The Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  “What’s that meant to mean?”

  “It means I don’t know what you’ll find.”

  40

  The last time Belsey saw docklands it was five in the morning and he was on his way home from a large, expensive night. It had appeared more impressive then, its cold artifice suiting his frame of mind. Belsey drove through the evening silence of Canada Water now and it still had the coldness with none of the glamour. Remnants of the Commercial Docks survived but most of that world had been destroyed. Half a century on, the place still felt Blitz-damaged: empty and stunned. Streetlights glimmered on imprisoned squares of river while converted warehouses stared blankly across from Wapping. Endless terraced apartments clustered to the mysterious luxury of water. Belsey wondered what he’d find.

  Gilman’s block was the most grandiose of a garish bunch. It was called Sand Wharf and preserved an iron hoist, painted red, above the entrance to its underground parking lot. Belsey left the Peugeot above ground. A concierge waved him towards a lift with mirrors on every side. Belsey took it to the tenth floor and knocked. Four locks were undone with what sounded like shaking hands. Finally Gilman opened it on the chain and stared blankly through the gap.

  “I’m a friend of Ajay Khan. I think he told you I was coming. I think we can help each other out.”

  The synapses connected. A wild smile lit the fund manager’s face. The door shut and then swung open again.

  “Nick, right? Praise be. Come in.” Gilman wore a running vest, shorts and trainers. He had the kind of blond good looks that wouldn’t age, but just find the material of which they were made start to waste away. There was a towel around his shoulders and he was sweating hard. He led Belsey into a front room with a rowing machine in the centre of the bare floorboards and a Kalashnikov on the black leather sofa. It made Belsey start. The blinds were down. Deodorant had just been sprayed. A mound of scribbled papers spilled from a glass coffee table to the floor.

  “Welcome,” Gilman said. He collapsed back into the sofa and laid the gun across his lap. “Don’t be freaked out.”

  “Would you mind if I was slightly perturbed?”

  Gilman laughed. Belsey took a good look at his eyes. Pinned and pale. He looked like someone who hadn’t had their benzodiazepines today.

  “It’s a piece of history.” Gilman stroked the barrel with long, thin fingers. “Have you ever used one?”

  “Not since Leningrad. Can I see?”

  Gilman handed it over.

  “It’s been through the ranks of the Red Army, the Soviet-Afghan War, the Taliban uprising. It’s a history lesson in steel.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Belsey tried to imagine the supply chain; maybe the gun came through coke dealers, the City’s primary tie to the underworld, if you discounted the money laundering. Maybe there were entrepreneurial men doing a roaring trade selling AK–47s to disillusioned fund managers, like the Koreans who appear with boxes of umbrellas when it starts to rain.

  “It’s a beauty,” Belsey said.

  “I’ve got a cabinet,” Gilman said, “so you can’t arrest me.”

  Belsey unlatched the magazine, took the safety lever off and pulled the bolt back to eject the remaining cartridge. He put the bullets on the table and handed the empty gun back.

  “I never share a room with a banker and a loaded assault rifle. It’s one of my few rules.”

  Gilman winced. “I’m not a banker.”

  “You’re close enough.”

  Belsey pulled up a beanbag and sat down. He saw, beside the sofa, a tub of protein powder and several blister packs of pills. The room had the cloying atmosphere of an infirmary.

  “So, you’re a detective,” Gilman said.

  “That’s right. I heard you lost your job.”

  Gilman laughed. “I was the job. I got lost.”

  “You sold up.”

  “The game was over. All that was holy had been profaned, all that was solid melted into air.” He sighted the empty gun on the glass door to the roof terrace.

  “Or into new investments?” Belsey said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Gilman’s phone rang. He checked and killed it.

  “I’m curious about where it all went.”

  “Where what went?”

  “The leftovers. All the cash you got out.”

  “Me too.” Gilman picked up the phone, rubbing the screen with his thumb, as if this might reveal the message he was waiting for. “Have you heard of the potlatch?”

  “Never.”

  “Opposing tribes—this is a tradition across the world, but mostly among Native Americans—opposing tribes have gatherings where they try to impress their rivals by destroying the most extravagant gifts they can afford. It’s a way of expressing honour. Could be anything from animal skins to burning their own village and killing all their slaves. That’s the gift.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Seriously.”

  “It’s not all in cash, is it?” Belsey said. “Some of it got reinvested.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Alexei Devereux.”

  Gilman stood up with the rifle and went to the next room. Belsey heard a metal cabinet close and a combination lock turn. He picked up some of the sheets on the coffee table but couldn’t make out a word. Beneath them was a red hardback copy of Plutarch’s Life of Alexander. He placed the sheets back. Gilman returned, unarmed, and sat down.

  “What’s going on here?” Belsey said.

  Gilman leafed through some of the dog-eared papers then appeared to forget what he was looking for. He stared at the mess.

