Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She’s about to close the case when a thought strikes her. She pulls out the laptop, sits back down and opens it up. The sapper’s out of sight on the underside. ‘Better check this is still working. If that guy’s broken the goddam thing …’

  I sit slowly down. The waiter’s gone back into the café, relieved everything’s blown over. I look over my shoulder and see Don in the distance, walking fast. Then I hear a little ping that announces Ingrid’s laptop is up and running.

  ‘Great,’ she declares. ‘It seems fine.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it,’ I say. And I totally am.

  Don popped a peppermint into his mouth as he headed across Grosvenor Square towards the Roosevelt Memorial. He did not want anyone else, notably the police, taking him for someone who had breakfasted on Scotch.

  There was Lawler, just where he had been all the time. He was stooped over his laptop, frowning in concentration and shading the screen with one hand while he tapped at the keyboard with the other.

  Don sat down on the bench beside him. ‘It went like a dream,’ he announced, irked by Lawler’s apparent indifference.

  ‘So I see,’ said Lawler. ‘Ingrid’s already gone online. And I’ve already accessed one of her files. It’s entitled Jane Glasson question mark. I’m downloading it now.’

  ‘Will she know you’re doing that?’

  ‘No reason why she should. Sooner or later, she’ll notice the physical presence of the sapper. Until then, we’ve got the run of her files.’

  ‘What’s in Jane Glasson question mark?’

  ‘Just looking.’ Silence followed, while Lawler scrolled through the contents of the file. Peering over his shoulder Don saw copies of emails and pages of text. Then Lawler said, ‘There’s a lot here,’ which appeared to Don to be an understatement.

  ‘Well, we’ll need to study it all, however much there is.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Lawler looked round at Don. ‘I suggest we do that somewhere else. Ingrid’s only a few minutes up the road. I’d prefer to be well out of her reach. I’ll send the file on to you, OK?’

  ‘OK, but—’

  Lawler tapped a key. ‘There it goes. It’ll be on your phone as an email attachment in a few seconds.’

  Don pulled out his phone to check. Something substantial was in the process of being downloaded.

  ‘You can read it all on your desktop at home. Why don’t I come round later and we can talk through our options?’

  ‘All right.’ Don felt he had no alternative but to agree. Lawler’s suggestion seemed sensible enough. There was a tiny ping from his phone. He opened the email and there was the promised attachment: Jane Glasson? He opened that too. The first item was a report composed by Ingrid about Lawler’s claim to have seen a Harkness Pharmaceuticals employee at Paddington station on 10 April that year whom he identified as missing person Jane Glasson.

  ‘Got it?’ asked Lawler.

  ‘Yeah, I—’

  ‘I’ll call round at two. That’ll give us a few hours to digest it all. I’ll make myself scarce now.’ With that he closed his laptop and stood up.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Don. ‘Blake will want to—’

  ‘Tell her she did an awesome job. I’ll see you both later.’

  Then he was off, at an anxious half-jog. And all Don could do was watch him go.

  Ingrid orders a second coffee after Don the drunk’s disappeared. Then she lights a cigarette. It comes from the pack of Camel Lights that spilt out of her briefcase. She slides the laptop back into the case without noticing the sapper. I barely spot it myself. She’ll notice it at some point, of course. And she’ll realize either Don or I must’ve put it there. But that’s just the way it has to be. She won’t know where to find me. And she won’t be expecting to need to. She thinks I’ll grab the bribe she’s going to offer me with both hands.

  ‘Mind if I ask you a personal question, Blake?’ says Ingrid after a pull on her cigarette. ‘About Jack Harkness.’

  ‘You can ask.’

  ‘What’s your impression of him? What kind of a man d’you think he is?’

  ‘I was just his temporary stand-in housekeeper, Ingrid. How should I know?’

  ‘You’re a perceptive young woman. We both know that. You’ve lived in his house. You’ve seen and heard things.’

  ‘Yeah. Things you want me to guarantee I’ll never talk about.’

  ‘You can talk about them to me.’

  ‘No, Ingrid.’ I smile. And she smiles. But she realizes she’s not going to get anything out of me. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Good girl. That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.’

  She doesn’t fool me. She’d have taken whatever I gave her. She’s just covering her tracks now. Her second coffee appears then. But I’m going to leave her to drink it alone. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘So, I’ll call at your hotel mid-morning tomorrow and—’

  ‘We’d better say noon. The proposal will be waiting for you then.’

  ‘Great. Then I’ll look at it … and get back to you.’

  ‘You’ll like what you see, Blake. Trust me. Especially the number with the zeros after it.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ I stand up and take a five-pound note out of the pocket of my jeans. She waves it away.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’ll cover this.’

  ‘OK. Thanks. It was, er, nice to meet you, Ingrid.’

  ‘You too, Blake.’ She looks up at me through her sunglasses. ‘That temporary stand-in housekeeper’s job is going to turn out to be the best-paid job you’ve ever had. Maybe ever will have.’

  I smile non-committally. And all I say is, ‘’Bye for now.’

