“Be the Grey Man.”
“Shut the Fuck Up or Die,” was scrawled in pink chalk beneath it. Someone had wiped over the words in a halfhearted attempt to erase them, but they were still clearly legible.
Bentley followed my eyes. “In a group hostage situation it’s generally good policy to keep your head down,” he murmured in my ear. “I think the commentary was added by one of our clients. Some of them think they’re real jokers.”
I moved aside to let Finney take a look through the glass, and then we moved on. We climbed the staircase to the room Melanie had occupied. The single bed was covered in a grass green counterpane. There was a small chest of drawers beside it, olive green curtains hung at the window, the carpet was moss green, the walls beige. It was a room in camouflage. This must be what happens when you leave interior decoration up to a bunch of former soldiers. A narrow wardrobe was empty of anything but hangers. Through another door, a shower room was hung with pristine towels. The room had long ago been wiped clean of any vestige of Melanie.
“The police sealed it off.” Bentley was standing in the doorway, as though crossing the threshold might make him disappear as Melanie had. “They turned it upside down, but as far as I know they didn’t find anything unusual, and there was no sign of forced entry. In the end someone from the Corporation came and packed up her things.”
“Who was that?”
Bentley shrugged. “I don’t remember the name. We shook hands. She was late thirties, perhaps early forties, light brown hair. I can check with my secretary if it’s important.”
“If you could. Did you spend any time with Melanie?”
Bentley shook his head. “I had meetings in London the first two days she was here. The course runs like clockwork. My instructors don’t need me breathing down their necks.”
We followed Bentley outside again and along a dirt path from the dining room toward the woods. A light rain was falling, and the children galloped around us, shrieking with delight as they got wet and the soggy earth began to cling to their sandals.
“Am I right in remembering it had snowed?” Finney asked. “Did Melanie leave tracks?”
“The snow hadn’t settled on the path around the house itself—there was too much foot traffic. After that . . . well, we don’t know which direction she took, of course. The guard at the gate did not see her. There was snow and ice on this path down to the wood, but no one even noticed Melanie was gone until midday on January eleventh. When she didn’t turn up at class, the instructor assumed she was sick and had stayed in her room. So the alarm wasn’t raised until the afternoon. By which time we’d had a dozen men and women tramping up and down here. I think the sun even shone. So all we had left was sludge. Look.” Bentley came to a halt and pointed up ahead. “We call this the booby trap trail, we want our clients to learn how to use their eyes and their brains. Here, look, the path forks and one route has been blocked off with a log. You should ask yourself, Who did that? Why did they do that? Is someone you can’t see forcing you to choose this path through the woods? There’s a hut over there, it would provide excellent shelter. Someone’s piled firewood in the doorway—you’d have to clear it away before you could get in—”
“And it would blow up in your face,” Finney said, finishing the sentence for him. Bentley nodded.
Bentley’s analysis of what we saw around us was delivered with clinical calm. I felt a chill creep into my bones. The beech trees in these woods had been here for a century or more, their thick foliage keeping out what little daylight there was. Even the rain fell more thinly here.
“And here’s our execution ground,” Bentley said, his voice still bare of inflection. He stood in a clearing in the trees. A perfectly circular patch of ground had been concreted over and a high brick wall constructed along one section of the perimeter with rough windows built into it. It looked like a theater set.
“Not that an execution ground has to look like anything in particular, but when we’re doing this exercise we want our clients to be able to identify this as a defined area, a killing zone, in which their efforts to save themselves take place.”
William hurtled past me and ran out into the center of the concreted area, then stopped and shouted something unintelligible toward me. We all stared at him. I had to stop myself from bodily seizing him up and carrying him out of this godforsaken place.
“William wants a ball, Mummy,” Hannah told me.
I told her that I didn’t have a ball with me, and she ran to William to pass on the message. He started to scream and stamp his feet.
“What happened that day?” Finney asked Bentley. “Did Melanie say the right thing, did she talk herself out of it, or would she have been executed?”
Bentley puffed out his cheeks, and I thought he seemed uncomfortable with Finney’s question. When he spoke he had to raise his voice so that he we could hear him over William’s tantrum.
“We don’t deal in right or wrong answers here. We preach first psychological preparation and avoidance, and if that fails we teach problem-solving techniques. No one pretended to execute Melanie that day, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re not here to terrorize people. There’s no need to. Our clients are not stupid. They know what they are getting themselves into. As I understand it, Melanie had extricated herself from some tight situations.”
William had fallen silent and was gazing at the ground as the drizzle became heavier, the raindrops fatter. They fell and burst against the concrete stage like ten thousand tiny explosions. Bentley glanced at his watch.
“My men will be using this area for a training exercise in a few minutes. Let’s go and get some lunch.”
The dining room was almost empty, just a few tables occupied by people who looked like staff getting an early lunch. We took a table by the window and sat down. Bentley pointed out the adjoining bar, where Melanie had last been seen. She had been on the course for three days and was due to leave on the fourth. The bar had a separate exit into the grounds. It was through this exit that Melanie had left at ten p.m.
“Why go outside at all?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it have been quicker to go through the dining room?”
