by Peter James
As he studied the plans carefully, trying to get his bearings on them, he began to grasp the reason for the provisos. The plans showed a cellar beneath part of the ground floor of the house. But instead of broadening it to extend under more rooms, they showed that the new cellar was to be dug underneath the existing one, making it thirty feet below the ground floor of the house. It was shown as having a ten-foot high ceiling. The existing cellar had only a seven-foot high ceiling. It was nine feet from the hall floor to the bottom of the existing cellar. The new plan showed a twenty-one-foot gap between the floor of the old cellar and the new one.
Michael was puzzled. If the new one was only ten foot high, that left eleven feet unaccounted for. He studied the plans more closely, and saw a different shading between the ceiling of the new cellar and the floor of the old. Then he found the key to the plans and saw what the shading indicated. Concrete. The new cellar had a concrete ceiling eleven feet thick.
Next he looked at the walls: they were six feet thick.
This cellar hadn’t been built to store wine. Wine needed to be kept at a steady temperature, but it didn’t require six feet of concrete around it and eleven above.
This was a nuclear fallout shelter.
He was shaking from tiredness, excitement, nerves.
Is this where you are, Amanda? Are you down here? Under nine feet of concrete?
But why? It still did not make any sense. Why should Dr Terence Goel hold you prisoner in Gloria Lamark’s cellar? He closed his eyes, trying to think. If – if there was anything in this crazy idea then Dr Goel would have to be a close friend or relative of Gloria Lamark.
Or of her son.
He tried to think of anything Gloria had told him about her son that might give him some pointers, but he had been a taboo subject in their sessions, and despite all his many efforts at prising information from her over the years she had been his patient, she had always resolutely refused to talk about him. Michael had to think hard even to recall his name. Thomas, he thought. Yes. He had had a feeling the boy might be gay, but when he’d tried to broach this with Gloria, she had been furious. Anything that threatened the perfect fantasy world of Gloria Lamark provoked a rage in her.
Dr Goel had said he was a widower. But nothing he said could now be trusted. Could he be having a relationship with Thomas Lamark?
The plans showed that the shelter was divided into three chambers. There was an entrance directly at the foot of the stairs. This was a small, airlock chamber. A door led through to a second room, the size of a modest bedroom. Another door led through into the third chamber, which was the largest. All were served by an elaborate ventilation shaft system.
He put his Mac on the table and powered it up, then went to the photograph of Amanda. It was hard to look at her. Just seeing her face churned him up. His mouth dried and he swallowed, stared at the crazed red of her eyes, the terrible state of her hair, her clothes. The darkness all around her. Are you here? Darling Amanda, is this where you are?
He swigged from a bottle of mineral water he’d bought in a garage shop. There were psychics who could find people by dowsing. He’d read a piece on one a year or so back. Maybe he could take this photograph, a copy of these plans and have a psychic –
He sank his head into his hands and squeezed his temples with his thumbs. You don’t need a bloody psychic, you need to go to the police, tell them what you think, have them go and check out Gloria Lamark’s house.
He dialled the number of the new detective he had been given as his principal contact, DC Paul Stolland. The number was answered by a harassed-sounding woman.
‘Incident room, DC Rhonda Griffiths.’
‘Could I speak to DC Stolland?’
‘I’m sorry, he’s out of town. I’m not sure if he’s going to be back today. Is it anything urgent or can you call him back tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’ Michael shouted.
‘Can I help you instead?’ she asked.
‘My name’s Dr Tennent.’
Blank silence.
‘I’m the one who reported Amanda Capstick missing.’
She sounded as if her mind was on something else entirely. ‘Oh, yes, right, I’m sorry, Dr Tennent. I think you may have heard we’re having some problems today.’
Michael started trying to explain his thoughts about Amanda’s whereabouts, but after he was only a few seconds in she interrupted him to take another call. It was two minutes before she was back on the line again. ‘What address was it you want us to check out, Dr Tennent?’
