The Better Mousetrap

by Tom Holt

  He grinned at her. ‘You’re coming, then?’

  No need to answer that. She transformed into a coat-wearing blonde, flipped on the answering machine and reached for the door handle—

  ‘For crying out loud, Mum.’

  ‘What?’

  Sigh. ‘You can’t go out looking like that.’

  Not the first time they’d had this argument. Her first instinct was to ignore him-do him good, make him lighten up a little-but the prospect of him sulking at her all the way there and back again was too tiresome to contemplate. She relented and lengthened her skirt an inch. ‘There,’ she said, in her best humouring-withextreme-prejudice voice. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘No. Look at yourself, will you?’

  Scowling, she grabbed her mirror from the front desk. Pause. ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Two points in one day. She sighed. ‘Coincidence,’ she said.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You turn into the exact spitting image of Amelia Carrington, and it’s a coincidence.’

  ‘All right, then, it’s subconscious. I must’ve been thinking about her, and—’

  ‘Whatever.’ Just to spite him for being right, she changed into a geisha.

  ‘Satisfied?’ she said.

  ‘If you insist.’ That resigned tone she knew so well. ‘Actually, it’ll bug the hell out of Amelia, so yes, why not? Get the taxi.’

  If he hadn’t known Amelia since before she was born, Dennis wouldn’t have had the satisfaction of being proved right. The slightest flicker of the eyelashes, the faintest widening of the eyes thereby enclosed, and that was his lot as far as provoking her was concerned. In context it was enough. In fact, it was a triumph, and as always, Mother had known best.

  ‘Dennis, at last,’ she said, waving him into a chair and pretending that his exotic companion was invisible. ‘Well, here we are. The photos.’

  There they were indeed. They looked like nothing at all; your best guess would’ve been black and white abstract painting by an avant-garde artist with absolutely no imagination. To Dennis Tanner, of course, they were aerial views of a large tract of landscape, taken from a satellite so high up that no man-made feature was large enough to register. He drew one of them across the desk with a fingertip and looked at it.

  Like being hit across the face with a bike chain. He did his best to mask the shock, but he knew he was too late. Amelia would have seen the brief but extreme look of amazement on his face and appreciated it for what it was. Dennis Tanner, the whole world knew, wasn’t easy to impress.

  ‘Something there, Uncle Dennis?’ in that sweet-little-girl voice that made him want to puke. No point trying to dissemble now.

  ‘Too bloody right,’ he said, with deep feeling.

  ‘Is it big?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bigger than Wayatumba?’

  ‘I haven’t looked at the rest of the pics yet,’ he said, hedging.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Give me a chance.’ Dennis reached across and grabbed a few more prints at random. It was a bit like catching hold of a live electric cable, but he held on, gritted his teeth and, after a suitable pause, muttered, ‘Yes.’

  He could have done without the peal of silvery laughter. To distract himself from the surge of irritation washing through his mind, he tried to recall what little he knew about Amelia’s mother. According to Tosser, she’d been a wood nymph he’d come across while she was bathing in a remote pool somewhere in the Welsh mountains. Trade scuttlebutt reckoned otherwise, of course; in any event, she must’ve inherited her flair for the infuriatingly dramatic from her mother’s side. Tosser’s idea of drama was the last act of Hamlet: dead bodies everywhere and a horrible untidy mess for someone else to sort out. Besides, were there still wood nymphs in rural Wales in the Sixties? He vaguely remembered something about Macmillan having them all relocated to Swansea.

  ‘Excellent,’ Amelia was saying. ‘Our people were pretty sure about it, but I wanted to have it verified by the leading authority before we went any further. Well, thanks ever so much, Uncle Dennis. We really must have lunch sometime.’

  The penny, dropping, never landed. It fell so fast it burnt up in the atmosphere, sprinkling Dennis’s mind with droplets of molten copper. ‘No worries,’ he managed to say, nevertheless. ‘Now, about our partnership—’

  ‘Not the P-word, Uncle Dennis.’

