‘Any idea where Westfield’s gone?’ I asked, my voice low.
‘Sorry, your guess is as good as mine,’ said Keeley. ‘I tried telling one of the waiters I needed to speak to him, but was told he would be back in due course. I haven’t had the chance to spike his drink yet.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘It was a stupid idea anyway. Who’s the woman in the corner?’
‘Our hostess, you mean? That’s Ashley Curzon’s wife — Tamara, I think someone said. Seems that her husband has abandoned her too.’
‘And I don’t see my gaffer anywhere. Ah well, I came in on the pretext of using the loo, so looks as if I’ll just have to get lost along the way, doesn’t it? You OK?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Apart from the slow death by boredom? I’ll survive.’
Before leaving the room, I approached the waiter who was standing in the doorway and seemed to be directing the others.
‘I wanted to speak to Matthew Westfield this evening,’ I said. ‘When’s he due to arrive?’
‘He’s already here, sir,’ the waiter said. ‘He’s been temporarily called away, but he’ll be back shortly.’
‘Ah,’ I nodded acceptance. ‘And sorry, where’s the gents’?’ He gestured right behind me to where a computer-printed notice with a giant arrow pointing along a hallway was stuck to the wall. ‘Great. Thanks.’ Under his scrutiny I was forced to head in that direction, but as I set off, there came a crash from inside the room and I saw Keeley’s hand fly to her mouth as she stooped to attend to the glass she’d just dropped. The doorman went to help, so, seizing my chance, I headed off in the opposite direction to the toilets, along a wood-panelled corridor.
I don’t know what I’d hoped for, really — perhaps a door left conveniently ajar so that I could listen in unnoticed. It wasn’t to be. The three doors along here were all firmly closed. I had to resort to pressing my ear against each to see if I could catch even the faintest murmur of conversation. At the third I got my break, sort of, when I saw the unmistakable sliver of light along the base of the door. I heard a bark of laughter from within, but any hope that I would be able to overhear the conversation was stymied. The solid oak door was shut. I’d have to try a different strategy. Retracing my steps to the lobby, I went out again into the cold. This time it was easy enough to find the room where the action was — I simply looked for the lights. Edging up to the uncurtained windows, I peered into what looked like a library or study, with book-lined walls and leather Chesterfields. Ashley Curzon was at a drinks table, pouring and passing round glasses, while the others were standing around as if waiting for something. It was now or never.
I was about to make myself visible when I was grabbed from behind and a hand covered my mouth, stifling my instinctive cry. Off balance, I felt myself dragged back from the windows by someone strong, and I fought and twisted, trying to get a glimpse of my assailant. Turning, I lunged at him and we fell on the dewy grass, wrestling in eerie silence, until I managed to gain the advantage and get him pinned on his back. I expected to see one of the minions from inside, but I’d never seen this man before.
‘Go easy,’ he whispered furiously, his hands raised in defence. ‘We’re on the same side!’ I glanced back at the house, but our commotion didn’t seem to have attracted any attention from inside the room.
Instead, what we did hear were tyres on gravel, driving fast. Headlight beams swept across us as the vehicle skidded to an abrupt halt. I flattened myself to the ground, keeping stock still, and my captive did the same. I hoped Plum had been sensible and ducked out of sight. The headlights blacked out and we heard voices alongside some unidentifiable grunting and car doors slamming. Gradually the sounds faded as the car’s occupants entered the hall.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ I whispered at the man beside me.
‘Simon Montgomery. Stefan Greaves is a mate. I’m a journalist, so he tipped me off that Matthew Westfield was here. You must be Mick Fraser? Pleased to meet you.’
The threat over, I released my grip, but ignored the hand he offered me. We both got to our feet, taking care to stay back from the light cast by the windows.
‘I was trying to get your attention,’ Montgomery said. ‘You didn’t hear me, so I had to do something.’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I demanded.
‘Like I said, Stefan told me about Westfield and what you think this visit’s about. I thought I’d come and see for myself what was going on. I saw Plum in the car park and she told me you were around, but I didn’t think you’d be outside. Sorry, I’ve probably fucked things up for you.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Actually, I think you might have given us a ticket inside,’ I said, though there was no guarantee it would play out as I intended. ‘How do you fancy reprising our fight, but with an added soundtrack?’
‘Sure, but just give me a minute, will you?’
But while Montgomery was setting up his phone to record any conversations we might overhear, I wandered back over to the windows. The room was empty.
‘Shit, they’ve moved on.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve gone.’ I kept on walking around the house and as I rounded the corner to where the swimming pool was, lights flickered on and I saw people filing into the patio area.
‘Crap, we need to get to the swimming pool.’ With Montgomery trailing behind, I hurried back to the main doors of the house. The hallway was empty except for a man crossing it on his return from the gents’, and once inside, we walked casually across and along the corridor that would take us round to the back of the house. Making two right turns, we came to a door that opened to our left onto a darkened anteroom, which had the unmistakable aroma of chlorine. Inside were the benches and hooks you might have for a changing area, along with a couple of large freestanding storage cupboards. Through the next door, I could see the glow of the pool and hear voices echoing around the dimly lit chamber. Keeping to the shadows, Montgomery and I moved forward and positioned ourselves at either side of the door, from where we could hear and see what was unfolding.