Michael gave her the details.
‘And can you tell me exactly why you think Amanda Capstick may be at this address?’
Michael again started to tell her, but it came out clumsily and he could tell he wasn’t convincing her.
‘Dr Goel is a patient of yours, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘And his own doctor doesn’t exist?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘And this Dr Goel has given a false address?’ She was sounding more interested now.
‘Yes.’
‘And he talked to you about a fallout shelter?’
‘And about losing a loved one – he talked about keeping a dove in a cellar or a shelter,’ Michael said.
‘Excuse me if I’m sounding dim, sir,’ she said, politely, ‘I can’t see how you’ve made the connection to the Lamarks’ house.’
‘It was a long-shot guess.’
‘And you’re suspicious because it has a fallout shelter?’
‘It certainly looks like a fallout shelter from the plans.’
Her enthusiasm was waning. ‘I’ll get someone to stop by there, sir.’
‘How soon?’
‘As soon as I can.’
‘That’s not good enough. I want someone to go there now.’
‘Sir, we have a reported sighting of a woman in a car outside Northampton, and we have a body of a woman in her late twenties who has just been found in Epping Forest. On top of that we’ve had another thirty calls logged today from the Crimewatch programme. I’ll try to get someone there today. If not, it will be tomorrow.’
‘What do you know about this sighting?’
‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you that.’
Desperately, he pleaded, ‘Just tell me whether it’s Amanda Capstick or Tina Mackay.’
‘A dark-haired woman,’ she said.
‘And this body?’
‘I can’t give you more details.’
‘Just one detail, please. Is this body fresh, or has it been there a while?’
Again a hesitation. ‘I understand it’s a few weeks old.’
Michael thanked her grimly and hung up. Neither sounded like Amanda, but the woman’s words about the body in the woods were freaking him. If Amanda was dead –
He had to block that from his mind. He couldn’t handle that right now. She’s alive. The photograph was sent because she’s alive.
Under Gloria Lamark’s house?
The police weren’t going to check it out probably until tomorrow.
Another twenty-four hours.
No way.
Chapter Ninety-six
friday, 1 august 1997
Three hundred and twenty-seven people came to make sure Cora Burstridge was dead this morning.
Most of them came just to be seen. Notice how few real stars were there – they were mostly second division, poseurs, has-beens, wannabes. Some had been hired to be there – you could tell by looking at them. That’s pretty sad when you have to hire people to come to your own funeral.
We Lamarks are above tricks like that.
I forgot to give the thing any food today. In fact, when I arrived home after the funeral, I completely forgot it was down there! Easy to do that, because I’ve cleaned the bloodstains from the reporter off the sauna walls.
This forgetfulness is no laughing matter, actually. I’m getting more and more concerned about my erratic memory. Dr Goel must ask Dr Tennent about his erratic memory during
his next consultation. I will be interested to learn if Dr Tennent thinks this is something to worry about.
In an hour I am going back to my old alma mater, King’s College, to watch the medical lecture and operation. It will be strange, being back at school. My mother always told me I had the ability in me to be a really great surgeon. I have a passion for surgery.
All greatness stems from passion.
Curare is untraceable in a post-mortem unless you are specifically looking for it. When the pathologist examines DC Roebuck’s body, he will conclude that cause of death was heart failure, probably caused by an unspecified allergic reaction. Sad.
Dr Michael Tennent has telephoned Dr Goel’s mobile phone number several times in the past twenty-four hours. I think he is really suffering now.
But he hasn’t even begun to know what suffering really is.
Chapter Ninety-seven
Low tide. Midday. The pebble beaches a riot of colour, densely packed with sunbathers and kids. Beyond, acres of wet sand stretched out into the distant shallow waves, far beyond the end of the concrete groyne. This should have been his day off. He could have been down here on this beach with Sammy. Sammy liked to build things in the sand. Sammy was smart, he could figure things out. Puzzles. Computer games.
