“Been lucky, sir?”
“Not at all. Anywhere I can smoke this?”
Belsey was directed to what he thought was a side room but led outdoors to the “Smoking Gaming Area.” This offered al fresco gaming beneath the stars: slots, electronic roulette, infrared heaters and a real tree. At the back was a waterfall lit by red and blue lights, cascading down film-set rocks. More coloured lights had been secreted in the plant beds. Belsey sat by the tree and smoked.
Who are you expecting to meet?
Someone called Nick Belsey.
It was personal. That changed everything. Had someone been watching them last night? After the meeting? Information about the Starbucks shooting. Again, he saw himself ministering to the girl as she died. He saw the office where he’d first met her. He couldn’t hold the whole puzzle in his mind at one time.
When he looked up, the woman with the reservations book was standing in the doorway, accompanied by a tall, broad man in a buttoned grey suit. She pointed at Belsey and said something. Belsey made a split-second survey of exits and decided he’d need to get back inside rather than risk the security spikes of the garden wall. The man approached Belsey, smoothing the front of his suit.
“Mr. Devereux?”
“Yes.”
“Your car’s here, sir.” He said it with a small bow. Belsey thought about this.
“I was just starting to relax.”
“Shall I tell him to wait, sir?”
“Let me speak to him.”
Belsey stubbed the cigar and followed the manager out through the gaming rooms and down to the street. A man in uniform and peaked cap leaned over an S-Class Mercedes, wiping a rag over its gleaming black hood. Belsey approached.
“Are you here for Mr. Devereux?” Belsey said.
“Yes, sir.”
The driver spoke with a Nigerian accent. He had sleepy eyes and fat cheeks. He put the rag away and produced a pair of bright white gloves.
“He ordered a car?”
“Yes.”
“When was it ordered?” Belsey said.
“Last week.”
“Are you going back to Hampstead?”
“No, sir. Not unless you’d prefer.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have an address.”
“Show me.”
The man reached into his jacket and produced a printout. He had a postcode for his GPS, there was no address. It was a WD5 postcode. Where was that? Somewhere on the Greater London outskirts.
“You’ve driven for Mr. Devereux before?”
“No, sir.”
“Wait one minute.”
Belsey went back into the club. He splashed his face from gold taps, fixed his tie, ran a hand through his hair. That had been Devereux’s plan, he thought. A late supper, then on. On to where? Somewhere, perhaps, that would explain a young woman’s death. Belsey steeled himself for whatever trouble he was diving into. He returned to the street.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Belsey climbed into the back of the car. Bottles and glasses sparkled in a rack at the side. A silver plaque in the back of the front seats said “Prestige.” A stack of company cards between the front seats showed a limousine. The driver got in and inspected Belsey in the rearview mirror.
“Mr. Devereux?”
“Last time I checked. Let’s go.” Belsey poured a large vodka and slid low in his seat. The engine purred and they were away.
32
They cleared central London in fifteen minutes, heading north along the Finchley Road. Belsey had a sense of being carried along by the machinery of someone else’s life; detached, curious. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation. The world through tinted glass looked edgy and poor. Then they were out of the suburbs, past Edgware, and still driving fast.
Where were you going, Alexei Devereux?
Belsey slid the partition screen to the side so he could see the driver. A cross hung off the rearview mirror. Tall hedgerow blocked the view outside, occasionally dipping to reveal golf courses and business parks, storage warehouses, a Travelodge. Belsey noted signs for Porters Wood and St. Albans. They were somewhere in Hertfordshire. Then they turned off the A41 onto a narrow, tree-shaded road dappled with moonlight. A notice at the turning said “Private. No Admission Without Invitation.” It didn’t say what you might be invited to.
“Have we got an invitation?” Belsey said.
“You tell me, sir.”
“Of course we do.”
A minute later they slowed down: a section of fence had been dragged across the road and four guards in private-security outfits gathered around, two leading Alsatians on short leads. One of them said, “Roll all the windows down, please,” and all the windows rolled down. Belsey breathed the night air, cold and coniferous. Another guard let one of the dogs sniff under the car. He leaned in to see the driver’s papers and asked for a pass.
There was an awkward moment as they established the driver didn’t have a pass, and the driver twisted towards Belsey.
“Tell them it’s Mr. Devereux,” Belsey said. He didn’t look at the guards, but sat with what he imagined was a look of expensive disdain.
“It’s Mr. Devereux,” the driver said.
The guard said something into a radio and after another thirty seconds came back with a respectful nod. The fence was dragged aside. He waved the Mercedes through and the windows slid back up. Two hundred yards farther along the lane they passed another pair of men in navy blue jackets and black baseball caps. Belsey was trying to figure out what that meant when they arrived.
The house spread broad and grand across its front: slate grey, classical, with columns and a Union Jack limp on the top. Gold light shone through windows and open doors. The Merc approached slowly up a long drive flanked with dark topiary.
“This is it,” the driver said.
