The Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  “She would have been on the floor when it was fired,” Belsey said. “Crawling towards the storeroom.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look at the trajectory.”

  “It could be ricochet.”

  “Would a ricochet retain that kind of power?”

  “Bullets are strange things,” Carter said.

  Belsey stood up. He walked out of the crime scene and gazed at the hospital. He thought of Tony, safe in his medicated dreams. Where was Alice Ward? He looked up at the stack of windows. People jumped from the roof sometimes. Three or four each year. You could see bald patches among the ground-level greenery where they’d had to clear bushes away to find the bodies. He looked at the roof. Then he walked towards the hospital entrance.

  The neon-lit reception had the unwanted air of a bus depot. Belsey continued towards the back stairs. He timed himself. He climbed ten flights to Gastroenterology, walked the length of the ward and pushed through a fire door. Narrow concrete steps led up to the roof.

  Belsey hunched against the cold as he moved across the gravel surface. It took two and a half minutes to get from the front of the hospital to the roof. There was only one place on the roof where you could get sights on the Starbucks. It was around the back of an air-con unit, on a foot-wide strip of roofing tape at the very far edge. It was an acute angle onto the coffee shop’s entrance but not impossible. The white tent appeared innocent at this distance, circus-like. The Heath stretched beyond it, placing the crime scene on the shore of a dark, ruffled sea.

  Belsey checked the roof for cartridge cases, footprints, cigarette butts. What he saw was nothing. It looked like it had been raked clean.

  He returned to 37 The Bishops Avenue. He didn’t enjoy sharing it with a bloodstain. The phone was ringing as he walked in. Sometimes it would stop for a second, then it began again. He sat on the sofa and listened to the incessant force of individuals attempting to make contact with the dead Russian. He put the TV on. He thought: They didn’t empty the gun; they had a mission and they’d completed it and then wrapped up. He tried to imagine the ruthlessness, the sense of invulnerability. And they knew Jessica Holden was going to be in that Starbucks that morning.

  Belsey walked to the study and looked at the stain. The phone rang again. He picked up the receiver.

  “Mr. Devereux?”

  Belsey remained silent, heart pounding.

  “Mr. Devereux?” A man with a Southern U.S. drawl. Belsey cursed and hung up. He pressed the switch hook on the phone’s cradle, let the phone ring twice, then released it.

  “This is Jeff Cadden from MarketWatch Financial Digest in Chicago—” Belsey pressed the hook. It rang immediately. He answered.

  “Hey,” a man said. “Hey. What the hell—”

  “Who’s that?” Belsey said.

  “Who’s that?” the caller said.

  Belsey hung up. It took ten seconds to ring again.

  “Hello? Is that Alexei Devereux?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Devereux, I know it’s late. My name’s Mark Levine, I’m a lawyer for SSI International. There appears to have been some confusion—”

  Belsey hung up, heard it ring, answered.

  “Mr. Devereux?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Les Ambassadeurs restaurant. Regarding your booking.”

  Belsey touched his finger to the hook. He’d had enough of playing PA to a dead man. But he stopped.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Hello? Mr. Devereux?” The man from Les Ambassadeurs was still there. He spoke with an indistinct Continental twinge. Belsey thought of the final entry in Devereux’s diary—Friday 13 February: “Dinner.”

  “What did you say it was regarding?”

  “Your booking. Tonight.”

  “What about it?” Belsey said.

  “Will you still be requiring it?”

  “When have I booked for?”

  “Eleven p.m.”

  “What did I book?”

  “A table for two in the restaurant area.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I still want it.”

  “Of course, sir. We’ll see you at eleven.”

  Belsey opened Devereux’s wallet and flicked through the hotels to the black card that said Les Ambassadeurs with a Mayfair address: 5 Hamilton Place. It said: Private Members’ Club and Casino. A table for two sounded cosy. Just the idea of an 11 p.m. casino dinner was intriguing; Belsey could imagine what deals were made in that timeless world. He had just over forty-five minutes to get there. He wondered if Devereux’s dining companion knew their date was off. They would be a useful person to speak to. It was a long shot, Belsey thought, but then he didn’t have any other plans.

  He found a Valentino suit at the back of Devereux’s wardrobe: charcoal, single-breasted. He chose a white shirt, put the suit on, splashed some Lacoste aftershave and popped a ChestEze.

  Belsey hailed a cab on the corner of The Bishops Avenue. At Regent Street he directed it away from the lights and crowds into the backstreets of Mayfair. Everything shone slick and black under the streetlamps. They continued down one-way streets of antiques shops and lawyers’ offices into the cold shadow cast by Park Lane’s hotels.

  Les Ambassadeurs hid in the gloomy crevice between the Four Seasons and the Intercontinental. It shared the back street with a taxi stand and the hotel service entrances. Chefs and chambermaids crouched, smoking, in the niches. But the casino itself was a fragment of Georgian elegance. It occupied a town house, with freshly cleaned stonework and glistening iron railings. Belsey got out of the cab and paid. Three steps led up to wooden doors guarded by a man in tails and a waistcoat. A small, grey sign said “Les Ambassadeurs Club.” Belsey straightened his tie.

  “Evening.”

  “Evening, sir,” the doorman said.

  He thrust the door open. Belsey skipped up the steps and walked into a long hallway with glistening wood and gold chandeliers. He took Devereux’s member’s card out of the wallet. Signs for the casino directed him up ornate stairs to a heavy door. Belsey pushed his way inside.

  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 othe
r 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.