Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  It was large but not so large as to lose the intimacy: twenty tables set up for poker, baccarat, blackjack, under a low ceiling of elaborately sculpted glass light fittings. The light was soft but bright enough for any sense of the hour to evaporate. There were no windows. Most of the tables hosted Middle Eastern men. There was a roulette wheel in a curtained bay with a cosmopolitan crowd, European and Japanese. Wooden blades turned lazily on the ceiling fans. A long bar lined the left-hand wall. At the back was a restaurant.

  A young woman checked Belsey’s card. She had a table beside the door with a leather-bound book. “Good evening, Mr. Devereux,” she said.

  “Good evening.”

  She checked the book. There didn’t seem to be any pretence at recognition on the young woman’s part, or any indication of concern. He was coming here, Belsey thought. But obviously not a regular. He wondered how many times Devereux had frequented the place.

  “Table for two?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s ready whenever you are. Would you like to wait for your guest?” The woman saw him hesitate. “Or enjoy the gaming rooms? We can hold the table for as long as you’d like.”

  Belsey checked the time. Five minutes to eleven. He wanted to be ready if and when Devereux’s date arrived.

  “I’ll take the table now.”

  “Of course.”

  He crossed the floor of the casino. When had he last been in a casino? Probably the Golden Nugget on Shaftesbury Avenue, which was as classy as it sounded and crowded with off-duty waiters from Chinatown. This was not the Golden Nugget. Between the restaurant and the bar sat a case of lobsters lit from beneath, casting marine forms across the ceiling. Belsey walked past the roulette and the lobsters to the restaurant. It was close to empty. He wondered why they had felt the need to confirm Devereux’s booking. The heavy linen tablecloths were weighed down with a lot of silver and glassware. Each table had its own lamp. At the far end someone had painted an Italian garden on the wall. He was greeted by a maître d’.

  “Mr. Devereux.”

  “Hi.”

  Belsey was shown to a table away from the rest, where someone pulled out an ornate chair and someone else lit a candle. It was beyond eavesdropping distance, with a wooden partition that screened him from most of the room while keeping a sight on the doorway. Devereux chose it. He knew that.

  “Thank you,” Belsey said. “When do you stop serving food?”

  “We’re open all night, sir,” the waiter said.

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps I can get you a drink.”

  Belsey ordered a large Laphroaig and said he’d wait before ordering food. The whisky came. He drank it and looked around, wondering what was about to arrive and how he should greet it. The barman was shovelling ice into a shaker. Three American businessmen in the far corner of the restaurant were deep in debate. A whore in pearls sat at the bar sipping a mojito and looking hopefully in Belsey’s direction.

  He drank his whisky. He watched the clock. At 11 p.m. Charlotte Kelson walked in.

  Belsey put his whisky down. There was no mistaking her. Kelson wore an expensive navy suit, gold necklace, her hair and makeup done. She studied the casino, eyes quick and beautiful as he remembered. Then she said something to the girl on the door and walked towards the restaurant. The Americans looked up, the whore glanced territorially, the barman flashed a smile.

  Charlotte saw Belsey and froze.

  They stared at each other. After a few seconds he lifted a hand and she continued hesitantly towards him. She got to the table but didn’t sit down.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  “You tell me.”

  She checked behind her, then the sides of the room, then Belsey. The barman had clocked this interaction. They both turned towards him and he went back to mixing his cocktail.

  “Take a seat.” Belsey kicked out a chair. She looked around once more and sat down, holding her bag in front of her. “Why are you here?” he said.

  “I was told to be here.”

  “By who?”

  “I got a call an hour ago. It said to come here. To tell the people on the door I was meeting someone in the restaurant.”

  “Who called you?”

  “He wouldn’t give a name.”

  “He called the office?”

  “Yes.”

  “And asked for you by name?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did he say you’d find?”

  “Information about the Starbucks shooting.”

  The fans turned. Belsey became aware of piano music, very faint, coming from speakers in the plants.

  “Who are you expecting to meet?” he said.

  “Someone called Nick Belsey.”

  It took his breath. Belsey drank the rest of his whisky while his mind spun. Someone knew he was going to be at the club, which meant they knew he’d been investigating Devereux, and that he’d picked up the call. Jessica saw him investigating, but she wasn’t in a position to cause him much trouble. Why someone thought he’d want to provide information on her death he did not know. Maybe they didn’t think that. Either way they were set on causing trouble. He watched the room out of the corner of his eye.

  “Get a drink,” he said. “Let’s not look conspicuous.”

  They flagged the waiter. She asked for a Pinot Grigio and he ordered another whisky. When the waiter had gone Belsey said: “What did this man sound like?”

  “Normal.”

  “English?”

  “Yes. As far as I could tell. What’s going on?”

  “Did you get his number?”

  “I can’t give you that.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a duty to my sources.”

  “But you don’t know who he is.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” she said.

  The drinks arrived. Belsey felt eyes on him. The barman was practising shaker spins. The Arabs were being dealt cards. No one was watching apart from Charlotte, but he felt watched from all around.