  ‘All right, then, our joint venture. Don’t take this the wrong way, but before we go any further, I’d like to see some paperwork. A draft contract, something like—’

  ‘Uncle Dennis.’ Such a sweet, sad smile. ‘You may be the greatest scryer in the world, but when it comes to business, you’re just an old silly.’ Ominous growl from the corner of the room; Amelia shot a startled glance in that direction, recovered quickly and went on, ‘Really, you know, you should’ve mentioned it earlier, before you carried out your side of the bargain. Be fair,’ she added, ‘you don’t really expect me to cut you in on a deal this size in return for services already rendered. I’m very grateful, of course, and I know Daddy would’ve been, too. But there it is. If you will go doing jobs for people out of the kindness of your heart, no wonder you’ve ended up in that squalid little office.’

  The growl became a roar, at more or less the same moment that the geisha turned back into a fully grown adult female goblin. Amelia instinctively shrank back in her chair, then rallied gloriously and smiled at her. ‘Uncle Dennis,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

  ‘My mother, actually.’

  ‘Of course.’ The smile widened, until it threatened to engulf the planet. ‘Auntie Rosie, how silly of me, I didn’t recognise you.’ She leaned forward a little and peered. ‘You’ve done your hair differently, haven’t you?’

  Like spiders, goblins can move horribly fast. Before she could get within claw’s reach, though, Dennis reached out and caught hold of her wrist. ‘Forget it, Mum,’ he said.

  ‘But that bony little cow—’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Mr Tanner’s mother quivered for a moment, then dissolved back into the geisha, demurely smiling and, as far as Amelia was concerned, non-existent. ‘Look,’ Amelia said, ‘I don’t want to be stingy or anything. Tell you what, I’ll give you a quarter of a per cent of the net profits, for old time’s sake. It’s what Daddy would have wanted, I’m sure. Take it or—’ Shrug, which set her golden hair dancing like Wordsworth’s daffodils. ‘It’s more money than you’ll ever see in your entire life,’ she said. ‘And all you had to do for it was prod a photograph. That’s not a bad evening’s work, when you think about it.’

  Dennis Tanner sat quite still for four seconds, breathing through his nose. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘Actually, between you and me, I was planning on retiring sometime soon, in any case.’

  ‘Splendid idea.’ Amelia nodded sharply. ‘High time you got away from the stresses and strains of the business. You can relax, chill out, garden, play golf.’ Glance towards the back of the room. ‘Spend more time with the family. A nice little nest egg’s just what the doctor ordered.’

  Dennis sighed and stood up. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I must be getting old. Lost the knack of judging character, and once that’s gone you’re not fit to be let out on your own in this trade. Well, time we were going.’ He paused at the door, and looked back at Amelia. ‘You’ve done pretty well for yourself,’ he said. ‘Your dad would’ve been proud.’

  He opened the door; and then his mother said, ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you to the nice lady, after she’s given you such a lovely present?’

  Dennis stopped, and grinned. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I won’t forget it in a hurry.’ ‘My pleasure.’ Amelia beamed at him. ‘Enjoy your retirement, Uncle Dennis.’ Dennis and his mother didn’t say anything to each other until they reached the street and found a taxi.

  ‘What the hell,’ Dennis said eventually, ‘was all that about?�
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  His mother thought for a bit before answering. ‘She wants to provoke you into doing something,’ she replied.

  ‘I know that.’ Dennis scowled at the back of the driver’s neck, giving him a headache that lasted for three days. ‘What, though? Bloody woman,’ he added petulantly.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ his mother said firmly, ‘don’t do it. Which means,’ she added, ‘don’t do anything. Forget all about it. Otherwise, it’ll all end in tears, you mark my words.’

  He gave her a don’t-you-start look. ‘I’m guessing,’ he said, ‘that what I’m supposed to do now is try and double-cross her, to get my own back. Buggered if I can see how, though.’

  She nodded. ‘Just as well. You don’t want to go messing with that one, our Dennis. She’s cleverer than you.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘She is,’ she said firmly. ‘And she’s the head of Carringtons, and you … Well,’ she went on, ‘anyway. Don’t do anything. Don’t give her the satisfaction.’