A footman waved them to a drop-off area around the side, where a lot of other Mercedes and E-Type Jaguars were parked in neat rows, some armoured, some with diplomatic plates. Belsey climbed out.
“You’re going to stick around?” he said.
“Of course.”
Belsey climbed the steps at the front of the house, into a corridor with big paintings on either side. Two women with big hair and blouses sat before him at a desk with paperwork on a white tablecloth. They looked like they hadn’t been expecting any more guests to arrive.
“Do you have an invitation?” one asked.
“I haven’t brought it. I’m Mr. Devereux. Alexei Devereux.”
The women were suddenly more attentive. They stared at him. “Mr. Devereux?”
“That’s correct.” Belsey smiled and rattled his watch. He could hear a lot of voices ahead, a string quartet, the bubbling of expensive laughter and the gentle chiming of champagne glasses. Quarter past one. The party didn’t show any signs of winding down. The younger of the women touched her hair and her friend smiled at him hungrily.
“Mr. Devereux, we’re so pleased to see you,” she said.
“I’m pleased to be here.”
They ticked him off a list. The strings stopped playing because someone was making a speech.
“Please,” the woman said. “I think you’ll find everything you need in the ballroom.”
“Thank you.”
Belsey walked through a pair of tall, polished doors. The ballroom was ostentatious even by the standards of ballrooms, with a sea battle on the ceiling and gilt-framed nobility in full length around the walls. A hundred people stood on the chequered floor, which made the room half full. One florid man in a tuxedo and tight silver waistcoat had taken to the stage and was making a slurred speech. A banner across the ceiling said “The City Children’s Fund,” with gold and black helium-filled balloons nudging the stucco and chandeliers. The crowd bunched in groups of
four or six beneath them, listening to the speech, with conspicuous security standing alone, earpieces in, hands behind their backs. Uniformed catering staff circulated with champagne. Belsey took a glass.
It was a hard crowd to read: wealthy, international, too glamorous for straight politics and too stiff to suggest many knew one another; a lot of Arabs, a lot of East Asians, a few white-haired men a little worse for wear with bow ties and a few expensively dressed women.
The speech droned on.
“We might turn instead to our ancestors for wisdom and I am grateful, my Lord Mayor, for your recent reminder at last month’s Finance Committee dinner, of the advice of Cicero over two thousand years ago. ‘The budget should be balanced, the Treasury should be refilled and public debt should be reduced.’ ”
Belsey looked for the Lord Mayor and didn’t see him. He downed his champagne, took another glass and continued through a door at the other end. He wandered the house, into side rooms with cabinets of silverware and portraits of women in silk. Belsey idly contemplated stealing something. He couldn’t see sensors. A ripple of applause spilled through the polished corridors. He returned to the ballroom, hoping to stand near some conversations and discover what it was Devereux had meant to attend. Then the inevitable happened.
“Have you come far?”
“Not too far,” Belsey said.
The man cornering him wore a military uniform with medals. He had very fine grey hair combed back to reveal a glistening scalp. He searched Belsey’s person in vain for some identifying marks.
“How are you involved with the Children’s Fund?” he asked.
“I work for AD Development. We’re just over from St. Petersburg.”
“Oh, St. Petersburg is meant to be beautiful.”
“It is.”
“Been in the UK before?”
“I grew up here.”
“Whereabouts?”
“London.”
“Well!” This seemed to delight the man.
“What a great venue,” Belsey said. “For the Fund.”
“It housed political prisoners, you know.”
“Really?”
“During the war. Here and Camberley House.”
“Lucky prisoners.”
Another man approached, stooped, with a champagne glint in his eye. The officer grabbed his arm.
“Richard, this man works for AD Development,” he said. He looked at Belsey. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jack,” Belsey said.
“Jack,” the military officer told his friend.
“Jack,” the friend said. “Max has told us all about your company.” He shook Belsey’s hand. “Your generous donation.”
“This is Sir Richard Green,” the officer explained.
“Call me Dick,” Green said.
“I’ve heard a lot about you too, Dick,” Belsey said. He wondered who Max was.
“I want you to know you have our support.” Sir Richard gripped Belsey’s elbow. He looked like a smooth bastard.
“Thank you.”
“What do you think of London?” he asked.
“He grew up here,” the officer explained.
“To be honest, I’ve had enough of it,” Belsey said.
“They say if you are tired of London you are tired of life.” Sir Richard smiled blandly.
“I’m tired of life in London.”
“Never live in a place you love,” the officer announced. “You’ll only be disappointed. Live somewhere you don’t care for. My daughter lives in Hungary. They don’t require you to like the country, and if you did they’d be slightly disappointed.” He laughed. A girl with a tray appeared. “Have another drink,” he said to Belsey.
“Thank you.” Belsey swapped his empty glass for a full one. He heard a loud, nasal laugh and saw, across the room, the silver waistcoat—the speechmaker—surrounded by men in black tie, all laughing.
