Black Widow

by Chris Brookmyre

  Parlabane sent his reply, thanking the hacker for coming through once again and mentally adding another favour to the Faustian tab.

  Then Buzzkill texted a fourth time.

  I can do better than that. Geolocation came up trumps. Would you like his current address?

  He allowed himself a smile.

  They must have known they were playing a long game: one that would take a few years to pay out, but for that magnitude of return, it would be worth it in the end. The big catch was that the scheme involved Peter becoming married to someone else. It had to be tough: being apart, grabbing those stolen weekends for secret liaisons; tougher still that part of the deal required Peter to be fucking another woman. That was why he had taken solace in the photographs and videos of his true love that he kept on his laptop. But very soon, they must have told themselves, they would be reunited: together at last, with a rich future to look forward to.

  Parlabane intended to be there to share the moment.

  A BETTER LIFE

  The last of the dragon-riders had crashed to earth under a barrage of flame-damage unleashed by his fire-sword, hailed by cheers from the warriors manning the ramparts. This latest attempt to storm his citadel had ended in a rout, a fragile alliance of rival guilds no match for the small but powerful force he commanded. News of the failed sortie would travel far and fast. The same players who had attacked him would soon be queuing up to join his ranks. His name was one of the most-quoted in the realm of Calastria and on the Sacred Reign message boards. He was Necronimous, the wizard who had become a demi-god. But it was nothing compared to the miraculous transformation he had effected in the real world.

  As the noise of battle faded, he could hear the sound of a car pulling up outside, slightly muffled by his headphones. He glanced out of the window and his heart soared as he saw her leaning into the front seat of a gold Mercedes, paying the cab driver. She was here. At last she was here.

  ‘Bon jeu, tous le monde,’ he said into the headset mic, signing off for a while. He had always logged on to a French Sacred Reign server since the creation of his character and had spoken only French in-game. The subscription and payment details were in his new name, a persona he had been building up online for years longer than Necronimous, one that had credentials in the real world too. This place was rented in that name, the utilities were billed to it and the new graphics card he had ordered this morning would bear it on the address label too.

  He spoke French like a native. It had always been a big deal with his family: they had a private tutor, and when they came here on holiday, there was a no-English rule. His father often talked about how throughout Britain in centuries past, French was the language of the high-born, stressing that only the peasants spoke the local tongue.

  Peter had enjoyed those holidays, the freedom of disappearing off to the village, away from the stultifying atmosphere of a house that always seemed oppressive despite its sprawl. That was because any building containing his parents was oppressive. They were bloodless, joyless wretches, trapped by inheritance and expectation, lacking the imagination or joi de vivre to live what could otherwise so easily have been remarkable lives. Bad enough that they contrived to be so miserable despite their privilege, but why were they so bloody determined that he should end up that way too?

  The only thing he didn’t enjoy about those French summers was the absence of his computer, insisted upon by his father. Every year he paid a driver to haul a van full of riding gear, bikes, fishing tackle and even two canoes, so it wasn’t as if it was a logistical issue. The bastard just hated how much pleasure Peter derived from it.

  Games had always been his refuge and his retreat in a home full of tension, conflict and obligation, a cold regime governed by the most immutable paradigms. Games were a place of freedom, of exploration, of imagination. That was still true today, but they were no longer the thing he cared about most.

  It was at the age of fifteen that he had discovered a different source of comfort, a new realm full of pleasure and excitement: a refuge and retreat full of human warmth and companionship.

  A real world of love.

  And Jesus, what a pale shadow of it he had been forced to endure in order to pull this off: living a lie for the best part of a year. There was only one woman on this earth he would go through that for, and it was hell being away from her. She was here now, though, and his body was already tingling with the anticipation of her embrace.

  As he made his way eagerly towards the front door, he briefly wondered where Diana was now. Held in a cell, no doubt, on remand, waiting for the trial.

  As was he.

  Did he feel bad about what he had done to her? About what would happen to her?

  There were times when he had enjoyed Diana’s company. They had shared some good times, no question. You couldn’t go through all they had together without feeling something. But he had learned from the best when it came to compartmentalising. Throughout his life he had seen how his father could be charming and open with people, warm and close as old friends, and then treat them like objects as soon as circumstance required it.

  When a family has had money for centuries, it is because it passes down the principles that ensure they keep hold of it. Didn’t people notice how that other Diana, the ‘queen of hearts’ and our national patron saint, left precisely nothing to a single charity? You stay rich by keeping your money, and by understanding at all times that other people are quite simply worth less than you.

  Other people are worth less.

  His father had drummed that into him from an early age. Other people’s value is to be measured in terms of what they can give you, what they can be used for. That doesn’t mean you can’t be civil to them, but you never lose sight of the difference in your social standing.

  So yes, it was a pity for Diana. It was nothing personal: merely collateral damage. He didn’t wish her any ill, but if he was asked to do it again to someone else, then he wouldn’t hesitate. Peter and his future wife were building a life together: a life they had worked for, a life they deserved, and it was finally within their grasp.