  “Who are you?” Charlotte said. “Why did they tell me to come here?”

  “I’m an undercover detective.”

  “You’re an undercover detective?”

  “I work for what they call a Ghost Squad. I shouldn’t be telling you this but I’m worried that you’ll make more noise by not knowing. So know it and forget about it.” Ghost Squad was a good choice, he thought—there was more than one out there, entirely off the books for security reasons. Her contacts inside the force would only verify their existence and leave her vague on the details.

  “You want me just to walk away and forget this?” Charlotte said.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  Belsey nodded. He could see that she wasn’t going to be shaken off. This was her job and he got a feeling she was good at it.

  “It wouldn’t necessarily be safe for you,” he said.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a warning. I’m not the one who’s going to cause you trouble. Have you told anyone about last night?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you. But it’s important that you don’t tell anyone else.”

  “I’m not making any promises. What’s this Ghost Squad?”

  “Not anything you’d have heard of.”

  “Is it connected to Alexei Devereux?”

  This stopped him. “What do you mean?”

  “I looked into things. Thirty-seven The Bishops Avenue is still rented by a Mr. Alexei Devereux. I don’t think you’re him so I’m curious as to what you’re doing in his house.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be him?”

  “He’s a Russian businessman, fifty-two years old. It so happens we got sent a letter about him a few weeks ago, along with a handful of other newspapers: a petition by certain members of the local community who weren’t happy about his reputation.”

  “Like what?”


  “His racecourses. Am I right?”

  Belsey thought this over.

  “Mr. Devereux’s dead now,” he said. “He took his life on Sunday. I can’t tell you any more than that. How much do you know about these racecourses?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Did you run the story?”

  “No. Only the Ham & High ran with it.”

  He made a mental note. The Hampstead & Highgate Express. Maybe it was time to give Mike Slater that call back. Charlotte was looking around the casino now. The light caught her eyes and jewellery. She didn’t seem scared. She seemed cautious, but in her element. She looked stunning.

  “Have you heard of this Nick Belsey?” Charlotte asked. She stared at him with what he thought was accusation. He was not in a good position, Belsey understood that. But he wanted her.

  “Nick Belsey? It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “So why are you here?” she asked.

  He started to wonder.

  “I’m here because Alexei Devereux was going to be here. He’d made a booking.”

  Now it was her turn to look puzzled.

  “Who did you expect to meet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Charlotte considered this.

  “What’s it got to do with the Starbucks shooting?”

  Belsey thought through what he knew and what he was willing to share. He decided it was worth tossing her some crumbs.

  “Jessica Holden was a call girl. She knew Alexei Devereux. I think they might have known each other quite well.”

  Charlotte searched his face for signs of humour and when she failed to find any produced a notebook.

  “Don’t write anything down,” Belsey said. “Not here.” She put the notebook away. Belsey tried to see a few moves ahead, and couldn’t even see what game he was playing. “I’m going to ask you to hold off,” he said. “For a day or so. Then I’ll be able to tell you some more. But this isn’t very safe, for either of us.”

  She looked hard into his eyes.

  “I’m going to want a story at the end of this.”

  “Give me your mobile number.”

  She took her notebook back out, tore a page and wrote her number. She slid it across the table to him.

  “What network are you on?” Belsey asked.

  “Vodafone. Why?”

  “Some are more secure than others. We’ve got to be careful now, Charlotte. Give me one night. I’ll be in touch tomorrow morning. But don’t make things complicated for me. I’ll have something for you, I just need to think how we’ll get away with it.”

  31

  She downed her wine and left. There weren’t many places to take it and he wasn’t going to tempt her to dinner. Belsey watched Charlotte leave and then he went to the girl with the reservations book.

  “Anyone else ask for me while I was dining?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Has there been anyone inquiring about me at all over the last few days?”

  “Not to my knowledge. And it wouldn’t be our business to discuss members.”

  “Good. Do you have a fax machine?”

  They had a phone and a fax machine in the members’ study. Belsey called the control room at Hampstead station and asked them to fax through a Section 22 notice. Strictly speaking you needed the rank of inspector to clear a request for phone records, but that just meant putting the right name on the paperwork. The form came through. Belsey filled it out for Charlotte’s mobile, signed off as Gower and faxed it to Vodafone’s data tracking department. The Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act would do the rest. It was terrible, he thought—Britain was turning into a police state. The results would come through to Hampstead station tomorrow. If he was still in the country, which seemed likely, and still alive, which felt less certain, it might just give him some purchase on his unknown antagonist. He returned to the casino, put another drink on the account, then a cigar.

  “Been lucky, sir?”

  “Not at all. Anywhere I can smoke this?”

  Belsey was directed to what he thought was a side room but led outdoors to the “Smoking Gaming Area.” This offered al fresco gaming beneath the stars: slots, electronic roulette, infrared heaters and a real tree. At the back was a waterfall lit by red and blue lights, cascading down film-set rocks. More coloured lights had been secreted in the plant beds. Belsey sat by the tree and smoked.