Glenn sat on the end wall, his jacket slung over his shoulder, tie off, shirt open, eating a vanilla ice-cream and thinking about the man in the blue Mondeo. This was where he liked to come to work out his problems. Sometimes the movement of the sea got his brain going.
Who the hell turns up at a funeral and doesn’t get out of their car? Someone who doesn’t want to be seen? Why don’t they want to be seen? Are they shy? Worried they will upset other relatives by their presence? Was this some secret lover of Cora Burstridge who didn’t want to upset the family by showing up, but had to stay to the finish?
No. You’d have gone to the church.
If you cared about Cora Burstridge, you’d have gone to the church.
Glenn licked the last traces of ice-cream off the inside of the wrapper, then balled it up tightly, glancing around for a waste bin. He couldn’t see one and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he looked at his watch. One forty. Over an hour since he had spoken to the divisional intelligence room at Cheltenham police station. A light breeze off the sea cooled his face and flapped his jacket. Peaceful here. He could hear the shouts of kids on the beach, and the rasp of a distant speedboat, but he had this breakwater to himself, and he savoured that.
Then his radio crackled. He heard his call sign and answered. At the other end was a hesitant voice.
‘DC Carpenter from Cheltenham. I have some information for you regarding Dr Terence Goel, ninety-seven Royal Court Walk, Cheltenham.’
‘Thanks, go ahead.’
‘That address is false. The numbers stop at ninety-six. I’ve been on to the local council tax office. They show a Dr Terence Goel as a ratepayer at this address. Their records show he is up to date with his rates payments and has lived there for five years.’
‘Do you have any explanation for that?’ Glenn asked.
‘They’re doing further checks for me. He shows up on their current database, but not on their master database backup.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It sounds like this character has hacked their computer and entered false data.’
‘Shit.’
‘I’ve run a check on him on the Police National Computer. There’s a record that Dr Terence Goel was stopped for erratic driving in Tottenham Court Road, London, at eleven thirty p.m. last Saturday, July the twenty-sixth, and cautioned.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. Do you want us to continue making local inquiries?’
‘Yes, please. You said your name’s DC Carpenter?’
‘Andy Carpenter.’
‘Andy, thanks. That’s very helpful.’
Glenn walked quickly, deep in thought, back to his car. He closed the door, opened the windows and switched on the engine to get the fan going. Then he radioed the local Police National Computer operator, to whom he gave the registration details of Goel’s Mondeo, then said, ‘I want this vehicle flagged to me personally, DC Branson, no one else. All sightings. I want no visible police interest in the vehicle. Can you make that very clear?’
‘No visible police interest in the vehicle. All sightings reported to you personally.’
‘Instantly. If anyone sees the car, they’re to stay with it but keep out of sight. I want this vehicle kept under surveillance, all movements documented and description of the occupants.’
The operator repeated the instructions back to him. Glenn thanked her, then drove straight to his office, his brain racing.
Dr Terence Goel, are you a doctor of medicine or do you hold a university doctorate? You exist on a computer file as a ratepayer at a non-existent address. You own a motor car. What else do you own in this name? I’m going to find out, I promise you that.
I’m in your face.
Glenn’s colleague, Mick Harris, was reading through a pile of documents, eating a sandwich out of a plastic lunch-box, when he arrived back.
Glenn perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Good sandwich?’
‘Uh-huh.’ The detective didn’t look thrilled to see him.
‘You’ve got a good wife, Ren feeds you properly.’
‘Thought you were off today,’ Mick said, through a mouthful of egg and cress.
‘How’s your hangover?’
‘Very nice, thank you. How’s yours?’
‘I’ve had better ones. Tell me, a man creates a false identity, right? This man is smart, he can hack computers, he gives himself a false address, hacks the local council office computer system, puts himself on the electoral roll, gives himself a good-citizen history, rates always paid on time, that kind of shit. He has a car registered in his phoney name. I have an alert out for the car. What else do I look for?’
