Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  Don turned to find Blake regarding him gravely from the other side of the bar. She had put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She looked calm now. ‘Er, yes,’ he said lamely. ‘I spoke to her.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Do you really buy this paper?’ He held up the FT.

  ‘No. It gets delivered every day by the newsagent in the village. Some special arrangement Harkness has made. Likes to stay in touch when he’s down here, I s’pose. Not that he ever is.’

  ‘If you’ve read this, you’ll know why he never is.’

  ‘Yeah. Ankle tag. Not cool. I feel sorry for him.’

  ‘Why? He probably had it coming.’

  ‘Maybe. But he’s a free spirit. I feel sorry for him like I feel sorry for a caged tiger in the zoo.’

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  ‘Not very. So, what did the lawyer say?’

  ‘I’m afraid she only confirmed what I told you. Mrs Jackson is the owner. She has every right to sell. And you, unfortunately—’

  ‘What’s Mrs Jackson to Harkness?’

  ‘Ex-wife. Well, all but.’

  ‘Right.’ Blake nodded and looked serious. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’ She gazed past Don. ‘Looks like I’m out.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find somewhere else. Move in with your boyfriend maybe.’

  ‘There’s no boyfriend.’ She shook back her drying hair and summoned a smile. ‘Well, d’you want me to show you round?’

  ‘I need to take photographs and room-by-room measurements. But …’ Don smiled too. ‘A guided tour to start with would be great.’

  The utility room led through to a mud room and cloakroom. From there a rear door gave access to a wisteria-draped colonnade curving away and slightly uphill to the garage block. Back in the utility room, stairs led down into a basement extending about half the width of the house. Here there was a boiler room, climate-controlled wine cellar, home cinema and gleamingly well-equipped gym, with adjoining wet room.

  Back upstairs, beyond the kitchen, dining room and hall, the ground floor comprised the expansive drawing room, complete with bar, and a library/study, where Harkness had an enormous desk and all the facilities of a modern office – an office that appeared to have had little actual use, despite the battery of computer ports and swivel-stemmed lights.

  The high windows, pale colours and overall spaciousness of the rooms ensured they were filled with light. The sea felt closer than it actually was thanks to maritime-blue fabrics and the scent of the ocean that wafted around the house. Every item of furniture, every detail of decoration, every turn and angle, served the overall design. Wortalleth West was a place of meticulously crafted casualness.

  From the hall Don followed Blake up one of the curving staircases to the bedrooms. All had their own bathrooms and were predictably enormous. The most enormous of the lot, the master bedroom, featured an emperor-sized bed on a dais, a lounge area, a dressing room with walk-in closet and a bathroom with two free-standing tubs complete with sea view.

  ‘It’s a lot for one person to use as a home from home, isn’t it, Don?’ Blake asked as they walked into yet another luxuriously appointed but evidently seldom used en suite bathroom.

  ‘He’s obviously a wealthy man,’ Don replied with a shrug.

  ‘You need a word beyond wealthy to do justice to Jack Harkness. You got any idea just how successful Elixtris is?’

  ‘The anti-ageing wonder treatment? Not really. I’ve seen it advertised quite a bit.’

  ‘It’s, like, everywhere. He must be worth billions.’

  ‘But he still wants more, if you believe the allegations against him.’

  ‘Yeah. If you believe them.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to say.’

  ‘But you’ve been reading about the case?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Thanks to his FTs. It’s an education, that paper. Deals. Dodges. Boardroom battles. I’d no idea so many rich people skate on such thin ice. I don’t really understand it all. It’s way over my head.’

  Don was far from sure he believed that. But he decided to play along. ‘Mine too.’

  ‘Anyway, Harkness is prowling round London with an electronic tag rubbing his ankle, while I’m down here, enjoying his seaside retreat. Look at this.’