  Dennis snarled. ‘Next you’ll be saying I really should think about retiring.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ his mother said reassuringly. ‘And you’ll get her back, one of these days. Just not now, all right? Look, whatever she’s got planned, she’s relying on you doing something predictable. My guess is, her whole plan depends on it. So don’t do anything. Then either she’ll have to give the whole thing up, which’d really piss her off, so that’s all right, or she’ll come back and have another go; and that may tell us a bit more about what she’s got in mind. At the moment, we know bugger-all, so anything we do’ll be playing right into her hands. You do see that, don’t you?’

  Dennis grunted. ‘I never liked her,’ he said. ‘Do you remember, I bought her a cuddly lion when she was four, and she never did say thank you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ His mother nodded. ‘She brought it to life and it ate a plumber before young Ricky Wurmtoter managed to get rid of it. Always had a nasty streak, that one.’ She sighed. ‘Like I said, you don’t want to mess with her. Leave well alone, is my advice.’

  Dennis stared out of the window for a moment or so. ‘We won’t see a penny of that money,’ he said.

  ‘Well, of course not.’

  He yawned. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said wearily. ‘Forget all about it for now and see if she comes back. Though,’ he added doubtfully, ‘for all we know that’s exactly what she’s expecting us to do. You’re right about her being cleverer than me, but has it occurred to you that she may be cleverer than you as well?’

  Mr Tanner’s mother shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Nobody’s cleverer than me. It says so in the rules somewhere.’

  When they’d gone, Amelia Carrington made a few calls.

  Yes, they told her, it was settling in nicely; eating well (very well), sleeping most of the day, hadn’t burned down any more buildings, should be ready to deploy any day now. That made her smile.

  No, they told her, he’s not in the office right now, he must have gone home already, they’d leave a note on his desk to say she’d called. That made her frown, but it couldn’t be too important.

  Yes, they told her (and could she speak up, it was a dreadful line), all the legal guff was sorted out, apart from final registration with the Mining and Minerals Commission, and they were pushing that through as fast as possible. No worries. That made her nod and say, ‘Fine, carry on.’

  For crying out loud, they told her, did she realise what time it was? Oh, sorry, didn’t recognise her voice there for a moment. Yes, all going ahead as per schedule; finished the heavy blasting and ready to start pouring the concrete, as soon as the health and safety people had signed off on the plans. Yes, they were being a bit awkward but no more than usual. Maybe she could get her people to have a word with them, smooth things over a bit. Attention of Mr Donaldson. That’d be really helpful, thanks.

  Yes, they told her, this is the health and safety executive, Donaldson speaking, who the hell gave you my home number and rivet rivet rivet.

  No, they told her, she’s not home yet. No, she hadn’t said where she was going after work. I’m sorry, it told her, there’s nobody here to take your call, please leave your name and aaargh. Amelia put the receiver back, yawned and tapped her fingers on the desktop. So far, apparently, so good; the look on Uncle Dennis’ face … It’s so nice, she felt, to deal with people you know you could rely on. And Auntie Rosie, too. Never did like her very much.

  She frowned. Auntie Rosie was clever, though not nearly as clever as she thought she was, and naturally Dennis would do exactly what his mother told him to. She tried to reconstruct the conversation they’d be having at that moment. Somehow she fancied the words don’t give her the satisfaction would come into it somewhere. True, she hadn’t actually factored Auntie Rosie into her calculations, but that didn’t matter. She knew exactly what line she’d be taking, and the only effect would be to make Dennis react the way he was supposed to, only slightly faster and with even more grim determination. Well, you would, with something like that nagging away at you all day long.

  Amelia tried Mr Sprague’s office again, but they’d all gone home and the switchboard was down for the night. Which reminded her. She reached for the phone and called Colin Gomez.

  ‘Colin,’ she said briskly, ‘why hasn’t that Spitzer girl been killed yet?’

  Pause. ‘She has,’ he replied awkwardly.

  ‘No, she hasn’t, Colin. I know for a fact she’s still alive.’

