia. He has worked in clothing warehouses, at PR companies, and as a TV and film extra, and more recently assisted with research in the Imperial War Museum archives. He writes reviews for the Times Literary Supplement.
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Credits
Cover design by Jarrod Taylor
Cover photograph © David Neve/Arcangel Images
Copyright
First published in slightly different form in Great Britain in 2011 by Jonathan Cape.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“Prayer” taken from Collected Poems © Hugo Williams and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.
THE HOLLOW MAN. Copyright © 2012 by Oliver Harris. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062136701
FIRST U.S. EDITION
ISBN 9780062136718
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