  Blake walked back into the adjoining bedroom and pressed a button set in the wall between the windows. The blinds filtering the sunlight to a golden haze rose automatically. Outside, the grounds fell away through clumps of gorse and heather and rhododendron towards the sea that lapped in on the creamy sand of the cove. Before them lay the shimmering ocean and the shadow-etched cliffs. The sky held only a few white smoke-puffs of cloud. The rest was intensely blue.

  ‘I don’t care about all the stuff that goes on in Harkness’s world. This is what matters.’

  ‘It is beautiful.’

  ‘But I have to leave it, right? I bet that lawyer wants you to get me out, like, yesterday. You may as well tell me. How long have I got?’

  ‘It’s not up to me, Blake.’

  ‘Maybe I should start packing.’

  ‘D’you really have nowhere to go?’

  ‘Nowhere I want to go.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help …’

  She turned and smiled at him. And it was not a smile Don could easily resist. ‘That’s kind. Thanks. I’ll let you know if there is. Are you staying here tonight?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve booked a hotel in Helston.’

  ‘You could cancel. As you can see, there’s plenty of room. It’s a shame not to make use of it. And you won’t disturb me. I live over the garage.’

  ‘Tempting, but … the lawyer might not approve.’

  ‘Plus you’ll get a full English breakfast on expenses, right?’

  Don grinned. ‘I’d better get on with measuring up. Thanks for the tour.’

  ‘No problem,’ Blake said briskly.

  Don fetched his camera, Dictaphone and measurer from the car. There was no sign of Blake when he returned to the house. There was an eeriness about it now, in its emptiness and its silence.

  Fran had a lot to answer for, in his view. Trying to get him to do her dirty work was shabby to say the least. He was unsure how or if he could persuade Blake to leave, but he was quite sure he did not want to.

  Meanwhile, there was work to be done. Dimensions, doorways, fenestrations, baths, showers, sinks, stairs: everything had to be noted. And some tasteful, alluring photographs would have to be taken.

  He settled to the task.

  It was nearly an hour later, in the dressing room off the master bedroom, that he found it.

  I knew Don would have to measure the rooms in the garage block as well as the main house. That’s when I planned to tell him there’d been some strange incidents lately – signs of attempted intrusion. I meant to persuade him I was worried and needed his protection. He looked like the kind of guy who’d be happy to discover his inner knight gallant.

  I was in the workshop behind the garage, working on my latest driftwood creation, when he showed up. He didn’t look quite as I’d expected. Something was troubling him. More, I sensed, than the problem of moving me on.

  He’s got a bag over his shoulder. He eases it off on to the edge of the bench and looks around. It’s cool in the workshop. I like the subdued light and the woody scents in the air. I’m wearing my boiler suit and I’ve tied my hair back. I think Don has trouble recognizing me for a moment.

  Then he looks at what I’m working on and says, ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s going to be a three-legged table. I’ll probably paint the legs different colours – and leave the top natural. Blue, pink, green. What d’you think?’

  ‘Are you making it to sell?’

  ‘Yeah. There aren’t many National Trust shops in Cornwall without a Blake original.’

  ‘They’re popular?�
��

  ‘Well, they sell. Eventually. Listen, Don, I—’

  ‘There’s something strange at the house. In the master bedroom. D’you know about it?’

  I don’t. I wonder what he can possibly be talking about. ‘How d’you mean – “strange”?’

  ‘You’ve never seen it?’

  ‘Never seen what, Don?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘No. Maybe you should show me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Don nods. ‘Maybe I should.’

  I step out of the boiler suit, but leave my hair tied back. We walk down the colonnade to the house and along the passage to the hall. We finish up in the study.

  ‘What’s that?’ Don asks, pointing to the narrower end of the L-shaped room.

  ‘What’s what?’ I respond, seeing nothing but bookcases.

  ‘Why isn’t this room a regular shape? What’s in the rectangle that’s been taken out of it?’

  I shrug. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Nor me. Ducting? Pipework? In a house like this, there’s a lot of concealed services, for heating, lighting, plumbing.’

