Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  I visualise the jump about half a dozen times, take ten steps back and run at the gap as fast as I can. Things don’t quite work out as I’d planned.

  Whether it was the dim light or my failing judgement, I’m not sure, but I was about eighteen inches out. I managed to grab the edge of the other roof just before getting slammed against the side of the building. It hurt.

  I’m hanging over the edge with my arms flat against the surface, my legs dangling and the wind knocked out of me. I hope no one heard me spit out an exasperated ‘Fuck it!’

  I manage to pull myself up, my shoulders and stomach muscles hurting like a bastard, not to mention the entire front of my body. It could have been worse: someone could have been watching.

  This roof doesn’t have any gable windows like its neighbours. There’s a large, brick, Victorian chimney stack in the centre, so I walk over and crouch down next to it, just like Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.

  To my right, there are two glass skylights, both big enough for me to get through. They’re not obviously alarmed, but I can see that they’re locked from the inside with sizeable mortice locks. At present, the only way in would seem to be to smash a small area of glass and pick the lock, which is out of the question; too much noise, too much hassle.

  Hassle. The word reminds me of Rikki. It seems strange, but I keep forgetting about him. He’s the reason I’m up here on this roof in the middle of the night. I hope I’m not on a wild goose chase.

  I slip on a pair of latex gloves and run my hands over one of the skylights. In a couple of seconds, I find the solution. Amazingly, there are eight reinforced plastic clips holding the glass in place which are on the outside. I’d read somewhere that skylights are a weak point in building security and now I can see why.

  I start work on the clips. The burglar’s tools I use are only three inches long and extremely slim, but they’re made from titanium and carbon steel so they don’t snap under high pressure. It takes thirty seconds to get all eight clips off. I place them in a neat row next to the skylight and lift the glass up. Almost immediately, there’s the dank, mouldy smell of an unused room. I place the glass next to the clips and take a quick look at what’s below using the Maglite. It looks empty apart from some plastic office cartons, stacks of old newspapers and magazines and a dilapidated easy chair.

  Now I have to move fast.

  I drop down into the room after an unpleasant few moments hanging on to the rim of the skylight by the tips of my fingers. I straighten up and listen for sounds. It’s quiet, but then it is a time of day when anyone who lives here would hopefully be fast asleep.

  I close my eyes, breathe deeply and allow my consciousness to expand into the whole building. I know this sounds borderline demented, but it’s saved my life several times in the past when an apparently empty building wasn’t really empty at all.

  After a minute, I’m satisfied that I’m the only person here. I switch on the Maglite and take a more comprehensive look around. As I thought earlier, this is a storage room of some type. There are two big wooden filing cabinets against the wall immediately to my left. I try to pull one of the drawers open, but it’s locked. It’s an old-fashioned type that can’t be broken into without causing obvious damage, so I’ll leave it alone.

  There’s a dusty dressing table next to the filing cabinets. The mirror is spectacularly cracked. It looks as if someone threw something small and hard at it with quite a degree of force. Both dressing table drawers are empty. Over by the other wall is a wrought iron garden seat with a deflated basketball on it. There are two old dining table chairs, both with worn-out fake leather seats. I place one of them directly under the skylight. I’ll be needing that later.

  The only other item in here is a rickety metal work bench, covered with tools which look as if no one’s used them in years: two pairs of rusted pliers, a big pair of scissors, some small plastic things I can’t identify, an enormous screwdriver, a broken spirit level and a steel club hammer. I pick the hammer up. It’s a hefty tool and feels as if it weighs about five or six pounds. I put it back on the bench in exactly the same place I found it.

  This can’t be the only room on this floor, so I decide to check out the rest of them. The door to this room isn’t locked and leads into a small landing. I find a medium-sized bedroom, that looks and smells like it hasn’t been used for some time. There are cobwebs all over the only window, but no spiders. The bed isn’t made up. There’s a book on the bedside table. I pick it up. It’s called Edgar A. Guest Remembered by Jean Elizabeth Ward. I put it down.

