Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Welcome to the real world, Blake,’ he murmured. But she did not hear him above the noise of the traffic.

  By the time they reached Vauxhall Bridge, she appeared to have come to terms with the setback. She stopped halfway across the bridge and gazed downriver towards Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, fingering her breeze-blown hair out of her eyes as she squinted into the distance. Then she said, ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  Fran had followed Pawley’s car down the Lizard road and out through Mullion to where Wortalleth West basked in cloud-dappled sunshine above Poldhu Cove.

  The house was more striking than she had anticipated. It seemed a perfect match to its surroundings. She had a brief, tantalizing vision of what it would be like to idle the days away in such a setting, with the deep blue sea to swim in and the mind-cleansing freshness of the air to savour.

  Pawley was already in conversation with a lean, tanned woman in a T-shirt and shorts when Fran finished taking her first appreciative look at the house. She joined them by a flower bed the woman had been weeding.

  ‘Glenys works part-time as a gardener,’ said Pawley. ‘I’ve just been explaining why we’re here.’

  ‘I work direct for Harkness,’ Glenys said, running her eye over Fran. ‘I’ll stop any time he tells me to.’

  ‘Where’s the housekeeper?’ Fran asked, more bluntly than she intended.

  ‘Gone away,’ Glenys replied, no less bluntly.

  ‘But coming back?’

  ‘Couldn’t say.’

  ‘You met Mr Challenor?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I should make it clear he’s no longer acting for my client.’

  ‘That’s none of my concern.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Shall we go in?’ Pawley asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran with some relief. ‘Let’s.’

  The interior of the house was cool, stylish, light-filled and spacious. Pawley gushed for a while about its design features, then set to work with his camera and measurer. Fran followed him through a few rooms, marvelling at how Harkness had been willing to hand such a wonderful seaside retreat over to Mona without so much as a quibble and wondering, as she often did about his actions, what his true motive was. Eventually, she left Pawley to it and settled in the drawing room, where she checked messages on her phone and drafted a few emails.

  That did not take long and she soon found herself assessing the situation she was in. She knew the only way she could tolerate the position Peter had put her in was not to think about it too much. Unfortunately, both her personality and her profession inclined her to think too much about virtually everything. It required the summoning of all her willpower to persuade herself that what Harkness had sent her there to do was essentially uncomplicated. Pawley was a competent man. There was no reason to anticipate any problem.

  She sighed and looked at her appointments for the week ahead. She had planned to take the sleeper back that night, but she knew she had to make sure the house was on the market before leaving. Chivvy Pawley however much she liked, that could not be accomplished before tomorrow. After her slip-up with Don, she could not afford to make any mistakes. To satisfy Harkness, this had to be done correctly. And she had to satisfy Harkness. An overnight stay was therefore unavoidable. She would ask Pawley to recommend a hotel when he came back.

  As for the panic room, if Pawley noticed the discrepancy in dimensions Don had reported, she would tell him to ignore it and press on with putting sales particulars together. She did not anticipate any resistance. She was paying Pawley enough to ensure his compliance. And Pawley, unlike Don, was the sort to do as he was told.

  At least the housekeeper had gone. There was that to be grateful for. Whether Don had arranged her departure Fran did not know, but it was a blessing nonetheless. And the gardener was clearly not going to cause any difficulty.

  Perhaps thought was profitable after all, Fran concluded. It had taken her to a position in which her task did not seem so very onerous. And maybe, after she had done Harkness this service, he would trouble her no more. Sitting in the pastel tranquillity of that room, gazing at a strangely soothing painting that hung on the wall – an abstract of blue and green shapes that somehow contrived to convey mobility – she felt for once it was easy to believe in such an outcome. And the feeling made her happy.

  Don sat in a coffee shop off Vauxhall Bridge Road, sipping his Americano and waiting for Blake to say something. After several futile attempts to start a conversation himself, he had decided it was best to let her set the pace.

