Panic Room Page 2

  And it was, of course, as soon became apparent. The sea was a mirror of blue beyond the wavering line of hedge and field. Don spotted the turning late and was driving too fast anyway, but he managed it with no more than a touch of fishtail. The entrance to Wortalleth West came up quickly: a white, ranch-style wooden gate, standing open.

  The tarmac drive curved between gorse and wind-sculpted Monterey pines, then divided, leading in one direction to a garage big enough to be a house in its own right, with balconied rooms above. There was a lot of white wood and granite beneath deeply eaved slate. Don glimpsed a tennis court in the distance as he took the lower route around a broad shoulder of land on which the main house stood.

  More white wood, granite and slate conferred a style that was part Long Island, part Cornish. The building was the shape of a half-hexagon, one side facing the sea directly, the other two sides angled back to form wings enclosing a shrubbery-screened rear garden in which Don saw a flash of water-reflected light that suggested a swimming pool.

  He pulled up in front of the house, turned off the car’s engine and climbed out, inhaling a lungful of champagne-like air as he took his measure of the place. It stood before him in the brilliance of mid-afternoon, its proportions graceful, its dimensions generous, with a deep, paved verandah, triple gables, wide windows and a low roofline sporting dormers shaped like the backs of dolphins. No expense had been spared. That was immediately obvious. Mrs Jackson – or her ex-husband – had thrown a lot of money at this seaside whim.

  Beyond the sloping lawn in front of the house, sea and sky were a realm of blue. In such perfect weather, Wortalleth West presided over something close to splendour.

  Silence was part of the splendour. When Don slammed the car door, the sound shifted two fat pigeons from the branches of the nearest pine with heavy wingbeats. He climbed the shallow steps to the verandah, pulling the keys out of his pocket as he went. The entrance was a wide glazed door, with the letters WW painted on the central panel in flowing blue serifs. There were two locks, one Yale, one mortise. But the mortise, as Don soon discovered, was not across, and the alarm Fran had supplied the code for had not been activated either. No electronic beeping greeted him as he let himself in.

  The hall was an airy double-height space, with a galleried landing above, reached by twin curving marble staircases. Double doors stood open to right and left. Right led to a dining room, where blinds had been drawn and the light fell softly on a pale wood table and chairs and a dresser loaded with creamy white plates and bowls. Left led to a drawing room furnished with low-slung sofas and armchairs gathered round a stylized fireplace. There were rugs and pottery in abundance, with framed contemporary seascapes on the walls. Space and light were the dominant themes. The proportions of the rooms and the height of the windows, with transoms above the external doors, ensured plenty of both.

  The double doors on the far side of the hall led to a broad passage running along the rear of the house. Another set of doors gave access to a flagstoned terrace, with a swimming pool at its centre and loungers set up beside it. Beyond lay a neatly shrubbed garden, filled with shimmering blossom.

  As Don crossed the passage, he saw movement in the pool and realized, with something of a shock, that he was not alone. Someone was swimming there. He opened the door cautiously and stepped out on to the terrace.

  The swimmer had just completed a turn and was moving away. Don replaced his sunglasses as he approached the pool. He looked down. And his eyes widened. The swimmer was a woman, young, lithely built – and naked.

  Don watched the refracted shimmer of her body as she sliced through the blue water. When she reached the other end, she paused for breath, then pulled herself up and out of the pool. She tossed her head and swept back her long, dark hair with her hands, casting a scatter of droplets behind her. Then she half turned and moved towards the diving board a few feet away.

  And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him. She stopped and slowly turned to face him. There was no crouching run for a towel, no squeal of outraged modesty. She put her hands on her hips and stared straight at him.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ she demanded.

  I swam a few lengths of the pool because I was angry. Wynsum Fry and her calling card were still bugging me and I wanted to wash away the thoughts of her I’d stupidly let into my head.