‘Mobile phone.’
Glenn nodded. ‘Good one.’
‘Get his call log, see who he’s called. Yup?’
‘Yup.’
‘Do you know what he looks like?’
‘No.’
‘Geographical area where he might be?’
‘Some idea.’
‘Check with the CCTVs – the car will show up if he’s out and about in it. And check the credit-card companies.’
‘Yes, I’m about to get on to them.’
‘You could also try drinking a cup of tea.’
‘Huh?’ Glenn looked at him blankly.
‘Drain it to the bottom, then read the formation of the leaves.’
For an instant, Glenn took him seriously. Then he grinned. ‘And I suppose I ought to sacrifice a chicken and read the entrails.’
‘Always works a treat. Mind if I finish my lunch in peace now?’
Glenn slipped off his desk. ‘Sorry.’
‘Start with what I’ve given you.’
‘I will,’ Glenn said. ‘I’m starting right now.’
Chapter Ninety-eight
Michael pulled up the Volvo on the opposite side of the road and observed Gloria Lamark’s house through his open window. It was as grand as he had imagined it would be. And as cold-looking. And secretive. This was a London house where you really could be a recluse in style.
You could have all the secrets you wanted in this house.
He drove around the block, trying through his exhaustion to formulate a plan. He was travelling up a narrower, less impressive street now, along the rear of the houses, lined on both sides with garages, sheds and dustbins. He saw the double garage at the rear of the Lamark house, which had been on the 1957 planning application. It appeared in good condition, and had a modern up-and-over door. A high wall either side of it protected the privacy of the rear garden.
He found a meter bay in the quiet avenue at the top of the street and parked. From the glove-box he took a small torch he kept in the car, and he also took his phone. Then he walked back
to Holland Park Avenue, and along towards Gloria Lamark’s house. The street was sleepy, the traffic light. A gardener was weeding a flower-bed two houses up from Gloria Lamark’s. Smart cars were parked in driveways; he could hear people splashing in a swimming pool close by. Birdsong.
The wrought-iron gates were shut, but he couldn’t see a bell, and neither, to his surprise, was there any evident security system, no closed-circuit camera watching the gates, nor any sign of an alarm box on the house. Michael looked up at the windows: the curtains were drawn in some of the upstairs ones; the others yielded only darkness. A Mercedes sports car, driven by a brunette, went past. Then a taxi, followed by a rattling van.
Michael pressed the latch handle on one gate, expecting it to be locked, but the gate swung open. He stood where he was. Was this a smart thing to do? What was he expecting to find?
Maybe he should turn back. If Amanda was here, all he was going to do was alert whoever had taken her and make the police’s job even harder.
Leave her for another twenty-four hours?
He approached the house, gravel crackling under his shoes. The ground-floor windows were too high to see into – he could make out a rather ornate chandelier in one room but nothing else.
Close up, the house seemed even bigger, darker, more impenetrable. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his jangling nerves, as he climbed the sweeping steps, past two grandiose carved Egyptian lions, up to the front door. It was white, recently painted, and had a spyhole. He pressed the brass bellpush and heard the clear, strong ring inside.
A full minute passed. Something made him glance over his shoulder, but there was no one behind him. A cluster of cars drove along the street. He rang the bell again. A pulse nerve plucked at his throat. A bee flew around his face and he flapped it away. It came back and he ignored it. After another minute he rang the bell again.
In the burning heat, the door was releasing a strong smell of paint. Michael could also smell something sweet – perhaps honeysuckle, he wasn’t sure. Katy had been the expert gardener.
No one answered the bell.
He pushed open the heavy brass flap of the letterbox and peered into the hall. He could see a long-case clock. Grey quarry tiles. The hall looked still. Complete silence in the house. Complete silence inside his head. The wail of a siren somewhere in the distance. The faint shout of a child.