  His view, which he knew it would be disastrous to express, was that they had come to the end of what they could hope to accomplish. Perkins had greater resources than they did. If he turned up anything on Jane, he would tell them. There was no sense getting in his way. It was time to move on.

  ‘You reckon we’re going nowhere, don’t you, Don?’ Blake asked suddenly, as if reading his mind.

  ‘Well … I think we’ve done everything we can.’

  ‘Could be.’ She drank some coffee.

  ‘There are a lot of people working on this, Blake. Lawyers. Police. Private investigators. If Harkness is hiding some dark secret about Jane Glasson, they’ll turn it up eventually.’

  ‘So, you reckon we should basically just leave them to it?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘While you fix me up with a job?’

  ‘I’d be happy to try.’

  She drained her coffee, then looked across the table at him intently. ‘Giving up is totally not what I want to do, Don.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Give me the rest of the day, will you? I need to be alone. I’m not used to being with someone from breakfast to supper. I need to walk. I need to think. I’ll see you back at your flat this evening.’

  He shrugged, knowing better than to argue. ‘All right.’

  ‘And don’t worry about me. Please. I don’t like people worrying about me.’

  A few minutes later, Don was alone with the dregs of his coffee. Where Blake meant to go he did not know. He was not sure she knew either. He was not even sure she would show up at his flat that evening. There was a chance, he sensed, that she would choose to drop out of his life, to take some course that did not involve him. But there was nothing he could do about it, saddened though he was by the thought. She was a free spirit. In the end, he had to let her decide.

  I walk the city. I don’t know what I’m looking for or what I’ll find. It’s big and bright and full of strangers. Lots of Japanese tourists are taking selfies on sticks in St James’s Park. I feel like the pelicans look: out of place, out of patience.

  What am I supposed to do? In Cornwall I had a life. I knew what I was doing. It couldn’t go on. I understand that now. When Don walked into Wortalleth West, it was over. But it was always going to end. I should’ve made a plan. I should’ve worked out where I was going to go next.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to track down the truth about Jane. I never knew her. She should be nothing to me. But somehow she matters. I looked at her photograph every day while I was living in Andrew’s house. He talked about her a lot – her energy, her passion, her fears about the environment. I tried to imagine what had happened to her. I saw her ghost in her father’s face. I saw another ghost as well, of someone I might’ve been able to save but didn’t. I guess I really want to know if Harkness is responsible for Jane’s disappearance – and, if he is …

  I could go back to Cornwall. Glenys is happy to take me in. I could try to stick with it there. Or I could take up Don’s offer. See if he can find me a job. In London? In an office? Nine to five? Who am I kidding? That’ll never work.

  But then … what’s the alternative?

  I go for a ride on a tourist bus. The sun’s out now. We see the sights. There’s a commentary as well, but I don’t really listen to it. I don’t really see the sights either. I sit on the open-top deck, while the traffic growls and the crowds swirl below me. I’m in limbo
. I don’t know what to do or where to go.

  I get off the bus in Piccadilly, near the Ritz. It’s late afternoon now. Green Park’s heavy with heat. I sit on a bench and eat a salad wrap. I feel angry with myself, angry with my lack of decisiveness.

  I go back to Piccadilly and into a branch of Boots to buy some tissues. The thick city air has blocked my sinuses. While I’m there I see a display of Elixtris on the shelf. I look at the slick packaging and the enticing claims. The most effective anti-ageing treatment of them all. Recapture that youthful glow. A woman buys a jar while I’m standing there.

  ‘Does it work?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, beaming enthusiastically at me like some convert to a religious cult. Her skin glows, as promised. ‘It really, really does.’

  ‘Kind of transformative?’ I borrow the word Anna used to describe the effect of Ditrimantelline on Holly.

  It hits the mark. ‘Exactly. That’s exactly right.’

  Harkness is a mystery. I walk up Bond Street, looking in the shop windows at all the things he could buy without blinking. The watches. The jewels. The thousand-pound suits. He’s the last man who needs to steal from anyone. Why has he done whatever he’s done to get him into so much trouble? I don’t understand. It makes no sense. There has to be more to it. There has to be a reason.