  I always swim naked when I can. It feels natural. It feels right. I like the water to enfold me completely. It wasn’t one of Glenys’s days and Andy always rings in advance. I had the place to myself. Should have had the place to myself.

  I sensed something as soon as I climbed out of the pool. But I didn’t quite trust the sense. I thought I might still be a bit on edge, because of Fry, though I felt calm. The water had worked its magic. I decided to dive in again. Then as I turned towards the board—

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  I don’t try to hide from him. I stand where I am and let him see I’m not afraid.

  He’s about fifty, a rumpled, slightly paunchy bloke in a dark suit way too warm for the weather. He’s wearing an open-neck blue and white striped shirt. His cufflinks are glistening in the reflected light thrown up from the slopping water in the pool. He has a mop of grey-flecked hair above a square-jawed face. Rugged is what you’d call him, if you wanted to be flattering. Travel-worn, if you didn’t. I can’t see his eyes. He’s wearing aviator-style shades. Is he ogling me? You bet he is.

  What is he? Not local, that’s for sure. Some underling of Harkness’s, maybe. But I don’t know. He doesn’t look smooth enough for that. Or young enough. Harkness wouldn’t send a man like him down here. But someone’s sent him. And he’s come through the house, so he must have a key.

  I’m about to repeat my question when he says, ‘I could ask the same of you. But … do you want to put something on?’ Policeman? Salesman? I don’t know. But there’s a touch of big city swagger about him. Down from London is my guess. But why? On whose say-so?

  ‘Does nudity disturb you?’ I throw back.

  ‘“Disturb” isn’t the word I’d use.’ He smiles diffidently. He’s trying to be friendly without coming over lecherous. I’ve put him in a tricky position. I take pity. I walk round to the lounger where I left my towel, pick it up and wrap it round me. Then I look at him again. ‘So, who are you? And how’d you get in?’

  ‘I’m an estate agent. Don Challenor. From London.’

  My stomach lurches. Estate agent? That sounds bad.

  ‘I have a set of keys. Supplied by Mrs Jackson’s solicitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Jackson. The owner of the property.’

  He’s raving. He has to be. Who’s Mrs Jackson? ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. The owner’s name is Harkness.’

  ‘Not according to my information.’

  ‘Well, your information’s wrong.’

  He frowns at me. ‘I don’t see how it can be. And you are?’

  ‘The housekeeper.’

  ‘I was told she’d moved out.’

  ‘The previous one did. I took her place. I’m Blake.’

  ‘Well, Miss Blake—’

  ‘Just Blake.’

  ‘OK. Blake.’ He nods and walks slowly round the corner of the pool towards me. I’m confused. I don’t know if he knows just how confused.

  He shows me the keys, as if to prove he’s legit. Then he takes a card out of his pocket and offers it to me. I look at it for all of two seconds. Don Challenor. Residential Associate. Mendez Chinnery. Email. Mobile. Landline. Posh address in London W1. ‘I’m sorry I, er, surprised you,’ he says, almost sounding genuine.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why are you here?’

  ‘To value the property. With a view to selling.’

  ‘Selling? This place?’

  ‘That’s right. As soon as possible, according to my instructions.’

  His instructions. From a woman I’ve never heard of. But somehow I believe him. The bolt was always going to come f
rom the blue. Harkness is in trouble. And this is just one symptom of it. I’m going to be expelled from my sanctuary. I know I am. Unless—

  ‘Sorry if this comes as a shock.’

  ‘You’re serious? About this place being sold?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  I decide to play for his sympathy. Actually, it’s the only play I have. And I get the feeling he might just be a sucker for it. It’s certainly worth a try.

  I burst into tears.

  Don’s expectations of what he would find at Wortalleth West had been confounded at every turn. Now, Blake, the self-proclaimed stand-in housekeeper, entirely unabashed by parading naked in front of him, had descended into tears. She sat on the lounger, dabbing at her eyes with one end of the towel she was wrapped in. All Don could do was fish a tissue out of his pocket and give it to her.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself. Please.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she sobbed. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re right there. But look … Blake … it’s not as if this is your home in any real sense, is it?’