  He opened the door as she was making her way up the path. The moment she saw him she dropped her case and ran to his embrace.

  ‘Oh God, Peter. I’ve missed you so much.’

  He pressed against her, kissing her deeply.

  ‘Courtney.’

  UNDONE

  As Parlabane pulled out of Orly and hit the hire car’s accelerator, he tried not to think how long it had been since he lay down in a bed and slept properly. He had managed to doze briefly on the two flights it took him to reach Paris from Edinburgh, but cumulatively he must only have had his eyes closed for forty minutes. Sleep wasn’t an option right now, but nor was it a necessity. He was running on caffeine and adrenaline; nothing kept him buzzing quite like the scent of an exclusive.

  The sat-nav guided him towards his destination through gathering darkness and swirling rain. It took a couple of hours, following the GPS coordinates Buzzkill had supplied. They were a precise fix on the IP address from where Peter Elphinstone had been logging into his Sacred Reign account, most recently that same afternoon while Parlabane was booking flights and doing some last-minute shopping.

  It was after eleven when he got there, having to place great faith in Buzzkill’s numbers as the route led him down ever narrowing roads beyond the last village. The rain had let up at least, though there was a cold wind whipping past as he opened the car door and travelled the last forty or fifty yards on foot so as to keep the car out of sight.

  It was an isolated cottage, set back from the single-track road. Parlabane approached cautiously, using the glow of his phone for light, though not engaging the full torch app. The grounds were unkempt and the exterior somewhat ramshackle: not quite where he pictured a tech geek holing up, though an icon on his phone reported that the house was rocking a strong Wi-Fi signal. This was definitely the place. Parlabane guessed it was either a fixer-upper or merely a temp
orary bolthole. Either way, Peter’s accommodation budget was intended to jack up dramatically in the near future.

  Parlabane could see a glow from behind closed curtains through a window on the left towards the rear. He could hear music: the only time he was ever grateful to be listening to James Blunt, as it would cover the sound of his approach.

  He proceeded on soft feet, walking over grass to avoid the gravel path. There was a Citroën C3 parked on a narrow driveway to the right of the house: uneven flagstones overgrown with grass and weeds. He crouched next to it and attached a GPS tracker out of sight inside the wheel arch. Stuff that was once the preserve of the security services, you could now pick up in Halfords.

  It would be easy enough to get photographic proof in the morning, stay out of sight and take the shot from distance with a telephoto lens, but ideally Parlabane wanted face-to-face confirmation. He wanted to look the guy in the eye and witness the moment he realised his plan had crashed and burned. One of the potential consequences was that he might go on the run and try to disappear: hence the tracker.

  Another potential consequence was that Peter might turn violent, as Lucy had specifically warned could happen when he felt cornered. That was why Parlabane hadn’t yet ruled out the telephoto option. For now he was simply getting the lie of the land, and would decide on his play once he knew what he was dealing with.

  As he got closer to the house he observed that there was a sheet of paper taped to the front door. He held up his phone and read it by the glow from its screen. His French wasn’t great, but clearly they were expecting a delivery the next morning and didn’t want woken up to answer the door. It stated that the back door was unlocked and to leave the parcel in the kitchen. Couriers needed a signature before they were allowed to follow such instructions, and the note was signed off: ‘Merci, Courtney Jean Lang.’

  Merci indeed, thought Parlabane.

  He ventured around to the rear of the building, circling right to stay away from the window where the light and music were coming from. The back door was a sturdy old thing, heavy and weathered and easily a hundred years old. Parlabane reckoned the lock mechanism would have taken him no time to pick, but either way the biggest challenge was opening it quietly and hoping it didn’t squeak or shudder. He put a firm shoulder to it and twisted the handle, nudging it forward in a smooth and controlled movement.

  He stepped inside, leaving it slightly ajar. The kitchen was in semi-darkness, light spilling through the partially open doorway to the hall. It was a large and airy room, dominated by a heavy wooden table in the centre. Parlabane noticed a couple of unopened letters lying on it, the envelopes bearing the automated print of utility bills. He held his phone close and read the addressee: Courtney Jean Lang.

  The music still played from somewhere along the hall, but he could hear human sounds becoming louder beneath it: rhythmic male grunting and the moans and shrieks of a woman in the growing throes of orgasm. It ceased shortly thereafter, and was replaced by the quieter, muffled sounds of the afterglow: billing and cooing, giggling.

  Then a male voice spoke up, loud and distinct, the accent ‘middle-class Scottish’, as Diana had described it.

  ‘Yeah, stick a couple of slices on for me as well. I’ll be through in a sec.’

  He heard a door open down the hall, followed by footsteps. She was heading for the kitchen.

  If he moved now, he could maybe get out before he was seen, though he wouldn’t be able to close the door without it being heard. They had just had sex, though: they would never be more vulnerable or unsuspecting as this.

  He held his ground. When she walked in here in about five seconds, he would get hard proof of Cecily Greysham-Ellis’s secret alias, while down the hall lay incontrovertible evidence that Diana Jager was innocent.

  Parlabane’s phone was already recording everything, but for back-up he set his camera to video mode and placed it down on the table next to the letters.