Chapter Fifty-four
When I first came round, it was with a stonking hangover, a mouth like sandpaper, and the smell of laundered linen in my nostrils. I opened my eyes slowly to allow them to adjust to the light, and was subjected to a nasty attack of déjà vu.
‘Hello, Stefan.’ Margot Warren-Byrne’s face appeared, horribly close to mine, before morphing into someone also familiar but more benign. ‘What are you doing back here?’ she wanted to know.
I closed my eyes again, struggling to comprehend. Was I still here? Had I never left? Had I dreamed . . . ? No. She’d said back. I felt exhausted, my limbs like stone, and it would have been so easy to turn over and drift back to sleep, but I had to know why I was in here. I opened my eyes and she was still there, smiling at me but in a forced kind of way. Things must be really bad.
‘Not in Oz, then,’ I said, stupidly.
The ‘no’ that came back was strangely measured, as if I’d missed something.
‘I mean it,’ said Freckle-face — Claire. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
Through the fog that shrouded my cognitive functioning, I tried to grasp the last thing I could remember. The visit from Guy Leonard, feeling unwell. And now I was back in hospital. I must have either passed out or had another seizure. Or was it something to do with the aftertaste of that wine? He’d come to talk about Rita, but I could remember nothing he’d said about her. Mostly he’d talked about me:
…as you get older, you’ll be in more pain... surgery would help… it might at least be worth having an assessment…
Was that what Guy Leonard’s visit had really been about?
‘Don’t know,’ I said, shaking my head, which triggered a sickening wave of nausea. ‘Doctor? Notes?’
‘That’s what bothers me,’ she said. ‘There aren’t any, and you’ve been put down here in a room that isn’t used any more. I had to track down a m
aster key to unlock it. And you seem to still be fully clothed. Your shoes are under the bed.’
‘So how did you . . . ?’
‘Fluke,’ she said. ‘I was getting a coke from the machine in the foyer when I saw you come in. But when I checked on the system to see why you’d been admitted, there’s no record at all. And the two guys who were with you — something didn’t look right. You really don’t know why you’re here?’
Slowly and falteringly, I explained the whole sorry story to her, including what Fraser and I thought we had uncovered, knowing that there was absolutely no reason why she should believe me. It took for ever, my slurring at its worst, but she seemed to understand and take me seriously.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘You know there have been rumblings in the geriatric wards here about the unusual amounts of opioid painkillers being used. Talk was, there was going to be some kind of enquiry. But it never happened. And Warren-Byrne’s a ball-breaker. Fires her PAs on a regular basis for all kinds of spurious reasons.’ She was thoughtful. ‘I caught her hanging around your room once before, when you were in the last time.’
So that was where I’d seen her.
While we’d been talking, I’d drunk about a litre of water, and my head was beginning to clear. ‘She must have an office here in the hospital?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have you still got that master key?’
‘Yes. I could . . .’
‘No! You’ve got a good job. And I know what I’m looking for. At least, I’m sure I will when I see it.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ she insisted and, when I pulled a face, added, ‘You’re in no fit state to do it alone and you’re less likely to be challenged if I’m with you.’
I couldn’t fault her logic.
‘I just need to make a quick call,’ she said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Calling in a couple of favours. Might be good if you see if you can stand up.’
There was a paranoid gremlin in my head that wondered if she was about to call for reinforcements to subdue me again, but that was a chance I’d have to take. There was little I could do about it.
Meanwhile, she was right. Whatever the eventuality, I needed to get out of this bed. I started small, lifting my head off the pillow, which set the lights flashing behind my eyes again and forced an involuntary retch. But after a moment the flashes subsided and little by little, I was able to get myself to a sitting position. Then, since I hadn’t thrown up, even though my gut was advising me differently, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. By the time Claire came back, I was on my feet, although my head felt somehow detached from the rest of me.
It was like an out-of-body experience tramping past silent, abandoned rooms, our footsteps ringing back at us. When we emerged into the hospital proper, the sudden glare and noise made for a particularly intense experience of sensory overload. Warren-Byrne’s office was part of the executive wing, separated from the rest of the hospital by a door with a key code. Through the glass, it was clear that the automatic lighting had gone out, meaning that everyone had clocked off for the night. Consulting her phone, Claire punched numbers into the pad.
‘The favour?’ I said.
‘First of several,’ she grinned.
Warren-Byrne’s brass nameplate, with the many letters after the double-barrel, took up almost the width of the door. We unlocked it with the master key. As we stepped over the threshold, Claire stooped to pick up a sheet of A4 that had been slid under the door.