  ‘It’s the only one I’ve got.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much I can do about that. The house doesn’t belong to you, now does it?’

  ‘It doesn’t belong to … Mrs Whoever … either.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does. I’ll call the solicitor. Try to sort this out.’

  Don took out his phone and selected Fran’s office number. Then he noticed what the phone was trying to tell him through the glare. No signal.

  ‘Bloody hell. Are we in some kind of dead zone?’

  ‘You have to—’ Blake blew her nose in the tissue. ‘You have to go to the bottom of the drive to get a signal. There’s nothing here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. But there’s a landline in the kitchen. You could use that.’

  ‘OK. I will. You’re … all right?’

  Blake smiled weakly. ‘Sure.’

  Don went back into the house and took a left along the wide corridor, guessing the kitchen would be beyond the dining room. It was predictably vast, with multiple sinks, ovens and work surfaces, trailing away past a long breakfast bar to a TV and lounging area. The work surfaces were all gleaming marble, the shelves and cabinets pale wood, the furniture sleek, simple and expensive.

  The telephone needed some finding amid all the brushed steel and digital displays. One of the receptionists at Fran’s practice took Don’s call. In his experience, they all spoke with the same brisk haughtiness. ‘Is Mrs Revell expecting your call?’ she asked, in a tone that suggested unexpected calls were serious breaches of protocol.

  ‘Tell her it’s Don Challenor. And it’s urgent. I’m at Wortalleth West.’

  ‘Hold on, please. I’ll see if she’s available.’

  Don bit his tongue and waited. Half a minute or so passed. Then Fran came on the line.

  ‘Don?’

  ‘Yes, Fran. It’s me.’

  ‘You’re at the house?’

  ‘I am. But I’m not alone.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You said the housekeeper had left.’

  ‘The live-in one, yes.’

  ‘Well, her successor’s also decided to live in. And she’s never heard of Mrs Jackson. She claims the owner’s name is Harkness.’

  The name sounded vaguely familiar to Don as he spoke it, though he could not say why. He turned away from the wall-mounted phone while he listened to Fran’s response and stepped towards the breakfast bar. ‘She’s confused. Mona Jackson’s husband is called Harkness, but she’s reverted to her maiden name, although we’re still waiting for the decree absolute. More to the point, she is the sole owner of the property.’

  ‘They’re not actually divorced yet, then?’

  ‘No. But that’s a technicality. And, as I say …’

  There was a copy of the Financial Times lying on the bar, near the corner closest to Don. It struck him as an odd choice of reading for Blake. It was folded open at an inner page. A headline caught his eye at once. Harkness’s freedom of movement further restricted as extradition ruling approaches.

  ‘… Now, as to this so-called housekeeper you’ve encountered, she has no right to reside there. She’s nothing more than a part-time cleaner. You’ll need to ensure she moves out immediately …’

  Don stretched out his hand and grabbed the paper. He scanned the first paragraph of the report.

  In the latest twist in pharmaceuticals entrepreneur Jack Harkness’s battle to escape extradition to the United States, Judge Geoffrey Anders QC yesterday ruled that he could remain free on bail until a full hearing of the case, but only on condition he agreed to be fitted with an electronic ankle tag to monitor his movements. US prosecutors are seeking to try Mr Harkness on multiple counts of fraud, bribery and embezzlement, arising from—

  ‘Don?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Don dragged his attention back to the voice in his ear. ‘What?’

  ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

  ‘You want me to persuade the cleaner to move out.’

  ‘Not exactly. I said you must insist she moves out. And make sure she goes. As soon as possible.’

  ‘How do I do that? She has nowhere to go to.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. She’s taken advantage of the situation. And now she’s trying to take advantage of you. You’re not to go soft on her.’