  ‘Well, yes, she’s still alive. But I’ve had her killed. Twice.’

  ‘Ah.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Well, you know what they say. Third time lucky.’

  ‘Certainly, yes, I’ll get on to it right away.’ Pause. ‘Actually, I was thinking—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well.’ Pause. ‘Since she will insist on coming back to life again, I thought maybe a slightly more oblique approach, possibly slanted more in the getting-her-out-of-the-way direction, as opposed to actual life termination—’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Colin. Look, as of now I’m authorising the use of extreme measures, up to and including tactical nukes. Things are starting to move at the New Zealand end, that stupid prophesy’s hanging over me like the Sword of Whatsisname, and I don’t want to be held up and lose out on a rising market because of a silly little girl. Do you understand?’

  Amelia didn’t need to see him to know what expression he had on his face. Poor Colin. He could be so sweet sometimes. ‘Yes, certainly, of course. Right away.’

  ‘Excellent. What’s her status at the moment?’

  ‘I’ve got her in a Tomacek trap. She’s in holding, down in the basement.’ Pause. ‘Do you want me to—?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course. Right away. Certainly.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Colin, thanks. Ciao.’

  In his office two floors below, Colin Gomez pushed away from his desk and shuddered. In his view of the universe, all it took to make the world go round was for everybody to work hard, pull together for the good of the firm, keep the clients happy and always charge slightly more than the job was worth. Management philosophies based on the balance of greed and terror had never appealed to him much, however fashionable they might be in the world at large. Employees, he reckoned, were like tubes of toothpaste: there to be squeezed, but only from the right end. He tried not to browbeat or bully, if he could help it. As for actually killing junior members of staff, it was something he preferred to avoid whenever possible. However tactful and discreet you were about it, inevitably it led to tension and bad feeling in the workplace, which in turn reduced output and efficiency and encouraged a distrustful us-and-them approach which was the exact opposite of the way things ought to be.

  But a direct order from the senior partner wasn’t open to question, and if Amelia Carrington wanted the Spitzer girl disposed of, that really ought to be good enough for him. He sighed, thinking about her for a moment. True, she was a good worker, profes
sional, got the job done with a minimum of fuss. But her attitude towards the clients had never really quite come together, he couldn’t help thinking; she’d never quite understood that a client was like a beautiful fruit tree, to be nurtured, cared for, pollinated and pruned. She’d always given the impression that clients were just another nuisance arranged by the malevolent universe to make her job slightly more awkward. Which just went to show: the senior partner always knows best. The secret of survival in middle management is the ability to recognise the new truth, even when it was heresy and sin only ten minutes ago.

  Colin Gomez had been a partner in Carringtons for twenty years. When the boss told him something, he believed. In which case, Emily Spitzer had to go. A pity. Omelettes and eggs. The only remaining question was, how?

  There are proverbially more ways of killing a cat than drowning it in cream. Sure. The problem in this case was persuading it to stay dead. Cagliari’s Marvellous Tree hadn’t managed to get the job done (which reminded him: it was still under warranty, so at the very least he should be able to get the money back). A rogue Atkinsonii, kitted out at ruinous expense with a cynanidegas-proof cybernetic breather unit hadn’t cut it, either. More to the point, the Better Mousetrap, which should’ve guaranteed immunity from all this now-she-is-now-she-isn’t nonsense, had failed spectacularly. He sighed and scratched his head. They have a slightly different version of the proverb in the magic biz. If drowning in cream is what it takes, buy a cow.

  Easier said than done, when the cat has at least nine lives and can swim. Colin Gomez was a methodical, analytical sort, not given to wild swoops of intuition, but perfectly capable of digging away at a mystery until he’d unearthed the tap root. If Emily Spitzer kept coming back to life again, it could only be because (a) someone was protecting her, and (b) that someone had access to some pretty impressive technology. Trying to figure out who the someone was would, he felt, be difficult and take too long. The technology, on the other hand, ought to be reasonably easy to identify.

  When you don’t know the answer, look it up. He leaned across his desk and picked up his copy of the Carringtons office-procedures manual. Index: death, avoidance of.