  ‘OK. So that’ll be it, then?’

  ‘It was my first thought. But no. That’s not it. We’re beyond the extent of the basement here. Above us is the bathroom off the master bedroom. Let’s go upstairs.’

  Upstairs we go, into the master bedroom, then the dressing room between it and the bathroom.

  ‘According to my measurements and the layout diagram I’ve sketched,’ Don explains, ‘the closet is above the space missing from the study. Except that it isn’t big enough. It doesn’t go back far enough to be directly over it. There’s another missing space up here. Some sort of … void.’

  ‘There is?’

  Don pulls the double doors of the closet wide open. The clothes, most of them protected under plastic covers, extend back on their racks as far as the rear wall. There’s a walkway in the middle, with a floor-to-ceiling mirror fixed to the wall at the end. I see Don and me reflected in it, standing next to each other.

  For some reason, this reminds me of standing next to Dad in the hallway of Gran’s house in Sutton Coldfield. She had a tall mirror at the far end. It seems to have stuck as my clearest memory of him. I was a lot shorter than him, of course, whereas I’m about the same height as Don. I was only eight years old then. I think I was happy that day. Anyway, I feel happy remembering it.

  ‘What’s behind the mirror, Blake?’ Don asks.

  I turn and look at him. ‘The wall?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  He walks into the closet, approaches the mirror and pushes his hand against the frame at about waist height.

  There’s a click. He steps back and the mirror shows itself to be a mirror-fronted door. It swings smoothly open.

  Behind it is solid steel.

  ‘I had no idea that was there,’ I say, which is true. ‘What is it?’

  Don taps the steel with his knuckles. ‘Thick is what it is. Very thick. Impenetrable, probably. But concealing something. Definitely concealing something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen similar arrangements in houses I’ve sold in London. But on one floor only. If it connects with the void below … that’d be unusual.’

  ‘So, what is the arrangement?’

  ‘A panic room would be my guess. You know? Somewhere the householder can retreat to if there’s an intruder, with independent lighting and communications. Somewhere they’re completely safe. But if I’m right …’

  ‘Yeah?’ I look at him expectantly.

  ‘Then this is the entrance. A sliding steel door, lockable only from the inside. It should be open, you see. But it isn’t, is it? It’s shut. Locked shut. From the inside.’

  I don’t know what to say. I’d decided to invent a threat. Then Don delivers one, right into my hands. But this is real. This isn’t invented. This is a locked room, and suddenly I don’t have a clue what’s going on. Suddenly … I don’t feel safe any more.

  ‘You mean …’ Blake stumbled, ‘you mean … there’s someone inside?’

  ‘No, no.’ Don gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘That wouldn’t make any sense. Besides, who’s been here who could be inside?’

  ‘No one … as far as I know.’

  ‘The likeliest explanation is some kind of fault. Either that or someone standing out here leant in and triggered the door to close, then pulled their arm clear before it shut.’ Don frowned. ‘That wouldn’t make any sense either, of course. It’d just ensure the room couldn’t be used.’

  ‘This is spooky, Don. I don’t like it.’

  ‘It could’ve happened years ago.’

  ‘Or last week. Or yesterday …’

  ‘At the moment it’s just a steel door, Blake. Maybe it isn’t a panic room at all. Maybe there’s just pipework in there.’

  ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘Only because it looks so similar to installations I’ve seen in high-end properties in London. Russian oligarchs needing somewhere to hide from Moscow heavies. That sort of thing.’

  Don instantly regretted his reference to Russian oligarchs. If Harkness was guilty of his alleged misdeeds, a hiding place from those he had robbed or otherwise defrauded might well be something he felt he needed, even in his Cornish holiday home.

  ‘As I say, the likeliest explanation is a mechanical fault.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Blake cast a leery glance at the steel door. ‘I just wish I’d never known it was here.’

  ‘Sorry. My fault.’