  I leave Ingrid sipping her coffee and head for Oxford Street. I’m due to rendezvous with Don and Gareth in the shopping mall above Bond Street Tube station. I walk fast, eager to hear what’s happened. I glance back at the next corner and I can see Ingrid still sitting at our table. In the chair next to her, inside her briefcase, the sapper is clamped to her laptop, doing its tricksy little job. ‘Not bad, Blake,’ I murmur to myself. ‘Not fucking bad.’

  Just as well I’ve stopped congratulating myself by the time I reach Bond Street Tube. Don’s waiting for me by the Pret sandwich counter. But there’s no sign of Gareth.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Don, who still smells strongly of whisky. ‘I’ve got what Gareth was looking for on my phone.’

  ‘But where’s Gareth?’

  ‘Gone to study the contents of this.’ He shows me the screen on his phone. There’s a file symbol at the bottom with Jane Glasson? printed under it. ‘I suggest we do the same. He’s coming round to the flat this afternoon.’

  ‘It worked, then.’

  Don grins. ‘Like a dream.’

  ‘Have you seen what’s in the file?’

  ‘Just a glimpse. But it looks like everything Ingrid knows on the subject. Come on. Let’s go.’

  With time to spare before her appointment with Robin Pawley, Fran decided on little more than a whim to call in again at Wortalleth West. She would be able to gain a clearer impression of the house on her own and she would probably never have another chance to wander round it.

  There was no sign of the gardener, for which she was grateful. But a car was parked in front of the house that certainly did not belong to Pawley: a red Mercedes convertible. The driver was nowhere to be seen.

  Fran hardly knew what to make of the car’s presence. It was faintly disturbing. She listened for a moment, but could hear no sounds of movement, just the cooing of pigeons in the pine trees behind the house and the susurration of the surf down in the cove. She marched up to the front door and let herself in.

  The mortise, she noticed at once, was not across. She was more than faintly disturbed now.

  She stood in the hall, listening intently. But there was nothing to hear. She considered turning round and going straight back to the car. The stillness and emptiness of such a large building was eerily unsettling.<
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  Then she heard footsteps on the landing and a figure appeared above her: a big, broad-shouldered man in a pale suit and striped shirt, with a mass of blond hair and a ruddy face. He was built like an out-of-condition rugby player and was smiling down at her with the sort of condescending amiability he probably thought won women over.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, starting down the stairs. ‘Are you Fran Revell?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fran replied cautiously.

  ‘Mike Coleman, Sympergy Renewables. Robin said I might bump into you here.’

  ‘He did?’ Well, maybe he had. But, if so, he had not bothered to tell her.

  Coleman reached the hall with a heavy-footed thud. His smile broadened still further as he extended his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Fran.’

  Fran smiled weakly and shook his chubby-fingered hand. ‘How did you get in here, Mr Coleman?’

  ‘Mike, please.’

  ‘OK. Mike. So …’

  ‘I’ve had a key for quite a while. Jack wanted me to be able to deal with any glitches in his very particular domestic renewables system as and when they occurred.’ Jack? Coleman seemed to think familiarity would trump any amount of implausibility. And right now Fran found the idea of Harkness giving this man a key very implausible. ‘Not that there have been many glitches, thanks to our policy of only using components that have been rigorously tried and tested. That’s the secret of success in this game.’ He flourished a card and slipped it into her hand.

  She glanced down at it. Mike Coleman, Sympergy Renewables Ltd. Address, phone numbers, email and website addresses were followed by what she took to be the company’s mission statement. Harness the power of nature with Devon and Cornwall’s leading wind and solar energy experts.

  ‘Jack made a far-sighted commitment to our systems for battery-boosted independent energy sources,’ Coleman went on, sounding battery-boosted himself. ‘I’ve always believed in giving him my personal attention whenever required.’

  ‘And it’s required now, is it?’

  ‘Well, with the house going on the market, it’s a good idea to check everything over. The previous agent, Don Challenor, seemed keen when I suggested it.’ Coleman’s perma-grin was becoming wearing. ‘I was happy to oblige. As always.’

  ‘So, what are you actually doing this morning?’

  ‘Like I say. Checking everything over.’

  ‘Found any problems?’

  ‘No. None at all. But what can I tell you? Our workmanship is second to none.’

  ‘So—’

  The sound of something falling – heavy but fragmentary – carried at that moment from the upper floor. Coleman did not react, although, to Fran’s eyes, it seemed he was going to great lengths not to.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘That noise.’

  ‘I, er, didn’t actually hear anything.’ The grin was congealing now into some kind of grimace.

  ‘It was quite distinct.’

  There was another noise somewhere above them, then a heavy clunk.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Some timer kicking in, probably. There’s a whole underfloor heating system with pipework that expands and contracts.’

  ‘What exactly were you doing upstairs?’

  ‘I thought I—’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll see for myself.’

  Fran made for the stairs and Coleman followed. She had only climbed a few steps when she felt his hand on her elbow. ‘There’s really no need to go up there.’

  She stopped and looked round at him. ‘Would you mind?’ she said sharply.

  He pulled his hand away. He was no longer smiling. ‘My advice, Fran, my sincere advice, is don’t go up there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s, er … in your best interests.’

  ‘What?’

