Christopher Brookmyre (27 page)

'I've come this far,' she muttered to herself. She climbed out and walked to the front door, up a short staircase guarded on either side by statues: a griffin on the left and a wereworm on the right.

Here be dragons, right enough.

She reached for the doorbell, barely able to believe that was what she was doing. Ding-dong. Is the criminal mastermind of the house in?

As at the gate, her hand didn't reach its target before being pre-empted. The door swung inward slowly, into a dark entrance hall, wood panelling visible only as far as the sunlight spilled. Jane saw merely an elbow around the outside of the frame as the door opened, before the figure behind it stepped to the side and revealed herself to be the girl from the supermarket. Jane gaped for a second.

'How the hell did you get here?' she spluttered. 'Who are you?'

'My name's Alexis. I got here the same way you did, though by more legal means. Come in. You're expected.'

'That would be one way of putting it,' Jane said, stepping inside. Alexis closed the door. Jane stood on the spot upon a marble floor, her eyes adjusting to the unlit interior after the brightness of the sunshine. She smelled furniture polish and wood oil. It was pleasant enough on the nose, but it made her think of museums; add apple and wet parka and it would be redolent of her old primary school. It did not smell like a home. She looked up and around. A wide staircase lay ahead, climbing two storeys in a wide, straight-sided ascent of steps, galleries and marble balustrades.

'This is just like mine at home,' Jane said, aware that Alexis had noted her gawping.

'I'd give you the ten-cent tour, but we've things to do. A lot of it's off-limits anyway. Come on.'

Jane followed Alexis along a corridor to the left. The marble gave way to polished wood, the panelling to painted off-white walls, but the sense of being in a museum did not diminish. She passed a suit of armour - an actual suit of armour - standing upright like a sentry in a corner. Antique weapons festooned the walls: pistols, muskets, swords and daggers. Alexis opened a door on the left-hand side of the corridor and led her into a broad sitting room. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, but served only to contrast with the dark wood of cabinets and rich colours of upholstered armchairs and sofas. There was also room - plenty of room - for a large oak table and eight chairs, the sight of it suggesting to Jane boardroom rather than dining room. A small log fire burned in the hearth beneath a marble mantelpiece wider than the frame of Tom's garden shed. The room felt warm, but not uncomfortably so. Jane guessed the fire had been recently lit, in advance of a drop in temperature as the sunlight faded.

'Take a seat,' Alexis offered. She smiled with politeness more than warmth, the girl looking distinctly uncomfortable, and not a little embarrassed, in Jane's immediate presence.

'Thank you, but I'll stand,' she replied. She was stiff and tired from the journey, and the sofas looked inviting to stretch out upon, but sitting felt wrong. The need to remain on her feet was compelling, instinctive.

'How about a drink? Coffee?'

'Some water would be great.'

'Sure thing,' she replied, eager to retreat.

'Oh, before I forget,' Jane called out. 'I've got your phone.'

'It's not mine. I was just the courier.'

'Whose is it?'

'You'll see,' she mumbled, biting her lip.

Jane stood in front of the fire, her eyes drawn to the flames. She'd have loved to have a real fire at home, but there seemed something daft about it in a standard Wimpey place, even if you had a working flue. The dance of tongues and colours was hypnotic and soothing, made all the more attractive by comparison with the view above the mantelpiece, where a huge mirror hung. Jane looked exactly like she felt.

She noticed a flash of movement in the glass as the door opened, the dryness in her throat suddenly accentuated by her anticipation of the water Alexis had gone to fetch. When she turned around, however, it was not the girl who stood before her: it was him. She didn't know how many people were in the building, nor did she have any firm expectations of who the voice on the phone would belong to, but when she saw the figure standing there, she had no doubt whatsoever that this was the man who had brought her here. Never in her life had the phrase 'looking like he owned the place' been anywhere near so apposite, and not just because he did.