“Who’s that?” Belsey said.
“The Chamberlain, Milton Granby.” The officer lowered his voice. “He’s been under some strain recently.”
Belsey turned again and stared. Well, well, he thought, what a turn-up: a man with a hole in his accounts. Granby’s white hair offset a bright red face. It was an unfortunate combination but it didn’t stop him commanding his surroundings. He had his chest thrust out and he carried himself on the balls of his feet, as if to achieve an extra few inches of height. It had the paradoxical effect of making him seem smaller than he was, someone who didn’t occupy the volume of space that his status deserved. Belsey wondered what to make of his presence.
“What kind of strain?” Belsey asked.
“Oh, the pressures of public office. I heard you collect art, is that right?”
“Not so much anymore,” Belsey said. “Excuse me, I’m going to get some air.”
He lifted a full bottle of red and three glasses from a table by the door and stepped out onto a flagstoned walkway with views of a long, dark lawn. Belsey followed it around the building to the back of the kitchen, where the catering team were laughing and smoking.
“Here, this is from the boss.” He gave them the bottle and glasses. “He thinks you’re doing great.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
One of them gave him a cigarette. He leaned against the grey stone of the house. “I’m here with a friend. I don’t even know what it’s about.”
They looked at Belsey as if he should really be able to tell them that.
“Well, there’s not many children here,” a red-haired girl said finally.
“And we’re a long way out from the City,” another added, a thin boy with blond stubble and cynical eyes.
“What do you mean?”
No one answered.
“What’s Milton Granby got to do with it?” Belsey asked.
“He seems to like the wine,” one said.
“I think he’s the City,” the blond boy suggested.
“And we’re the children,” another said. They laughed, but not like people having a good time.
Belsey walked back to the garden. He imagined for a moment he was Devereux: Devereux, sought by all, understood by none, having a moment to himself. He imagined this was how Devereux played it, turning up late, unannounced, as if he was no one. What would he contemplate as he wandered the grounds? History? The stars? Milton Granby, maybe. Milton Granby’s one of the most powerful men in the Square Mile and no one’s heard of him. And he’s corrupt, that’s what I’m saying. I’m not just interested in screwing him for a drinks problem . . . Who sent Charlotte to Les Ambassadeurs?
He followed a path to a pond with fountains, a long tray of black water with a sheltered pagoda at one end and stone vases with stone flowers in them along the side. From here you could see the lights of the M1. When he was briefly sleeping with a drama teacher in Luton, Belsey would cadge lifts from motorway police up and down the road. You got a lot of what they called walkers, illegal immigrants who had been dumped in motorway service areas. The police would find them on the hard shoulder, wandering, utterly confused. The music started again. Belsey finished his cigarette, looking back at the house, and felt a brief, bittersweet guilt at squeezing Devereux’s life for its last drops of privilege when the man himself had so clearly been done with it. The house was beautiful but it was not his party. One guest paced furiously on the front drive, dark hair, navy blazer with gold buttons, deep tan, a phone stuck to his ear. Belsey had seen him in the crowd around Granby. Right now he was having difficulty getting reception, checking his phone, checking his watch. Eventually he put the phone away, went over to the two women on the door and spoke to them, then turned to stare at Belsey.
Belsey stepped out of the lights and returned, through shadows, into the cover of the house. It was a little messy now. The organise
rs were trying to steer unsteady couples towards their rooms. The rest of the partygoers had gathered in the ballroom, where the trays now bore empties and the tables were being cleared. Some old boys were smoking on the front steps. Belsey bumped into Sir Richard Green.
“Jack.” He grabbed Belsey’s elbow.
“Dick.”
“I just met someone who knows you from St. Petersburg. You must come and say hello.”
Belsey felt a jab of foreboding and decided it was time for an exit. Sir Richard was leading him into the main room where a short, bald man and a large woman in a white dress were waiting.
“OK,” Belsey said. “Let me get a drink. Do you want a drink?”
He turned out of Sir Richard’s grip, walked through the hall to the kitchen and through the kitchen to a small window that looked out to the garden. He climbed through and continued around the side of the house to the waiting cars.
“Let’s go,” Belsey said to his driver.
Someone ran across the gravel towards him. It was the guest with the blazer and the bad reception. Up close he was a giant of a man.
“Who are you?” the man demanded. His voice was deep, with a little rasp. Central or Eastern European.
“Why?” Belsey said.
“Are you Alexei Devereux?”
“Is there a problem?” Belsey asked. The man looked uncertain. Belsey felt uncertain. He decided to play it safe. “I represent Mr. Devereux. On behalf of AD Development.”
“We meet at last.” It was said with dark triumph. “Max Kovar.” He spoke in a clipped way, as if he resented speaking at all and expected hired people to roll the words out for him. But his eyes had a fire to them. They looked too long and too hard. Kovar wore black leather gloves and now he plucked the right one off.
The Hollow Man Page 18