  That was when it struck him that he was in France, where Courtney and Jean were both men’s names.

  Parlabane felt a sudden lurching, like the floor was shifting beneath him.

  Courtney Jean Lang wasn’t his lover’s alias: it was Peter’s new identity, acquired no doubt with the help of Sam Finnegan. This meant Peter didn’t need to trust the other beneficiary named on the insurance policy: he was the other beneficiary.

  Parlabane’s mind raced, trying to calculate the consequences. He couldn’t see how this changed anything substantial, so why did he have the gut-wrenching sensation that he had missed something crucial, something that had been right in front of him the entire time?

  Why did he have the horrible fear that he was about to be blindsided?

  His heart began thumping and he involuntarily took a step back.

  The door pushed open and she walked in wearing just a T-shirt, oblivious as she reached for the switch. The lights came on and she was revealed to him at last.

  Peter’s conspirator. Peter’s lover. Peter’s sister.

  A FAMILY AFFAIR

  He had been sent to spend the night in the unused maid’s quarters, a cold and largely unused little room containing only a bed and a nightstand. No books, no music, no television and definitely no computer. This was punishment for when his father discovered the phone bill he had run up. It was back in the dial-up days, and what did the tight-fisted bastard expect when he wouldn’t spring for a deal on a dedicated ISDN line for the internet? Even paying at that per-minute rate, it was a drop in the ocean for a man of his means, who thought nothing of spending twice that on a single bottle of wine.

  He had been sitting there on the bed, still tearful after the ferocity of the dressing-down: his father’s words about him ‘never amounting to anything if he wasted his time on computers’ seeping into his psyche like poison. Then there was a knock at the door, and Lucy came in. She put her arm around him. It started as a hug, really. But then it became something else, and in that moment how they saw each other changed for ever.

  Yes, it was an aberration. Early on, they frequently forswore what they were doing and vowed it would never be repeated. Then a dam would break, and it never felt like it was only one of them who cracked first. It always felt mutual, almost telepathic, and it always went that bit further than the last time, until there were no barriers left to cross.

  They started off being discreet to the point of paranoid, but gradually they came to realise what had developed between them was so out of the ordinary that no one ever thought to look for it. It seemed amazing to them: as though their relationship was invisible, a secret protected by an enchantment that meant nobody else could see what was right in front of them. But inevitably they took that for granted.

  They got careless. They got caught.

  Father acted as though they had done it specifically to hurt and offend him, like they had planned the whole thing as a personal affront. In his mind, of course, it was always about him.

  That was when he told them they were getting nothing: that they were not only disinherited, but would be receiving no financial assistance once they left school. He dressed it up as something else when he was explaining it to other people – some bollocks about learning self-sufficiency – but it was his sulk, his vengeance.

  He relented slightly with regard to their university careers, but only so that he could ensure the pair of them weren’t staying in the same city, terrified of the shame if some rumour got out. Hence Lucy went to Edinburgh and Peter to St Andrews.

  It wasn’t a great distance, but the fact was that they could have gone to Aberdeen and Oxford and it would have made no difference.

  They thought Father’s rage would pass, that he would climb down if they gave the impression it had simply been a weird phase that was now over. And at that stage, for a while at least, they did try to convince themselves that it was over. Lucy even got married.

  It had been painful for Peter, but they talked about how it might be for the best: that he would find someone too,
and they would put all this behind them. Furthermore, they hoped that there would be fatted calf on the wedding menu for Sir Hamish’s prodigal daughter, and both his heirs would be restored to his good graces; not to mention his will.

  Unfortunately he remained immovable and unforgiving, though it didn’t help that during Lucy’s short-lived marriage, their attempts at abstinence ultimately proved as successful as their efforts at discretion. Lucy’s husband Gordon discovered them. It cost Father money to cover up the mess, and they knew then that there was no way back.

  Husband, wife. Brother, sister. These were only labels, definitions. You were defined by your actions and feelings, not by nomenclature. You might be married to someone, but that didn’t mean you were in love with them. Not like the two of them were in love.

  They didn’t choose this: that was what nobody ever appreciated. Other people would be appalled by their breaking of this sacred taboo, but other people didn’t have what they had: this kind of bond, this kind of unity. And that disapproval only forced them closer together. They understood quite implicitly that they didn’t need anybody else, and that nobody else mattered.

  Nor did other people know what it was like to be brought up so close to all of that wealth and never be allowed to enjoy the freedoms and pleasures it could unlock. They had been forced to endure all of the duty and responsibility that was drummed into them about their heritage, but now that they had come of age, they were being denied its privileges.

  They had often talked about living abroad, starting a life together somewhere nobody knew them. Even then, they knew that one of them would need a new identity. That was when the idea of faking Peter’s death first came up. That way, he could become somebody else, cutting off all ties to the past. They could even get married. He remembered discussing it one intoxicating night, Lucy telling him how this Finnegan bloke she once worked with had all kinds of dodgy contacts that might make this possible. As a joke, Peter said it was a shame he didn’t have life insurance.