  Then a thought comes into my head.

  Why don’t I just ask him? I can do that. Unlike the woman at Boots or all the millions of other Elixtris buyers, I can talk to Jack Harkness.

  I’ve got his phone number. I’ve also got his London address. I never asked Perkins for it and neither did Don. He wouldn’t think confronting Harkness was a good idea anyway. But a confrontation isn’t exactly what I’ll be going for. And I didn’t need to get the address from Perkins because I’ve written it on letters for Harkness that were delivered to Wortalleth West from time to time. Vera used to forward them on to him in London and I did the same. There weren’t many. Fewer and fewer lately. But enough.

  53 Belgrave Square.

  Size and … grandeur. Those are the words. The only words you need. The square is vast, surrounded by huge wedding-cake white blocks with pillars and parapets and high windows and steepling chimneys. You could fit ten families into any one of them. But at number 53 there’s just Jack Harkness.

  I walk round the square. The garden in the centre is railinged off, locked and private. Lots of the houses are embassies: Syria, Austria, Germany, Spain, Turkey, Argentina. Their flags are flying, claiming their territory. There’s a policeman on patrol outside the Turkish Embassy. He looks bored. Nothing’s happening. The square’s silent and empty.

  Number 53. No flag. No brass plate. Just a pillared porch, wide steps and a big wooden door with a polished handle and a dolphin knocker. I look up at the house, at the windows reflecting the cloud-barred sky. I wonder what sort of life Harkness leads behind the glass, closed off from the world. I stand there, looking and wondering.

  Then one of the windows on the second floor slides up, the wood squealing on the sash. A man leans out and gazes down at me. Harkness.

  ‘Blake?’ he calls. ‘Is that really you?’

  I smile up at him. I feel nervous, uncertain what to say. In the end, some words come. ‘Yeah. It’s really me.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I had to leave Wortalleth West.’

  He frowns. ‘I suppose you did. You should have phoned me.’

  ‘I kind of prefer face to face.’

  He smiles. ‘Me too. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘If it’s, er …’

  ‘I’ll open the door. Just push it.’ Then he’s gone. Just like that.

  As I walk towards the door, I hear an electronic buzz from inside. I grasp the handle and push, as instructed. The door opens.

  I let it swing shut behind me as I step inside. There’s a clunk. The buzzing stops. There’s a few seconds of silence. I’m in a big, empty, high-ceilinged hallway. The walls are panelled, with gold-leaf edgings. There’s a huge chandelier above me. Ahead is a wide, curving staircase, with marble treads. There’s no furniture, though. As I glance through some open double doors into a large front-facing room to my left, I can’t see any in there either.

  Footsteps on the stairs, descending. I move forward and see Harkness’s shadow on the wall, a shimmer of grey against a pale wash of light. Then he appears, smiling, with his arms held apart, as if welcoming me to the house is a genuine pleasure. He’s wearing loafers, jeans and a loose sweater. He looks relaxed, at ease with himself and the world in general. He doesn’t look like a man facing extradition to the US and the inside of a jail for the rest of his life.

  ‘Come up,’ he says. ‘I do most of my living on the second floor.’

  I start up the stairs and he turns and goes back up ahead of me. We reach the first floor. There’s an enormous triple-windowed drawing room ahead of me, overlooking the square. This does contain some furniture, but it’s all dust-sheeted. There are no pictures on the walls, no signs of use. Everything’s cream and white, washed in evening light.

  ‘Is there anyone else here?’ I ask.

  ‘Juanita. In the basement. She cooks and cleans. And leads her life. We respect each other’s privacy. Her nephew’s here quite often as well. Otherwise … I’m on my own.’

  ‘Has it always been so … empty?’

  ‘Most of the contents belonged to Mona. She’s removed quite a lot. Doesn’t want her possessions to go down with the ship, I guess.’ He smiles. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t warn you Wortalleth West was to be sold. I didn’t want to disrupt your life there any sooner than was necessary. But I should’ve remembered Mona isn’t one to let the grass grow.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything.’ Not even the truth, really, about the money, about him and Jane. But maybe I can get it anyway. ‘You’ve had a lot on your mind according to those newspapers of yours I read.’