It wasn't an arrogance, nor a proprietary air. It was a confidence, an absolute certainty. She couldn't picture him strutting or indulging any kind of ostentatious gesture to underline his status. He looked so utterly sure of that status that he had nothing he needed to prove to anyone. Jane tried to summon up anger, but felt only anxiety; defiance withering by the second. She'd had fantasies of slapping his face, whatever that face turned out to look like, but now that she saw him she knew she might as well ball her fist and punch the solid stone walls.

He wasn't big, not particularly; maybe five-ten at the most, built solidly and athletically but not muscle-bound. He wore a crisp white shirt and camelcoloured trousers that she'd have described as chinos if they didn't fit so perfectly as to appear tailored. His hair was dark, matched below by a tight beard, both thatches flecked unapologetically with silver-grey. His skin was tanned and weathered, the light copper shade testament to years in the region's climate as opposed to a recent fortnight on the beach. The face was coldly daunting; not aggressive or severe, but as indifferent and impregnable as the walls outside. If she had to age him, she'd guess late forties, maybe early fifties, but while he doubtless had the body of a man half that, his eyes suggested they had witnessed more than a man twice those years.

'Mrs Fleming,' he said simply. She expected a redundant platitude, a 'good of you to come' or a 'glad you could make it', but none was issued.

'Yes,' she responded, economically in kind. 'And you are?'

'Bett. My name is Bett. If you'll take a seat, I will tell you what I know first, and then I imagine you'll have some questions. As time is of the essence, I'd recommend that you keep the rhetorical, petulant and just plain stupid ones to a minimum.'

Jane's indignation caught in her throat as she replied: 'Under which category would you file "Where is my son?"' She feared her words would choke in tears, but her voice held out. Her eyes didn't quite manage as much.

'Under unanswerable,' Bett replied. He turned a hand as a gesture for her to sit. 'So let us move swiftly from that which I don't know to that which I do.'

Jane remained standing. She didn't want to concede anything to this man, but more importantly, she feared that if she did sit down, the last of her composure would collapse and she'd be reduced to a blubbing wreck.

'As you wish,' Bett said.

He took a seat as he talked, turning one of the wooden chairs away from the table and sitting cross-legged. His accent was unplaceably neutral, certain inflections suggesting either that English was not his first language, or that if it was, he didn't always speak it as often as he did others. If she had to hazard a guess as to where he was from, Jane would have said Europe, or maybe just Earth.

He talked calmly and concisely, in a manner that indicated he was used to rapt attention and was thus only going to say this once. Jane didn't need him to repeat a word of it in any case. The natural interjections of dismay and incredulity - 'Are you sure?', 'I don't believe it' - did not get past her lips. He most unquestionably was sure, and after the past twenty-four hours, she quite definitely did believe it. She stood and listened, sipping the cool water Alexis had brought in, the girl wordlessly depositing two glasses and an earthenware pitcher on to a low side table before taking position by the door like some Edwardian servant.

Her head swam. She had so many questions that she was perversely grateful for Bett's abrupt words of caution, for they forced her to sift, evaluate and prioritise.

'I'll give you a moment,' he said, rising from his seat. She thought he was about to leave the room, but he merely took a short walk to one of the huge windows and stood, looking out, hands clasped behind his back.

'I'll start with just one,' she said, allowing herself the compromise of halfsitting, half-leaning against the back of a sofa. Bett turned around. 'What am I doing here? I mean, as you've explained, your people are all experts and professionals, and you guys swim freestyle in a pool normal people don't even dip their toes into. I've been asking myself this for twenty-four hours and I thought that when I got here I'd find an answer, but nothing you've said so far gives me any inkling what it is that you're expecting from
me
.'

Bett walked across to the side table and poured himself a glass of water. He took a drink and stood a few feet away. She caught whiffs of shower gel and deo, a light, soapy aftershave, freshly laundered clothes. Smells of cleanliness and order. If it was a marketed scent, it would be called Discipline or Precision. He looked her in the eye.

'What would you be prepared to do to get your son back alive?'

'I'd say your question should be "what wouldn't I be prepared to do?" Since learning he was missing, I've stolen two cars, forged a passport and violated international border controls, and that was just logistics. I'd do anything. I'd do anything it takes.'

'Then anything it takes is what I expect from you. But we'll begin with what you can tell us about your son.'