  “I’m writing a book,” Gilman said. “The history of war and intoxication.” He glanced up as if expecting Belsey to laugh. When he saw that Belsey wasn’t laughing he continued. “My argument is that it is impossible to understand the history of war without understanding drugs. Not just recent war. Alexander the Great and his troops were drunk from day to day. They were winos. They conquered the known world and probably didn’t remember they’d done it. The Aztecs drank pulque in the days before battle—it’s a beer made from cactus. The Scythians, the fiercest bastards in history, had an awful, awful weed habit. I’m not kidding you. Now eighty percent of the Afghan security force is addicted to heroin. History’s a hangover. Eighty percent . . . That’s what I’m trying to say, Nick. Can I call you Nick? You seem like an intelligent guy. I want you to read it when I’m done, tell me what you think.”

  “It sounds a good idea. How about a book on Alexei Devereux?”

  “How about it?” he said.

  “I’d like to read one of those.”

  “Is that why you’re here? Is he under investigation?”

  “If a company called AD Development was under investigation, how badly would you be exposed?”

  “What makes you think I’m interested in them at all?”

  “Because you know about them. You were shouting about them. And to know them is to love them, right?”

  “Devereux’s the future. Everybody loves the future.” Gilman smiled.

  “What does it look like?”

  “You’d have to ask the man himself.”

  Belsey stood up and walked over to the window. He moved a slat blind to the side.

  “Don’t do that,” Gilman said.

  The view extended to Surrey Quays Shopping Centre, and across the black river to the Isle of Dogs. It struggled to live up to its price tag. What you actually saw looked like toy town, with the ghosts of a local community passing through dark, deserted squares. It was time to shake the fund manager up a little.

  “You can’t tell me about Devereux because you were shorting AD stock. You knew he was bankrupt and the whole thing was about to drop. A friend at the Financial S
ervices Authority says you’ve stitched up half the Square Mile.”

  Gilman laughed. “You’re good.” But he was unnerved. He stood beside Belsey at the window. His phone rang. He turned it off. “Is the Financial Services Authority saying that? I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me about Project Boudicca. Everyone was talking about Boudicca, weren’t they?”

  “Were they?”

  “Sure they were,” Belsey said. “You couldn’t move in the Pitcher and Piano for it, the toilets of All Bar One, everywhere, talk of Devereux and his London project.” Belsey unlocked the door to the terrace and stepped out. He knocked on the window. “Does every flat come with bulletproof glass?”

  “Can you please come inside?” Gilman said. Belsey tried to read the situation. He came in and slid the door shut.”Listen, Nick. The cupboards are bare. Do you have anything on you?”

  “Not on me, but just minutes away.”

  “Can we make that happen?” He took the tub of protein powder from the floor, unscrewed the cap and checked inside. Belsey glimpsed thick, soft bundles of paper money. Gilman put the cap back on.

  “If you’re willing to talk,” Belsey said.

  “I’m talking. I haven’t talked like this for ages. It feels great.”

  Belsey sat down again. “Have you met him?”

  “Who?”

  “Devereux.”

  “No one’s met him.”

  “What’s he about?”

  “Gaming. Racing. Casinos. I think he wants to have a casino in every city. Not just casinos but resorts. You know what George Bernard Shaw said? Gambling promises the poor what property performs for the rich.” Gilman gave a sly grin. “Something for nothing.”

  “Crime does that too.”

  “I think Devereux would legalise crime if he could. Gambling’s the closest he can get. He says gambling will be the heroin of the twenty-first century. He reckons by 2030 there will be fifteen Las Vegases, just as big, just as profitable, in all the new deserts of the world. A lot of his gaming websites are run out of Turkmenistan. That’s the base of his empire, but the icing is the tracks. He races horses in deserts at night, across industrial wastelands, around Native American reservations. One of his more eccentric ideas was to race horses through gas pipelines. He films the races and broadcasts them. There was a London project in the works—a big one. A guy called Pierce Buckingham was trying to raise money for a stake. That’s what I heard. That’s the whole of it. He was gathering the right names together.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Pierce? He’s a go-between. A slush puppy. He arranges weddings. You can usually find him at a place called Les Ambassadeurs in Mayfair trying to be a playboy and thinking he’s untouchable. I went to a party at his house once and there were porn stars and a snake charmer. A few years ago he set himself up as the go-to financial adviser for individuals with money wanting a slice of the London pie.”

  “What did you think Pierce Buckingham was raising money for?”

  “I don’t know. But I heard there was a French company coming in. If Pierce couldn’t raise the ante, then the whole thing was going to France. So he hustled. He went to his old friends, the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium—because quite frankly they could sink five billion into mud and not notice it’s gone.”

  “Let’s say I needed to give someone details of Devereux’s project. What sort of thing would I say?”

  “I don’t know. Pierce was being extra cagey about this one.”

  “Why?”

  “Local sensitivities.”

  “Like what?”

  “People. Sober people. Poor people. I don’t know.”

  “Did he get the money together?”

  “The money was already together. It’s called the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium and it’s bottomless. The consortium was bought last year by Prince Faisal bin Abdul Aziz. He operates Saud International Holdings, the main Saudi government investment fund. He gave his wife two fighter jets for her birthday and then built the most expensive house in Riyadh with the change. Buckingham negotiated his purchase of the Dream City Casino on Macao when the prince wanted in on the gambling market. It’s the only place in China where you can gamble. Imagine that. Then Buckingham arranged the takeover of an Italian gaming group called Gioco Digitale. But that was just a stepping-stone. Everyone saw that. It was a foot in the European sector. They’ve got their sights on London. Prince Faisal thinks London is where it’s at. He thinks Pierce Buckingham’s their man because he’s blue-eyed and vicious.”