“It would have been quicker. Also it was dark outside, and cold. But there is another entrance by the bedroom wing, and people do take the overland route. Usually to have a cigarette or make a phone call. The entire building is a no-smoking zone, including the bar. And mobile phone reception is bad inside the building and marginally better outside. I seem to remember someone said they thought she was speaking into her mobile just before she left.”
“Her mobile . . .” Finney was thinking aloud. “I don’t think it’s been found, am I right?”
“Right,” I agreed. My knowledge of the newspaper reporting on Melanie’s disappearance was second to none. “The police checked her phone records, and there was an electronic signal logging off from the local transmitter shortly after ten that night.”
“Which means either that the battery ran out or that someone switched the phone off,” Finney said, “but either way the phone was somewhere in this area at that point.”
“The transmitter’s footprint covers a much greater area than just HazPrep, of course,” Bentley said quickly. “And we shouldn’t forget that she might have switched it off herself as she left the area, so she couldn’t be tracked.”
“She hasn’t used it since,” I pointed out.
“Anyone who’s technologically literate would know not to use their mobile if they wanted to disappear,” Bentley responded. “From what I’ve seen of these guys, camera operators are using sat phones and videophones, and GPS units, and digital editing. If she’s out there, Melanie Jacobs knows what she’s doing.”
As he spoke, I felt a warm, wet sensation spread over my lap. Hannah, more asleep than awake, had done the inevitable. I could feel the urine trickle down my legs and see it splashing into a little puddle on the floor.
“Here—” I dumped William on Finney’s lap and grabbed
a handful of paper napkins from the table. “I’m sorry, we’re going to need someone with a mop over here.”
Andrew Bentley looked blankly at the pool, then waved a waitress over with some urgency. Hannah and I retreated to the ladies’ to mop up in privacy, but she was embarrassed and would not stop howling. I picked her up and cuddled her and looked at the two of us in the mirror. You wouldn’t have thought we were related. Hannah had her dead father’s dark good looks. Huge tears were running from swollen eyes down her plump freckled cheeks, and her mouth was wobbling. In the mirror I was pale in comparison, my red blond hair cut in a short, messy bob. My eyes were huge with tiredness, and I was thin from running around chasing after the children and trying to work and having too little time to eat.
When I returned to the table, I found William also melting down. He had slid off Finney’s lap and was standing there screaming for me, arms stiff by his side, cheeks red, face awash with tears. Andrew Bentley was trying to jolly him along, but his initial child-friendliness was clearly being stretched to the limit, as indeed was mine.
I gave William a hug—which outraged Hannah even more—and grabbed a plate from the table.
“I’m going to take them outside. The lawn’s not mined or anything, is it?”
Andrew Bentley looked taken aback, said, “No, no, no,” and made a “very sorry to lose you” face that reached only as far as his lips.
It was not a dignified retreat, Hannah and William competing for ugliest child and clinging to my urine-soaked skirt. Me balancing the plate of chips in one hand, clasping their two little hands in the other. The lawn was still wet from the rain, but I found a bench that was almost dry under the canopy of a large beech tree. Gradually the children’s sobs subsided sufficiently for chips to be eaten.
I contemplated the parkland that dropped away from me into the valley. I could hear a muffled explosion from the woods below, and then the rattle of automatic gunfire. I knew that I was not in danger, but that didn’t stop my heart rate increasing. My senses were more alive to threats than they had been. Ever since Adam was murdered and I was attacked by his killer, I had not been able to regain my sense of safety. The moment I relaxed, my brain played tricks on me. I would go to sleep, then awaken well before dawn, my ears straining for the sound of movement, my eyes raking the darkness for intruders. I no longer trusted security or those who offered it to me.
I knew I’d been giving Finney a hard time. Neither of us have what you would call a traditional family background. My family is almost completely female—it’s a long story, and not one that inspires confidence in the reliability of men. Finney has nothing by way of family, male or female. Yet it was Finney who seemed to be thinking about permanence and togetherness, Finney who seemed to be offering me security, whereas I felt safer on my own. If I stayed separate, emotionally as well as practically, then I would never have to relearn independence when he left. That, at least, was my logic. But I knew that Finney could sense me keeping him at arm’s length. Perhaps Finney’s very lack of family also frightened me. It is one thing to be one of many relationships in someone’s life, but it is quite another to be everything to that person. I looked back at the house and saw Finney talking with Bentley. He glanced toward me. I raised my hand in greeting, and he smiled briefly before turning back toward the conversation.
People began to emerge from the woods, the group from the seminar room with their instructors. As they came nearer, I could see that there were men in full military kit walking slightly apart from the group, talking quietly among themselves. One had what appeared to be an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Another carried a mesh bag that seemed to be full of grenades. Soldiers and journalists, male to a man, they walked past us, their minds elsewhere. Only one of the group gave me a second look as he passed, then he turned to walk across the lawn toward me.
“Hi, Max.” I stood and greeted him.
“Robin”—his eyes went to the children—“this is an eccentric choice for a family outing.”
“It’s Saturday, I brought them along for the ride. How’s it going?”
“A laugh a minute.”