  ‘Any chance you could change your mind about the hotel, Don? I mean, I could really use some company in the house tonight. Just in case of … well, I don’t know, but …’ she sighed. ‘This has sort of got to me.’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ Don smiled. ‘If it’ll stop you worrying.’

  ‘I think it might.’

  ‘OK. That’s settled, then.’

  Don half wished he had said nothing to Blake about his discovery. He had assumed she would be able to explain it away. Instead, she seemed thoroughly discomposed by it. And who, in truth, could blame her? She did not actually sleep in the house, but the idea that it contained a hidden locked room, contents unknown, was bound to be disturbing.

  After telephoning the hotel in Helston to cancel his reservation, Don put another call through to Fran. The haughty receptionist seemed to take pleasure in informing him that Mrs Revell had left for the day. She did not volunteer Mrs Revell’s mobile number. Fortunately, however, Don already had it.

  Fran answered promptly. Background sounds suggested she was on a train. ‘What’s going on, Don? I called you for an update before I left the office, but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘There’s no mobile signal here, Fran. I’m using the house landline.’

  ‘Have you given the cleaner her marching orders?’

  ‘I can’t just order her out. Anyway, I’m not sure she’ll want to stay after what we found.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, after what I found. A locked panic room, I think, off the master bedroom, possibly extending to the ground floor.’

  ‘What’s the problem? Some buyers will be attracted by that sort of thing, though why you’d need one down there I can’t imagine. And what d’you mean – you think? The room either exists or it doesn’t.’

  ‘My measurements prove a void of some kind is there. And it’s barred by what looks like a sliding steel door. But the door should be open, Fran. The point is it’s closed. Locked. If it is a door. From the inside.’

  ‘You mean it’s faulty?’

  ‘That’s one explanation.’

  ‘What’s another? That someone’s holed up in there? That’s absurd. What does the cleaner say about it?’

  ‘Blake’s as baffled as I am. And none too happy.’

  ‘Her happiness or unhappiness is beside the point. What exactly do you expect me to do about this?’

  ‘Well, I thought Mrs Jackson mi
ght be able to say whether it really is a panic room, or, if not, what the void contains.’

  Fran sighed audibly. ‘She won’t want to be bothered.’

  ‘She may have to be bothered. Potential buyers will expect accurate information.’

  ‘I agree. Which is what I sent you down there to obtain.’

  Don had forgotten just how easily Fran could rile him. He struggled to remain calm. ‘You must have some documents relating to the property. Specifications. The original contract to build it. That sort of thing.’

  ‘I have very little beyond my client’s proof of title. Her husband owned the property initially. He doesn’t seem to have passed anything of that nature over to her when ownership was transferred. And I doubt she’d feel able to ask him about it now.’

  ‘When was ownership transferred?’

  ‘That’s none of your concern. You can leave the legalities to me.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to, Fran. But—’

  ‘Maybe there’s something in the house that would shed light on the matter. Have a look around. Use your initiative. Is that too much to ask? You are being paid quite well to sort this out.’

  ‘So you keep reminding me.’

  ‘Only because you seem to need reminding. Call me tomorrow when you’ve resolved the issue. Including the cleaner complication. OK?’ When Don was not quick enough for her liking to answer the question, she repeated it more snappily. ‘OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Don glumly.

  He was beginning to wish he had turned down Fran’s offer of employment. It had sounded like easy money. Now it was proving to be anything but. He recalled one of his father’s favourite sayings. ‘Always look a gift horse in the mouth.’ The old man had never followed his own advice, of course. And Don had inherited his chancer’s nature. But there were times when caution paid off. The problem, in Don’s experience, and his father’s, was that you never knew which times those were until it was too late to do anything about it.

  The only place in the house where Don thought he might find any information about a panic room was the library-cum-study. But the desk drawers contained nothing more than oddments of stationery. And the filing cabinet beside the desk was locked, with no sign of the key.