Bett pulled out a chair for her around the big table and nodded to Alexis. She exited the room, returning momentarily in the company of another girl, a blonde who carried her tall frame slightly inelegantly, a tomboy all grown up. She had a natural, unaffected prettiness about her, but Jane somehow couldn't picture her in a dress and heels. She looked the type of girl who'd played with all the boys, then didn't quite understand why they suddenly got shy around her sometime after her fourteenth birthday. She looked mid-twenties, slightly older than her companion.

'This is Rebekah,' Alexis introduced.

Rebekah smiled shyly and took a seat.

They were followed into the room shortly by three males. First was a boy -

he barely looked twenty - of South-East Asian aspect, skinny and awkward, cheerful but restless. He introduced himself as 'Somboon, but call me Som'. Then came a tall and chiselled-looking young Catalan called Nuno, who carried himself gracefully and lightly on long legs, exuding almost as much effortless confidence as Bett. The undone top buttons of his cornflower-blue shirt revealed shaven skin across taut muscle. In contrast with Rebekah, here was someone who was always aware he looked good.

Finally came a balding and grizzled individual, of similar height and build to Bett, though perhaps more tending towards squat. He was also the only one of the group close to Bett in years, and in the company uniquely ruggedlooking in contrast to so much fresh-faced youth, the only one who could lay claim to a hard paper-round. Jane anticipated a voice to match his swarthy appearance, from a throat conditioned by a hundred thousand Gauloise, but when he spoke it was smooth, mellifluent. If he read female erotica for audiobooks, he'd be a millionaire in six months. He was the only one to approach her before sitting, walking around the table and briefly taking her hand as he announced himself, 'Armand, Madame Fleming.'

All of them seated, Bett commenced his questions. His team didn't have notepads, but they paid such close attention to Jane's answers, it was as though they expected to be tested on it at the end. She reckoned they'd all score full marks, though she wouldn't rate so highly. She felt horribly put upon. Bett's questions were, to begin with, fairly general stuff about Ross, but she couldn't see where they were going, other than ultimately towards the admission that these days she knew little of any use or relevance about her son. The worst of it, however, was the sense of being on the spot, all these bright and inquisitive faces hanging expectantly upon her every word, so many pairs of eyes focused upon her - and she looked
like this
. Jane felt old and ugly, scruffy and sore. Every so often her nostrils caught the smell of her own sweat, turned stale and musky from so much heat and effort in the same clothes, and she guessed if she could smell it herself, it must be rank to the others. What did she look like to these people? And what would they do once they found out she was just another redundant, alienated mother, stranded on the far side of the generation gap?

She stared across the table at Bett. The feeling of intimidation was wearing off, fatigue, sorrow and embarrassment starting to overcome more transient emotions. She felt like a rag doll with the stuffing hanging out of it, and he was still talking away, oblivious to her suffering, indifferent to her state. She was just business on the agenda, the subject at hand. There was a moment when tears might have come again, but it passed. She'd bottomed out, and now her fragile feelings of self-pity were being transmuted into anger and resentment.

'Did Ross mention anything to you recently about what he was working on?'

Bett asked.

'What he was working on?' she replied, trying to calm the incredulity in her voice. 'No, we've never talked much about his job, it would be fair to say.'

'Just an allusion, perhaps. Even a flippant remark.'

'I'm trying to remember. What was that you were saying about time being of the essence and not asking stupid questions?'

'Mrs Fleming,' Bett appealed calmly, 'it is always possible that the most fleeting--'

'He doesn't talk to me about his job, okay? I know he works for Deimos, I know he's in research and development of nonlethal weapons. That's it. He doesn't send me any blueprints. In fact, these days I'm doing well if I get a birthday card. Do you talk to your mother about your job?' She threw this last question in a rage, and the words were out before she could consider whether he still had a mother to talk to. He didn't answer, but there was a brief flash in his eyes, just a millisecond's glimmer of reaction before discipline restored the veil of his assured composure. He opened his mouth with a smack of the lips, then paused, as though changing his mind about what he was next about to say.