“Any tips?”
“Grenade shrapnel travels up to forty yards in an inverted cone. Hit the ground with your feet pointing toward the grenade, legs crossed, hands on your head.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Max smiled slightly and nodded.
“Melanie Jacobs’ parents wanted me to ask a few questions on their behalf,” I told him. “They still have no idea why she would have gone missing.”
Max had turned slightly away from me and was gazing out over the valley. “I don’t know if it’s relevant . . . I’ve been away, so I haven’t followed the news . . . but has it been suggested that Melanie had met one of the instructors before she came here?”
I shook my head, intrigued. “I don’t think so.”
Behind Max, I could see Finney and Bentley approaching, deep in conversation. I caught Finney’s eye, and he must have got the message that I didn’t want to be interrupted just then, because he stopped dead in his tracks and Bentley had no choice but to stop, too. Finney was doing most of the listening, nodding, interjecting the questions that kept Bentley talking.
“I don’t know whether it’s important,” Max said carefully. “In the entrance hall there are pictures of all the staff, with their names written underneath. When I arrived here yesterday there was no one at reception, so I spent some time kicking my heels there. One of the staff members is called Mike Darling. This took me by surprise, because I have seen a photograph of Darling with Melanie.”
I understood why Max seemed unhappy. He was not a journalist given to speculation. He would hate to be the one to give birth to a rumor.
Bentley started walking toward us again. Max watched him approach.
“Ask him,” he said, and set off after his colleagues, nodding to Bentley as he passed. I stared after him. Max Amsel didn’t make mistakes.
“Mike Darling was one of Melanie’s instructors that day, wasn’t he?” I asked Bentley as he reached me. Both men looked at me in surprise.
Bentley frowned. “I would have to check.”
“I’d have thought,” I said pleasantly, “you’d know every detail of that day off by heart by now.”
“Why are you interested in Darling?” The words came like bullets.
“Darling and Melanie had met before,” I said. “Darling did tell you, didn’t he?”
Bentley stared. I could see the headlines unfurling behind his eyes.
“My wife is waiting for me. I’ll take you to your car now.” The mask of charm was dislodged, the depth of his disquiet revealed, but he forced the words out nevertheless: “It’s been a pleasure.” He turned to walk away.
“I’d like to talk to Mike Darling,” I said.
Bentley swung back round, his face tense. “No.”
“No?” I was startled by the abruptness of the reply.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said. “Mike’s no longer with us.”
Chapter Two
IN the Corporation space is a priority, but privacy is the holy grail. After Adam’s death and my notoriety as a suspect in that investigation, I’d returned to the Corporation to find myself marooned somewhere in between the empires of documentaries and news. Not only did I not have a role, I didn’t even have a desk. I’d reconnoitered and discovered what looked at first like a vacant room on the same floor as the newsroom. It was full of stuff, but no human being. So I piled the stuff in a corner and took up residence. Occasionally someone would stick his or her head around the door and there would be a sharp intake of breath at the sight of me. But nobody ever turfed me out. My new and unauthorized accommodation had the added advantage that I rarely had to talk to a manager, because for a long and delightful time, the managers hadn’t a clue where I was.
Then, a full month after I’d moved in, another face appeared around the door. True to form, there was the shar
p intake of breath, but this time the face, chin jutting aggressively, was followed by a substantial body, shoulders thrust forward.
“What are you doing here?”
“Can I help you?”
“You’re sitting at my desk!”
I eyed him. A mass of black hair peppered with white falling over his eyes, stomach running to a paunch, but a familiar and not unpleasing face with a dimpled chin. He was solid and vast, his skin the color of honey, his lips almost feminine. Sal Ghosh, back from the Middle East to reclaim his territory. Not a man to take on head-to-head. He was giving me the same once-over, and there was recognition in his eyes.
“Hi, I’m Goldilocks.” I extended my hand.
“Sal Ghosh. Get your butt out of my chair, Goldilocks Ballantyne.”
My butt left his chair but not the room, since there was plenty of space for both our butts—although Sal’s was frankly a squeeze—if not for both our egos. What followed was a couple of weeks of very dirty warfare, which ended with a truce when we realized, although we’d rather have died horribly than admit it to each other, that actually we were both quite pleased to have the company.
Under the terms of the peace treaty, I moved to another desk and Sal and I constructed a wall of newspapers between us that threatened to collapse one day and bury one or the other of us. Occasionally I nudged it in his direction. He moved his producer, Penny, into another corner of the room, and then there were three of us. On top of this there was a rotating population of camera operators who filled shelves with cameras and cords and mikes and then plastered the shelves with hands-off posters, warning death by disembowelment for anyone nicking camera batteries. There was an editing suite next door, where raw footage could be processed into a logical sequence and a voice recorded over the top in a matter of minutes when necessary. Sal was chronically untidy, and Penny and I rounded off each working day by gathering together the detritus that had found its way onto our desks from his and piling it precariously onto his chair. He complained that it was like living with a roomful of cleaning ladies. I think he had not noticed that the person who was actually charged with swabbing down our empire was male and called Joe.
Out of Mind Page 2