  Who are you expecting to meet?

  Someone called Nick Belsey.

  It was personal. That changed everything. Had someone been watching them last night? After the meeting? Information about the Starbucks shooting. Again, he saw himself ministering to the girl as she died. He saw the office where he’d first met her. He couldn’t hold the whole puzzle in his mind at one time.

  When he looked up, the woman with the reservations book was standing in the doorway, accompanied by a tall, broad man in a buttoned grey suit. She pointed at Belsey and said something. Belsey made a split-second survey of exits and decided he’d need to get back inside rather than risk the security spikes of the garden wall. The man approached Belsey, smoothing the front of his suit.

  “Mr. Devereux?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your car’s here, sir.” He said it with a small bow. Belsey thought about this.

  “I was just starting to relax.”

  “Shall I tell him to wait, sir?”

  “Let me speak to him.”

  Belsey stubbed the cigar and followed the manager out through the gaming rooms and down to the street. A man in uniform and peaked cap leaned over an S-Class Mercedes, wiping a rag over its gleaming black hood. Belsey approached.

  “Are you here for Mr. Devereux?” Belsey said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The driver spoke with a Nigerian accent. He had sleepy eyes and fat cheeks. He put the rag away and produced a pair of bright white gloves.

  “He ordered a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was it ordered?” Belsey said.

  “Last week.”

  “Are you going back to Hampstead?”

  “No, sir. Not unless you’d prefer.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have an address.”

  “Show me.”

  The man reached into his jacket and produced a printout. He had a postcode for his GPS, there was no address. It was a WD5 postcode. Where was that? Somewhere on the Greater London outskirts.

  “You’ve driven for Mr. Devereux before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Wait one minute.”

  Belsey went back into the club. He splashed his face from gold taps, fixed his tie, ran a hand through his hair. That had been Devereux’s plan, he thought. A late supper, then on. On to where? Somewhere, perhaps, that would explain a young woman’s death. Belsey steeled himself for whatever trouble he was diving into. He returned to the street.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Belsey climbed into the back of the car. Bottles and glasses sparkled in a rack at the side. A silver plaque in the back of the front seats said “Prestige.” A stack of company cards between the front seats showed a limousine. The driver got in and inspected Belsey in the rearview mirror.

  “Mr. Devereux?”

  “Last time I checked. Let’s go.” Belsey poured a large vodka and slid low in his seat. The engine purred and they were away.

  32

  They cleared central London in fifteen minutes, heading north along the Finchley Road. Belsey had a sense of being carried along by the machinery of someone else’s life; detached, curious. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation. The world through tinted glass looked edgy and poor. Then they were out of the suburbs, past Edgware, and still driving fast.

  Where were you going, Alexei Devereux?

  Belsey slid the partition screen to the side so he could see the driver. A cross hung off the rearview mirror. Tall hedgerow blocked the view outside, occasionally dipping to reveal golf courses and business parks, storage war
ehouses, a Travelodge. Belsey noted signs for Porters Wood and St. Albans. They were somewhere in Hertfordshire. Then they turned off the A41 onto a narrow, tree-shaded road dappled with moonlight. A notice at the turning said “Private. No Admission Without Invitation.” It didn’t say what you might be invited to.

  “Have we got an invitation?” Belsey said.

  “You tell me, sir.”

  “Of course we do.”

  A minute later they slowed down: a section of fence had been dragged across the road and four guards in private-security outfits gathered around, two leading Alsatians on short leads. One of them said, “Roll all the windows down, please,” and all the windows rolled down. Belsey breathed the night air, cold and coniferous. Another guard let one of the dogs sniff under the car. He leaned in to see the driver’s papers and asked for a pass.

  There was an awkward moment as they established the driver didn’t have a pass, and the driver twisted towards Belsey.

  “Tell them it’s Mr. Devereux,” Belsey said. He didn’t look at the guards, but sat with what he imagined was a look of expensive disdain.

  “It’s Mr. Devereux,” the driver said.

  The guard said something into a radio and after another thirty seconds came back with a respectful nod. The fence was dragged aside. He waved the Mercedes through and the windows slid back up. Two hundred yards farther along the lane they passed another pair of men in navy blue jackets and black baseball caps. Belsey was trying to figure out what that meant when they arrived.

  The house spread broad and grand across its front: slate grey, classical, with columns and a Union Jack limp on the top. Gold light shone through windows and open doors. The Merc approached slowly up a long drive flanked with dark topiary.

  “This is it,” the driver said.

  A footman waved them to a drop-off area around the side, where a lot of other Mercedes and E-Type Jaguars were parked in neat rows, some armoured, some with diplomatic plates. Belsey climbed out.

  “You’re going to stick around?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  Belsey climbed the steps at the front of the house, into a corridor with big paintings on either side. Two women with big hair and blouses sat before him at a desk with paperwork on a white tablecloth. They looked like they hadn’t been expecting any more guests to arrive.