Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’

  ‘Might be. Why wait to find out? Harkness is finished. I read those F bloody Ts when you chuck ’em out. The wolves are circling.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned his problems before.’

  ‘Why should I? Thought they weren’t my problems – or yours. But a sealed panic room? And this “accident”? You have to read the weather, Blake. A storm’s brewing.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t think Dale’s crash was really an accident?’

  ‘What is an accident? Things converge. Sometimes you shouldn’t be there when they do. I’m just the gardener. I come and go. You live there. But I don’t think you should any more. I can put you up while you decide what’s best.’

  Maybe she’s right. It all means something. And what it means isn’t good. ‘I’ll think about it, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t think too long. It’s not just about Harkness’s creditors anyway, is it?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve seen Wynsum Fry hanging round.’ Glenys shoots me a glance. ‘You don’t want to have anything to do with her.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t want to. But it’s not exactly up to me, is it?’

  ‘My dad lived as a tramp for a good many years before Mum took him in.’

  ‘Really?’ She’s never talked about her parents before – or herself, come to that.

  ‘One thing he told me. “You’ve got to know when to move on, girl. You’ve got to know when to take to the road.” It’s that time for you, Blake.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  We’re on the roundabout at the edge of Helston as I ask the question. Suddenly, before Glenys can say anything else, I see Don in the MG coming in the opposite direction.

  ‘That’s Don’s car. Go round twice, can you?’

  Glenys signals right and steers slowly past Don as he waits to join the roundabout. I lower the window and wave and shout his name.

  He sees me and raises a hand. Then we’re past him. But he gets the message. He falls in behind us as we leave the roundabout second time round and head along the bypass towards Sainsbury’s.

  ‘This bloke’s an estate agent, right?’ Glenys checks. ‘Working for Harkness?’

  ‘Working for Mrs Harkness.’

  ‘Same difference.’

  ‘He’s not a bad guy.’

  ‘Sure ’bout that?’

  ‘I feel sure.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘About twenty-four hours.’

  Glenys says nothing to that.

  ‘I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t. But that’s only because I’m not the worrying kind.’

  We pull into Sainsbury’s car park. Don follows us in.

  ‘You won’t forget what I said, will you?’ says Glenys.

  ‘No. I won’t.’

  She swings into one of the bays and stops. As I open the door, she looks at me. ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’

  ‘Saturday isn’t one of your days.’

  ‘I’ll come anyway. Just to check how you are.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ I hop out and smile back at her. ‘Thanks, Glenys.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Caring, I s’pose.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’ She almost smiles herself. But in the end she doesn’t. ‘There’s no charge for that.’

  Don did not recognize the battered pick-up truck or its driver. She cast him an unsmiling, scrutinizing glance as she reversed out of the parking bay and pulled away.

  He wound down the window as Blake approached. Hazy cloud had obscured the sun and suddenly the summer’s day had cooled and lost its edge. Blake was wearing jeans and a denim shirt, open over a white vest. Her hair was tied back and her eyes were shielded by circular sunglasses.

  ‘Hi, Don,’ she said brightly. ‘Can you give me a lift back when I’ve done some shopping?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll even carry the basket for you.’ He got out of the car and they walked towards the supermarket. ‘Who was that woman?’

  ‘Glenys Probert. Harkness’s gardener. She comes in three days a week.’

  ‘The gardener. Of course. I suppose that explains why she looked at me as if I was a slug she’d found in a flower bed.’

  ‘She’s all right when you get to know her.’

  ‘Pity I won’t have the chance.’

  ‘Get anywhere with Andrew?’

  ‘You can stay with him if you need to. He certainly doesn’t think you should stay on at Wortalleth West.’

  ‘No one does. Glenys has offered to put me up as well.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  They reached the supermarket. Blake took off her sunglasses, grabbed a basket from the stack and handed it to Don. ‘Want me to cook something tonight?’

  ‘You should really spend the time packing.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Like everyone says, it’s time to go.’

  ‘How about spag bol?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spaghetti Bolognese. To eat.’

  Don shrugged helplessly. ‘OK.’

  ‘Follow me, then.’

  They set off round the aisles. At first, Don followed Blake in silence. Then, as they headed towards chilled meat, he said, ‘Glasson told me about his missing daughter.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘And Wynsum Fry.’

  ‘I should never have introduced him to her.’

  ‘I met her myself earlier.’

  Blake pulled up and stared at him. ‘You met Fry?’

  ‘By chance. In a pub.’

  Blake went on staring at him. ‘You think it was by chance?’

  ‘What else?’

  She let out a slow breath. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘Snap.’

  She glanced around, then said, ‘We shouldn’t talk about this here. Wait till we’re in the car.’

  Don glanced around too. The only people he saw were shoppers wandering the aisles with trolleys and baskets. Nobody was watching them. Nobody was listening. ‘OK,’ he said appeasingly. ‘Let’s get on with this.’

  Within a quarter of an hour, they were in the MG, heading south. Don started relating what had happened during his visit to Glasson, but was diverted by Blake, who wanted more urgently to hear about his encounter with Wynsum Fry. He was surprised, when he came to talk of it, by how patchy his recollection of their conversation was. All he could clearly remember was the strange, watery menace in her eyes and the sense of undesired intimacy that had seeped into their exchanges.