  I go back out onto the landing. Across from the bedroom, there’s a small bathroom and a separate toilet, plus a small cupboard filled with cleaning gear. There must be a way down to the next floor, but I can’t find it. Is this floor sealed off from the rest of the house for some reason? Then, when I hit a small doorknob with my hip, I realise there’s a door right next to me. It’s just been wallpapered to blend in with the rest of the wall. For a moment I think it’s locked, but it’s just stuck. I pull it towards me and find that it opens directly onto a narrow, uncarpeted staircase.

  I flash the torch ahead of me. I’m guessing that this must have been a family house with servants, and the fourth floor was part of the servants’ quarters. It’s quite possible that there were originally two staircase systems so that the residents didn’t have to bump into the help more than was necessary.

  The third floor smells much cleaner and there’s also a faint smell of cigarette smoke in the air, but I don’t think anyone’s been smoking in here for about a week. There are six rooms here: a small sitting room with a couple of sofas and a television, another sitting room which seems to double as an office, a pokey bedroom, a smart-looking kitchen, plus, once again, a small bathroom and separate toilet.

  The second sitting room contains an old-fashioned walnut bureau. The writing flap is pulled down and there’s a computer resting on it. The bedroom has terrible bright green wallpaper and there’s a print of leopard cubs hanging by the bed. The bed isn’t made up and the mattress isn’t new. This may well be someone’s flat or pied-à-terre. I don’t really know what I’m looking for here, but I don’t think it’s on this floor, though I may come back and check the computer if I can’t find anything else of interest.

  I go back into the office/sitting room. Taking into account that some computers take an age to fire up, I switch this one on. It’s a new-looking Mac with a big screen. I find the button round the back, push it, close the curtains and head down to the second floor.

  This time, I use what could be called a ‘proper’ staircase. It’s carpeted and the carpet smells new. After three steps it takes a sharp left turn and becomes a little steeper. Flashing the Maglite ahead of me, I think, for a moment, that this heads straight into a wall, but then I see a door. It’s becoming rather difficult to work out what’s going on in this house, and now I’m not sure in which direction I’m facing.

  This door is solid oak. I place a hand against it and give it a quick shove, but it doesn’t move an inch. There’s an ordinary door knob, but when I try to turn it, nothing happens. I crouch down and shine the Maglite into the door jamb, but there’s no sign of a latch bolt: it’s a dummy.

  Beneath it is an ordinary Yale mortice. This is real and it’s been locked. Before starting work on that, I take a good look at every inch of the door with the torch to make sure there’s no electronic surprises coming my way. It looks clean, so I get my burglar’s tools out again, and with the Maglite in between my teeth, pick the mortice in about five seconds.

  I open the door into pitch blackness. The door opens to my left, so I shine my torch on the wall immediately to my right to see if there’s a light switch. There isn’t. It’s cold in here and smells of floor polish, male sweat and wood.

  I give the whole place a fast sweep with the Maglite. Unlikely as it seems, it appears to be a small chapel. Or maybe it just looks like one. Does Footitt come here to do penance in the wake of his nefarious noctu
rnal activities? Does he fling himself onto the floor and beg for forgiveness? Is it an open-all-hours confessional centre for mountaineering psychiatrists with male pattern baldness?

  Or perhaps it’s a small, private concert hall. I’ve seen chamber music performed in places that look a little like this in Venice and Naples. That would fit in with my theory of Footitt being an amateur musician and would maybe explain his black leather case. But a theory is just a theory.

  There are two big windows to my left, both of which are covered with thick wooden blinds which are tightly closed. I decide I can risk turning the lights on to get a better look. The light switch turns out to be lower down the wall than I’d expected. When I turn it on, I have to pause for thirty seconds to take in what I see in front of me. This is not a chapel and it certainly isn’t any sort of music venue. I don’t know what it is.