  ‘Ah, Ray Hocking still delivering the FT, is he? Excellent. Do you know I was at primary school with Ray? You could rely on him even then.’

  ‘I don’t know what to call you,’ I say, realizing suddenly that I don’t. ‘“Mr Harkness” doesn’t seem right any more.’

  ‘Jack’s fine.’

  ‘Not sure I can get used to that.’

  ‘Try.’

  I shrug. ‘OK … Jack.’

  ‘Why did you come to London, Blake?’

  ‘Didn’t feel comfortable at Wortalleth West any more. A few things happened. I reckoned it was time to leave.’

  ‘But London?’

  I shrug again, keeping it all as casual as I can. ‘Someone offered me a lift. Seemed like a good idea.’

  ‘I’m not sure it was.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘Come upstairs. I can fix us a drink.’

  We go up the next flight of stairs. The second floor is different. The rooms are slightly smaller and lower-ceilinged. They’re furnished too, one as a lounge, a second as a study, a third as a bedroom.

  There’s a refrigerated wine rack in the lounge. Harkness pulls out a bottle of white and pours a couple of glasses. They’re not small. ‘This is very expensive,’ he says. ‘New Zealand Sauvignon. Tiny grower. Great flavour. Cheers.’

  I drink some. I don’t go much on wine. But I can taste this is good.

  I glance round. On one of the walls there’s a big framed photograph of the Earth seen from outer space: an almost complete circle of brilliant blue and pure white, floating in a sea of black. As I look at it, I see my reflection in the glass, overlaid on the photograph of Earth with Harkness standing beside me.

  ‘Taken from Apollo Eight, in December 1968,’ he says quietly, almost in a whisper. ‘It blew my mind when I saw it the first time. I was twelve years old, home for the Christmas holiday. I’d never seen anything so perfect or so beautiful – or so fragile. That was when I realized just how vulnerable we all are, just what a delicate thread all life hangs by. It was as if the Earth was one of the b
aubles on the Christmas tree in our sitting room. You could pull it off the branch and smash it under your foot in a second. Or you could just watch it hang there.’

  I look at him. ‘That’s quite something for a twelve-year-old to think.’

  He nods. ‘I suppose it was.’ And then he smiles and swallows some wine. ‘Why did you come to see me, Blake?’

  This is the moment. I can back out, give some excuse. Maybe even ask for a handout. That’d make sense to him. Or I can do what I came to do.

  ‘If you want help finding—’

  ‘No. That’s not it, Jack. That’s not why I came.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘Questions. I basically can’t get them out of my head.’

  ‘Questions for me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He spreads his hands. He goes on smiling, like he’s the most open and accessible guy on the planet. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘OK.’ I take a sip of wine. Then: ‘Did you really do what you’re accused of – steal all that money from your partners?’

  The smile doesn’t falter. He doesn’t look annoyed or evasive. He looks as if he’s happy for me to ask … whatever the fuck I like. ‘You can’t steal what already belongs to you, Blake.’

  ‘Is that argument playing well with the court?’

  He chuckles. ‘Not at all. Nor with my lawyer. He despairs of me. He thinks there’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid extradition.’

  ‘You don’t seem worried.’ And he doesn’t. I just can’t read him.

  ‘It’s one of my characteristics that used to drive Mona to distraction. Nothing worries me.’ Can that really be true? Nothing?

  ‘I’m sorry about your marriage.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s kind of you to say that.’ He wanders across to an armchair and sits down. As he crosses his legs, I see the electronic tag he’s wearing on his left ankle. He waves an inviting hand towards the sofa opposite. ‘What else do you want to ask me?’

  I don’t sit down. I prop myself on the arm of the sofa. ‘Is there a panic room at Wortalleth West?’

  ‘What makes you think there might be?’