  ‘You shouldn’t have spoken to her,’ said Blake in an ominously subdued tone.

  ‘She spoke to me.’

  ‘You should’ve avoided her altogether.’

  ‘How exactly could I have avoided a chance meeting?’

  Blake sighed heavily. ‘You don’t meet Wynsum Fry by chance.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘She’s a witch, Don. Don’t you get it?’

  ‘You don’t really believe she’s an actual witch, do you? Spells, broomsticks, cauldrons – all that crap?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe. Or what you believe. Things happen. When they do, you know what it is.’

  ‘And what it is is witchcraft, right?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you call it either. Wynsum Fry is bad news.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that. But what’s her interest in Wortalleth West?’

  ‘Listen, Don, this doesn’t have anything to do with Harkness’s money problems or his wife’s decision to sell the house. It can’t have.’

  ‘But what is “this”?’

  Blake glanced out of the window at the passing grounds of the Air Station, where all was neat and trimmed and signposted. But there were other worlds, where routes were harder to find. ‘Fry’s brother drowned in a rock pool at Poldhu Cove when he was twelve. It’s a long, long time ago. Fry’s never believed it was an accid
ent. I don’t know why, but she thinks Harkness killed him.’

  ‘Harkness?’

  ‘He grew up round here. His father was a fisherman.’

  ‘Jack Harkness’s father was a fisherman?’

  ‘Yes, he was. And in 1970, when Jory Fry drowned, aged twelve, Harkness was a fourteen-year-old schoolboy living in Mullion.’ Blake shrugged. ‘Well, that’s the story. And Glenys says it’s true. But as for killing Jory …’

  ‘I don’t suppose Wynsum Fry has any evidence against Harkness.’

  ‘She doesn’t need any. In her own mind, she’s certain.’

  ‘What about a motive?’

  ‘Dunno. I’ve never actually discussed it with her. But she hates Harkness. That’s for certain. She calls him the King of Spades.’

  ‘The King of Spades? Hold on. Glasson said that was the only black card to come out of the deck when Fry went through her fortune-telling routine for him.’

  ‘He told you that as well, did he?’

  ‘Why did you introduce him to her?’

  ‘I thought it might help. I was wrong.’

  ‘How did you come across her?’

  ‘A woman I used to clean for mentioned going to her. I expected she’d be some harmless old biddy who told you what you wanted to hear. I expected her to … I dunno. She wasn’t what I expected, anyway. That’s the point. Not remotely. She’s a long way from harmless.’

  ‘Come on. The woman doesn’t have supernatural powers. Some sleight of hand with playing cards? You don’t want to set any store by that. It’s just tricks.’

  ‘Just tricks,’ Blake echoed solemnly.

  ‘It’s true.’ But was it? Don was less confident than he sounded. Sooner or later, he would have to pass on Glasson’s message about Holly Walsh. But he felt more and more reluctant to do so. Seeking to defer the moment as long as possible, he said, ‘What was it you had to tell me, Blake?’

  ‘Oh yeah, right. A guy called Dale came to the house after you left. Seems Fran contacted some firm in Plymouth that knows a bit about panic rooms and they sent him down to take a look.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much. He couldn’t make any sense of it. A lot of head-scratching. Then he left. He didn’t get far, though.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Wait a few minutes and you’ll see. Don’t take the Cury turn. Stay on this road and we’ll go through Mullion.’

  Don did not try to push the point. They drove on for a mile or so in silence. Then, rounding a bend, they caught up with the tail end of a slow-moving line of traffic. It moved in fits and starts before reaching a stretch of road that dipped and wound through a patch of woodland.

  A van had crashed into the ditch on one of the bends and was now being winched on to a lorry. Blake pointed across to it. ‘That’s Dale’s van. See the company name on the side and the Plymouth phone number?’

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘He went off the road on his way back from Wortalleth West. I got out when we were held up earlier and spoke to a cop. Dale’s in Treliske Hospital with serious injuries.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Think what? He was probably just careless.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It was an accident, Blake. They happen.’

  ‘Yeah. Like chance meetings.’

  Don mulled that over for a moment, then said, ‘We’re going to Poldhu. I want to see these rock pools.’

  The tide was on the turn, trickling in over the wrinkled sand. The sun winked and gleamed at them through barred clouds moving in formation on the western horizon. Blake jumped over a curve of the Bonython stream that cut across the beach. Don tried to follow her and ended up with a shoeful of water.

  She pointed to the shelf of rocks beneath the cliff bordering the northern side of the cove. ‘There are always pools there at low tide,’ she explained. ‘It’s in one of those Jory Fry drowned.’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’ Don scrambled up on to the nearest rock. There were several pools within sight, glinting in the sunlight. None looked deep enough to drown in. ‘D’you know how it happened?’

  Looking round, Don saw Blake was no longer below him, but standing on the narrow peak of a nearby rock, balancing perfectly. ‘According to Glenys, they thought at the time he must’ve slipped and knocked his head, finished up face down in the pool and drowned while he was unconscious.’