  It’s incredibly ornate; probably nineteenth century and very well maintained. There’s an awful lot of red marble and teak; the marble would explain the cold I felt when I opened the door. It’s more like an old-fashioned town hall meeting room than a chapel. To my left and right there are rows of well-polished leather-padded wooden seats: twenty on each side at least. The floors are made from some dark wood and in the centre there’s a big rectangle of alternating black and white floor tiles. Looks like a large elongated chess board, but I’m sure it isn’t.

  Down the far end, there’s what looks like a modest wooden throne. This has a couple of smaller seats either side of it, presumably for the lieutenants of whoever gets to sit in The Big One. I walk down to have a closer look and then I see it. Carved in wood and attached to the wall above the throne is a Masonic Square and Compasses.

  So Footitt is a Freemason. Hardly surprising: a lot of people like him are. Important professionals who don’t quite feel important enough yet: doctors, lawyers, teachers, policemen, estate agents and just about anyone else who fancies belonging to a female-free secret society with all the advantages and perks it’s purported to supply.

  So now it falls into place. The leather case that Footitt was carrying may well have contained his masonic regalia. The same was probably true of the two men who followed him into this house the other night. A little late for a masonic meeting, I would have thought, but then I have no idea how they organise themselves, so anything is possible. Perhaps there are different types of meeting. Perhaps not everyone in a lodge attends all of the meetings at the same time.

  Freemasons are often on the receiving end of a lot of negativity, as befits any male-only clique with alleged power and influence. I’ve read quite a bit about them over the years, but can’t remember most of it. Wasn’t Mozart one? Wasn’t there a theory that he’d been murdered by them for giving away their secrets in his music? Weren’t they somehow involved with the failure to catch Jack the Ripper?

  I remember what Doug Teng said about the Triads. They didn’t like the term secret society, preferring a society with secrets. I smile as I remember that I’d read that exact same phrase in an article about freemasons, the connotations of the phrase ‘secret society’ being bad for their modern-day glasnost.

  I sit down on the wooden throne, stretch my legs out and look around. Charity work is one of their big things, I seem to remember. People say that they help their brother masons whenever they get into trouble of any sort, sometimes in ways that can seem grossly unethical to outsiders. Wasn’t there some book written about how ambitious, bent police mixed with known criminals at masonic meetings to both of their advantages?

  I stare into space for a moment, trying to clear my mind, but then it all comes rushing in; so much of it that I start to feel a little panicky. I remember wondering what would have happened if Jamie Baldwin had been taken to another hospital after his assault. Would there have been a Footitt waiting there to put the pressure on? Annalise telling me that no one could understand how Footitt had become a consultant. All that stuff about selling off the donated blood and somehow getting away with it, not to mention the assault on the nurse. Then there was Jamie’s gut feeling about Friendly Face and Big Bastard; that they were almost certainly police or ex-police.

  Suddenly, I get a cold feeling in my stomach. Freemasons and their long-term association with charities. Paige’s unexpected rush of charity gigs, all for the same worthy cause, coinciding with the disruption to her private life, partially orchestrated by a couple of probable ex-cops. The inside information about Jamie’s steroid use, the hassle-free smuggling of the soon-to-be-dead girl into Rikki’s swish flat, Paige’s minder, ex-cop Declan Sharpe and his bad attitude.

  And let us not forget Mr X.

  I get up and leave the chamber or whatever they call it, turning the lights off and carefully locking the door with my burglar’s tools. I run upstairs to the third floor, taking the steps two at a time. I sit in front of the computer, which seems to have turned itself off. Then I remember it’s a Mac and click the mouse once.

  The background is a big colour photograph of the earth as seen from space. I’m slightly surprised; I think I was expecting something more sinister, more occult. I look at the dock and click on ‘Finder’, then on ‘Documents’.

  There are six folders and a bunch of PDF files, the latter looking like invoices or receipts. The folders are called ‘Brethren 2068’, ‘Complaints’, ‘Eleemosynary’, ‘Lodge Payments’, ‘Catering Expenses’, ‘Maintenance & Repairs’ and ‘Social’. Quite reasonably, I wonder what the hell ‘Eleemosynary’ means.