‘God, that smell!’ I said, the source of the strong floral smell a huge vase of wilting lilies on the edge of the desk. But Claire didn’t seem to be listening. She thrust the paper in front of me.
‘Is this your signature?’
I looked at the indistinct squiggle. ‘More or less. Guy Leonard got me to sign some non-disclosure thing.’
‘This is nothing to do with confidentiality,’ said Claire. ‘You were giving your permission to go ahead with corrective surgery.’
Fuck. ‘Shortly before I was drugged and brought here.’
‘It explains why you were in the abandoned wing. Lucky I saw you.’
I shuddered. Lucky didn’t come close to describing the reprieve I’d had.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s crack on. Favour number two.’ The computer was naturally enough password-protected, but phone out again, Claire tapped in a sequence of letters, numbers and symbols. An error message bounced onto the screen. ‘Bugger.’ She repeated the exercise and on the third attempt, we were locked out completely. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She flopped back in the chair. Eva was so certain.’ But while she’d been trying the computer, I’d been conducting my own more conventional search. Outwardly, the box beside the printer looked like the usual supply of new paper. But when I lifted the lid, inside was a pile of booklets labelled Operation Beagle, with the clipper logo on the cover. Hidden in plain sight.
‘Eureka,’ I said, but we both turned to the corridor as we heard the outer door open and close.
‘Bernie,’ said Claire.
‘Is that supposed to mean something?
‘He’s Warren-Byrne’s tame security man. Ensures that she’s not disturbed, keeps out unwanted intruders — that kind of thing. Leave him to me.’
Of all Claire’s many talents, her ability to charm us back past the security guard was probably one of the least surprising. We made it back to one of the public waiting areas before the adrenalin that had sustained me dissipated and I folded to the ground.
Chapter Fifty-five
As Montgomery and I edged our way towards the light, the voices got louder. Though they remained standing, they had congregated among the pot plants and garden chairs. They must have felt safe here — the last one in had left the inner glass door open by a couple of inches.
‘Well, this is different,’ I heard Superintendent Bowers say.
‘We’ve got privacy down here,’ said the man I recognised to be Ashley Curzon. ‘We had the pool put in years ago but now the kids have grown up it hardly gets used.’
I was so busy straining to catch what they were saying that it was only when Montgomery grabbed my shoulder that I heard what he did — footsteps and voices approaching from behind us in the main house. Moving quietly away from the door, we blended into the shadows cast by the storage cupboards and held our breath as Margot Warren-Byrne breezed through in a lingering cloud of perfume, closely followed by a stocky youth. They were careless enough to leave the door even further ajar and I breathed out again as we edged back to our listening post. By hanging back a bit, I found that I could see most of their faces, too.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ I heard Warren-Byrne say. ‘I’m sorry to be late. There was another urgent matter requiring my attention. But now that we’re all here, perhaps we can begin?’ She held something unidentifiable in the crook of her arm.
‘Tyler, thanks for showing Miss Warren-Byrne in, but you can go now,’ said Curzon. So that’s who he was. If it wasn’t for the bigger fish on offer, I’d be tempted to grab the kid now, on his way out.
‘On the contrary,’ said Warren-Byrne, ‘I think Tyler should stay. After all, he’s very much a part of the initiative, isn’t he, Inspector?’
Uncomprehending, Ashley Curzon turned to Bowers, who had at once become preoccupied with the contents of the cut glass tumbler in his hand. Tyler remained where he was.
There followed a moment’s hiatus, in which the tension in the room was palpable. Warren-Byrne cleared her throat and addressed Westfield.
‘So, Matthew, now that you’ve spent some time here, what do you think of our humble town?’
‘It’s an agreeable place,’ Westfield said smoothly, though his expression was wary. ‘Clearly people are working hard to create a pleasant environment. I’d like to congratulate you all. I’m just not sure why . . .’
Warren-Byrne spoke over him. ‘Yes, hard work but also strategy, Matthew. We invited you here because we think we have somet
hing unique to offer that will benefit the whole country. And you could just be the person to deliver it.’ She smiled knowingly, but Westfield just looked baffled.
I had a moment’s clarity, then. Westfield didn’t know. He wasn’t in on it.
‘Haven’t you guessed?’ Warren-Byrne went on, with the barely contained excitement of a child playing a game. ‘All of us in this room have something in common.’
‘I’m sorry . . . ?’
‘A vision of the future,’ said Warren-Byrne. ‘We all share a passion for doing what’s best for our communities and our nation. It’s for that reason that we have the same concerns about the turn things have taken over the last decades. Successive governments have tried to shape our society by a number of different means, attempting to change behaviour through monitoring, guidance and occasionally legislation. But this nudge effect isn’t working. We think — we know — that a more . . . direct approach is more successful, and is what is required.’
‘Approach to what?’
‘To neutralise the impact of what we might call the more . . . challenging elements of our communities.’ Warren-Byrne produced some booklets and, as she distributed them, I caught a glimpse of the sailing ship logo. It was the report I’d caught Bowers reading.
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