  Before he could shape a reply, Fran whirled round and marched briskly up the curving stairs to the landing. From there she headed to the master bedroom, which she strongly sensed was where the noises had emanated from.

  The bedroom itself was quiet and empty. Nothing looked out of place. Fran’s pace slowed as she listened intently. No more sounds reached her. She glanced round, wondering if Coleman had followed her. But he had not.

  She walked slowly through the dressing room, where the closet doors were firmly closed, into the bathroom. Her reflection met her in one of the full-length mirrors. Nothing else moved as her footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. She stepped up on to the low plinth that supported the two free-standing bath tubs in front of the windows, from where there was an expansive view of the sea and clifftops. Silence deepened around her as she gazed out at the vista.

  Then, as she turned, she saw it. A large, jagged patch of plaster was missing from the wall backing on to the dressing-room closet. Fragments of plaster of varying sizes were lying on the floor. Beside them, propped against the wall, was a sledgehammer. And where the plaster had been removed there was a gleaming surface of solid steel, in which the light from the windows caught the outline of several dents.

  Fran guessed at once that she was looking at the wall of the panic room. Someone – Coleman, presumably – had made a clumsy attempt to smash through it.

  She suddenly wanted to be out of the house, away from Coleman and whatever he was trying to accomplish. She stepped from the plinth and headed towards the door.

  But, as she did so, two men walked in from the dressing room. One was a big, bearded bear of a guy, dark-haired and Slavic-featured, with cold, predatory eyes, dressed in black. The other, smaller and slimmer, wore a denim shirt and jeans. He was narrow-faced, with close-set eyes and thinning fair hair. Fran guessed at once they were the pair who had frightened the panic-room engineer she had sent in. And she was frightened now too.

  She could not leave the room unless they stepped aside, filling the doorway as they did. And they showed no sign of stepping aside.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, trying to sound brusque and unaffected, but to her own ear failing.

  ‘I’m Amos French,’ the man in denim replied, smiling coolly at her. He sounded American – and very sure of himself. He jerked his thumb towards the other guy. ‘This is my associate, Gennady Zlenko.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for the money your boss Harkness stole, on behalf of some of those he stole it from.’

  ‘He’s not my boss.’

  ‘We think he is, Fran.’ He marked the first use of her name with a widening smile. ‘Matter of fact, we know he is.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘No. The only mistake was made by you coming here this morning.’

  ‘Are you responsible for the damage to that wall?’

  ‘Yeah. And I reckon we may be responsible for a helluva lot more damage before we’re done. Unless you tell us how to open up this … can of secrets … Harkness built his house around.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I hope you’re lying, Fran. For your sake.’

  ‘I’m leaving now. I must ask you to do the same.’

  ‘No one’s leaving just yet.’

  ‘I most certainly am.’

  She moved towards them. They did not give way. Zlenko planted himself directly in her path and gazed down at her with an indifference that clearly did not preclude violence. She began to tremble with fear. Her heart was pounding. Her palms were clammy.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ she said, forcing the words from her mouth.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Fran,’ said French. ‘You’re not going anywhere until we’ve finished with you. And I doubt that’ll be any time soon. See, I have to make the best use I can of the means at my disposal and right now … that’s you.’

  The Jane Glasson? file held more than Don had anticipated. He and Blake sat in front of his desktop computer in Islington, scrolling slowly through the contents. Blake read quicker than Don, which led to sighs and tongue-clicks of irrit
ation from her while she waited for him to catch up. He kept his hand on the mouse and her hand off it.

  Ingrid had certainly not ignored Gareth’s claim that Jane was alive and well and working in some capacity for Harkness Pharmaceuticals. There was a lengthy series of emails between her and the company’s HR department, which elicited several ever longer and fuller lists of current and former employees.

  Later, as the dates on the communications edged closer to the present, Ingrid became more focused and demanding in her requirements. An increasingly tetchy deputy head of HR eventually admitted that, though no one of Jane’s age and nationality had worked for any part of the business during the twenty-two years since Jane’s disappearance, there was a whole cohort of staff not previously mentioned – notionally self-employed consultants, advisers and bought-in specialists – about whom no information had yet been supplied to Ingrid.

  A vast slew of data was then extracted from HR records at Ingrid’s insistence. Refined down, it yielded no one who had been attached to the company since 1996 on such a basis. Generally, contracts were of short duration, with only a few extending beyond two years.

  And only one extending beyond five.

  Retained specialist contractor number 55 was a forty-six-year-old woman of British nationality attached to the staff of chief researcher Filippo Crosetti. HR stated they were unable to divulge any personal information about her because Crosetti insisted on absolute confidentiality where his personally recruited specialists were concerned. He supervised their work from the company’s research facility in Locarno and was solely responsible for them.

  Ingrid was not about to take no for an answer, however. At any rate, not yet. She had a meeting scheduled with Crosetti at Harkness Pharmaceuticals’ head office in Zug on 14 June to discuss a separate issue she referred to as ‘the contra-indications position statement’. She proposed to press him on the matter of retained specialist contractor 55 at that time.

  ‘June fourteenth is two days from now, Don,’ said Blake as soon as he reached that point in the file.