  “And you have no idea what he was working on with Alexei Devereux?”

  “None at all. I imagined it was something to do with property or sport or a bit of both.”

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  Gilman groaned and stretched. “How much do you think you can get?”

  “Let’s say you tell me where Pierce Buckingham lives.”

  “That’s easy.” Gilman sat up and scribbled an address on the back of a property magazine. He tore it off and gave it to Belsey. Four Queen’s Gate Mews, a street in SW7. Belsey pocketed the address and walked over to the windows a final time.

  “How much are you looking to score?” Belsey said.

  “Anything. Everything.” He drummed his fingers on the tub.

  “Give me an hour. I’ll see what I can do.” Belsey cast a final glance around the apartment, then left. He pushed the button for the lift. Something said: Get out of London. It said: Look, a mirror deep enough to drown yourself in. Maybe he could become a jockey. He tried to imagine how that would feel, horse racing in the night air of the desert.

  Gilman’s door opened. He leaned out, checked the corridor, then called after Belsey.

  “What about Boudicca, Nick? What is it? Do you know?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Belsey said, without turning.

  “If you find out, will you tell me?”

  “Of course.”

  “If it’s happening? If it’s all good?”

  The lift arrived. Its doors slid open and Belsey stepped inside.

  41

  Belsey made Kensington in forty minutes. Pierce Buckingham kept a bachelor pad on a small, very expensive road close to Kensington Gardens. The little house at number 4 had its lights on, windows fogged. Someone had been taking a hot shower. Belsey knocked on the front door but got no answer. He couldn’t see through the windows. He pressed the door and it opened with a gust of steam.

  The whole place was damp, condensation dripping down the white walls of the hallway. Belsey stepped slowly inside. He trod softly into a living room that had exploded. Someone had slashed the seats, torn up the carpet and emptied all the cupboards into a big pile of designer belongings. An imitation Wurlitzer jukebox lay in pieces on the floor. A projector screen had been pulled down and torn in two. Droplets trickled down the abstract surfaces of metal sculptures and the wall-mounted TV screen.

  It didn’t look like Buckingham was home.

  Belsey stepped over piles of clothes to a steam room and sauna at the back. The shower was on and the sauna door was open and the tiles had been ripped off the walls.

  He climbed the stairs to the bedroom and there was a lot of broken glass and a reek of amyl nitrate. The bed was huge, circular, with black silk sheets on the floor, the mattress against the wall, slit down the side. Belsey found a few long blonde hairs on the pillowcase. The drawers from the bedside table and the cabinet at the side of the bedroom had been tipped onto the floor, spilling condom packets and pharmaceutical bottles. One hardback book lay on the floor beside the bed.

  The Kingdom: A History of the House of Saud. Belsey picked it up. It had an elaborately ornamented cover, inlaid with gold leaf. The pages were wilted and bunched by the steam. A note on the frontispiece said: To our esteemed friend, with blessings for the future. Inserted halfway through was a
photograph of a man with his arms around two teenage girls. They sat on a red banquette with an array of glasses and bottles on the table in front of them. It took Belsey a moment to recognise Pierce Buckingham: grinning, shaven, the other side of whatever crisis had set him stalking Belsey in a bulletproof vest. On Buckingham’s right was Jessica Holden in a silver, strapless cocktail dress; the other girl was the blonde friend who’d been crying on TV. She wore something tight and black that stopped short of her thighs. She had one hand on Buckingham’s shoulder. Jessica smiled with her mouth closed. The blonde girl showed teeth.

  Justice will be done, the crime scene flowers had said. Belsey called Miranda Miller from a cordless phone on Buckingham’s bedroom floor.

  “Have you got contact details for Jessica’s friend, the blonde girl?”

  “No. Well, yes, but they get through to an agent.”

  “An agent?”

  “She was trying to hustle for a five-figure deal. Now she’s gone to Sky.”

  “She’s over the shock, then.”

  “There’s something about her, Nick. Other kids at the school don’t remember them being that close. She was in the year above Jessica. Now she’s left the school. I think she’s on the make.”

  42

  Isha Sharvani saw Belsey at the front of the Forensic Command office and groaned.

  “You’re going to like this,” Belsey said. “I promise. I need image enhancement.”

  Sharvani led the way through her lab to the photographic unit. The unit was two rooms between the toxicology labs and forensic dentistry; one of the rooms had a projector. Sharvani dimmed the lights and scanned the photograph. After a few seconds it appeared on a wall-sized screen, enlarged to fill it and divided into a grid by thin red lines.

  “Is that a waterfall in the background?” Sharvani said.

  “It’s a waterfall.”

  “In a bar?”

  “In a casino. It’s called Les Ambassadeurs.”

  “Nice.” She admired the image. Then her expression became serious.