  ‘Brethren 2068’ looks like a logical place to start, so I click on it to open it up. Nothing happens. I try opening the other folders with exactly the same disappointing result. I look a little closer. Each blue folder has a tiny symbol on the bottom right-hand corner; two stylised, bearded faces looking in different directions. Is it the god Janus? I need to have access to whatever’s on this computer. It may be the key to finding out what the hell’s going on. I decide to give Doug Teng a call. I take a look at my watch; it’s five to three. Ah well, I’ll make it worth his while.

  ‘Hey, Mr Beckett! So what are you doing in Yeoman’s Row at this time of day?’

  ‘Stop showing off. I need your help.’

  He pauses for two seconds before replying. I can hear gunfire and helicopters in the background. ‘Oh yeah?’

  I know exactly what the two second pause was for.

  ‘Yeah. And I’ll make it worth your while. Double your usual rate.’

  ‘Okeydoke. Phone consultation three o’ clock in the morning. Double the usual rate. One thousand pounds straight up. Special low price as it’s you.’

  ‘Done. Are you watching a film?’

  ‘Sure thing. Under Siege 2.’

  ‘When do you sleep?’

  ‘When I get tired. What can I do for you?’

  I run a hand through my hair and sit up straight. Fatigue is starting to get to me. ‘OK. Get ready. I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  30

  MARTON COMPUTER SOLUTIONS

  I give him the make and model of the computer and describe what I can see on the screen.

  ‘There’s some sort of security lock on these files that I’ve never seen before. It’s like two bearded faces looking in different directions. The graphic is yellow with blue edges.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s Janus Encryptions Inc. That guy with the beards, that’s Janus. The original two-faced bastard. He was the Roman god of doorways and gates. Looking backwards and forwards. January is named after him, yeah? But he was also the protector of locks and keys, you know? Quite a clever name, really. Bit too obscure and subtle for me. Some real smartass thought that one up, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Are you taking amphetamines?’

  ‘Ha, ha!’

  ‘Can you crack it?’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Beckett. It’s a bit of a mega-challenge to put it mildly. Janus Encryptions won the Computing Security Awards three years in a row. Virtually impossible to get past, I would say.’

  ‘But you can
do it.’

  ‘Oh yeah. No problem. Piece of cake. First things first. I take it that you’ve burglarised somewhere and that you shouldn’t be sitting in front of this computer in the first place.’

  ‘That would be correct.’

  ‘And, er, it’s not a Triad computer.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘OK. So we don’t want to leave any trace whatsoever that this computer has even been used, let alone had its expensive, top-of-the-range security system bypassed. I take it you’re wearing gloves?’

  ‘Oven mitts.’

  ‘Excellent. OK. Click on Safari, then type in Marton Computer Solutions. You should see my website. Click on the link.’

  The website appears on the screen. For some reason, I’m quite surprised to see that it’s really slick and professional-looking.

  ‘Done. Hey – this looks really smart, Doug.’

  ‘Thanks, man. Cost a packet, though I had to doctor it a bit. Now click on ‘About Us’, then click on ‘Services’. Do you see where it says ‘All emergency incidents catered for’?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Triple click on the word ‘incidents’, count to five then double click.’

  I do what he says. The screen goes black for a couple of seconds, then a whole new menu appears. There are six Chinese words, which mean nothing to me: Dao, Nu, Ji, Yue, Qiang and Gong.

  ‘OK. I’ve got the screen with the six words in front of me.’

  ‘Pretty clever, huh? All my lethal programmes are named after ancient Chinese weapons.’

  ‘This is beyond sophisticated, Doug. What now?’

  ‘Click on “Yue”.’

  The screen instantly goes black again. After five seconds, a small white circle, about a centimetre in diameter, appears in the centre of the screen and very slowly starts to expand. I have no idea why, but there’s something rather scary and sinister about this.