  Don glanced around. ‘Well, I suppose he must.’

  ‘But did he really slip? Or was he pushed and held down in the water?’

  ‘By a boy only a couple of years older than him? I don’t buy that. And why would the other boy do it anyway?’

  ‘Harkness, you mean?’

  ‘Was Harkness seen nearby?’

  ‘Not sure. It’s like nearly half a century ago, Don. Glenys is too young to actually remember. It’s all …’ She shrugged. ‘It’s all legend and guesswork.’

  ‘How old would Wynsum Fry have been then?’

  ‘Late teens, maybe.’

  Don squinted towards the sea. ‘So, she remembers. Even if nobody else does.’

  ‘Yeah. She remembers.’

  Don turned, intending to clamber back down to the beach. Deciding he would only look a fool if he jumped and fell over, and with a wet foot to remind him he had displayed precious little agility so far, he stooped and steadied himself with his right hand. Then, just as he put some weight on it, his wrist gave way and he descended in a sudden, ungainly slither.

  ‘Careful,’ said Blake, hopping down coolly beside him. ‘Want some help?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Don snapped. He struggled to his feet. ‘I obviously need more practice on beaches.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  He shook his hand. ‘Seem to have strained something.’

  ‘Always a risk at your age, I s’pose.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  She grinned at him. Eventually, he grinned too.

  ‘There was something you were going to tell me,’ she said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ The moment could be delayed no longer. ‘Glasson asked me to pass on a message.’ He paused.

  ‘Better pass it on, then.’ She looked at him promptingly.

  ‘Right. Well, he referred me to a woman on Facebook. She’s suffering from MS but has got a lot better after taking some fantastically expensive wonder drug, paid for by an anonymous benefactor. He said you’d be interested.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I got the impression he thought you’d understand the significance of it when you knew her name.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Holly Walsh. Mean anything to you?’

  But the question was redundant even as Don asked it. It was quite obvious from Blake’s expression that the name meant something to her. She stared at him for a moment, then said simply, ‘Wow.’

  Holly Walsh: the name of the friend who travelled down to London from Cambridge with Jane Glasson the day she disappeared. She’s basically the last person who ever saw her. That’s her ‘significance’, to use Don’s word.

  I tell him what I know about her, which isn’t a lot. According to Andrew, she was Jane’s best friend at boarding school and then Cambridge. After Jane vanished, she met him and his wife several times. She did what she could to help, but it wasn’t much. Jane going missing was a total surprise to Holly and her other friends.

  It doesn’t take a genius to work out the likeliest explanation. Somewhere between King’s Cross and Paddington that summer’s day in 1996 she got picked up by a man – the wrong kind of man – and ended up—

  I never told Andrew I thought she was probably dead. I let him believe he might find her one day. Belief’s good for you. Hope’s healthy. Well, it’s sure healthier than the alternative. I guess that’s why I put him in touch with Wynsum Fry.

  And now? Now I know what he’s thinking. Who could Holly Walsh’s anonymous benefactor be? Who else could it
be, in fact, but … Jane?

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’ Don asks as we walk slowly back up the beach. ‘I mean, there’s absolutely no reason to think this proves anything one way or the other about Jane Glasson.’

  ‘No,’ I respond. ‘’Course it doesn’t. But that won’t stop Andrew wondering, will it?’ It doesn’t stop me wondering either. Fry says Jane’s alive. And her best friend has a fairy godmother who pays her medical bills. ‘I bet the only reason he hasn’t contacted Holly is he’s frightened what Muriel would say if she found out. Maybe that’s really why he wanted you to tell me.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Maybe he wants me to contact Holly.’

  ‘You shouldn’t get involved, Blake, you really shouldn’t.’

  ‘OK.’ But I am involved. Have been ever since Andrew first told me about Jane. You can regret doing things. But you can regret not doing things as well. I totally know that feeIing. I glance round at Don, to see how he reacts to what I say next. ‘But you could contact her.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No way.’

  ‘Not your concern, I s’pose.’

  ‘Nor yours.’

  ‘Bound to be, if I go back there.’

  ‘Then don’t.’ Don pulls up. He flexes his strained wrist and kicks irritably at the sand. He’s just warned me off the exact course of action he was recommending only this morning. ‘Can’t you go back to your family – wherever they are?’

  ‘No, Don. I can’t.’ I make it clear by the look I give him that I’m saying no more on that subject.

  He sighs. ‘I’ll take you to London if you like. You can stay at my flat till you get yourself sorted.’

  ‘I don’t like cities. But thanks for the offer.’

  ‘You have to leave here, Blake.’ He really does look as if he means it.

  ‘Yeah. So everybody says.’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  I gaze up towards Wortalleth West. You can see the cove clearly from the verandah when you’re up there, but from down here the house is weirdly kind of sheltered from view. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, as if it’s a grand concession. ‘Honest, I will.’

  Everything’s quiet at the house. Everything looks exactly the same as it always does. But it doesn’t feel the same. Don goes up to his room while I take the food into the kitchen. I’ve already decided to call Treliske Hospital and ask how Dale is. But, as I walk towards the phone, it rings.