  Don was losing patience. He had heard of the Harkness case without ever giving it much attention: some high roller caught fiddling the books who was trying to dodge the long sentence that seemed to be the norm in American courts. If he was the owner of Wortalleth West, or even the soon-to-be-ex-husband of the owner, Fran had some explaining to do. ‘Mr Harkness, Fran. Would that be Jack Harkness?’

  A brief silence. Then: ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘No. But more to the point, you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Because it’s irrelevant.’

  ‘He’s all over the newspapers, Fran. Fraud is the word. Stolen money. Now—’

  ‘Allegedly stolen.’

  ‘This house could be a recoverable asset. You’re the lawyer. Shouldn’t it be frozen until everything’s been sorted?’

  ‘It’s not his asset. It’s my client’s. And she’s entirely within her rights to sell it. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it otherwise. What do you take me for?’

  ‘You should’ve told me.’

  ‘Why? So we could have had this entirely pointless conversation yesterday? You’re being paid well to get a job done, Don. I suggest you get on with it. I don’t really know what your problem is anyway. As I recall, Mendez Chinnery didn’t dispense with your services because they found your ethics too high-minded for their taste.’

  ‘I don’t like being taken for a ride.’

  ‘You’re not being. Get rid of the cleaner. Measure up the house. Value it. And get the information to me by Monday. That’s all I’m asking you to do in return for your generous fee.’

  ‘Hold on. I—’

  ‘Which I’ll up to two thousand five hundred if you solve the cleaner problem.’

  ‘Blake.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Her name’s Blake.’

  ‘Well, thank you. I’ll make a note of it. So, do you think you can see Miss Blake on her way?’

  ‘Not sure.’ Don was not even sure how hard he would try. He was an estate agent, after all, not a bailiff. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fran tightly. ‘I’ll await your report.’

  I listened to Don’s conversation with the lawyer on the extension in Harkness’s study. She sounded like a real bitch to me. There’s something between those two beyond business, I reckon, history of some kind. And Don’s already misrepresented himself to me. He doesn’t work for Mendez Chinnery any more. They fired him. So now he’s freelancing for the lawyer. Which means he needs his fee, I guess.

  After he puts the phone down in the kitchen, I put the phone down in the study an
d try to make my brain work. Bitch or not, the lawyer must be telling the truth. Harkness doesn’t own this place. His wife does, which is odd, considering I’ve never seen her down here. Probably some tax dodge. Who knows? Anyway, she wants to sell now he’s in trouble and she has her future to worry about. So, a quick sale of Wortalleth West. And for a quick sale you need vacant possession. ‘Solve the cleaner problem.’ That’s what the lawyer said.

  And that’s when Don told her my name. As if it matters to him. As if he wanted it to matter to her. ‘Her name’s Blake.’ He’s already gone a bit of the way to caring what happens to me. Maybe I can take him a bit further.

  I could go quietly, I suppose. I could just pack up and clear out. I don’t know where I’d go. I can’t imagine I’ll find anywhere as safe as this.

  Or I could try to stay. There’ll be some lawyer in Helston willing to argue I have squatter’s rights. But that would mean answering a lot of questions about me I don’t want anyone even asking. I can’t risk that.

  So, what to do? Delay’s the only hope as far as I can see. Delay until I can think of a plan. And that’s where Don comes in.

  After Fran had rung off, Don propped himself against the breakfast bar and started reading the rest of the newspaper article.

  US prosecutors are seeking to try Mr Harkness on multiple counts of fraud, bribery and embezzlement arising from allegations made against him by Quintagler Industries, Harkness Pharmaceuticals’ partner in numerous takeovers and buyouts in the pharmaceuticals field.

  Mr Harkness has dismissed the allegations as an attempt by Quintagler to steal his company from under him. The US Department of Justice has stated, however, that they have seen clear prima facie evidence of wrongdoing and are proceeding without regard to Quintagler’s commercial interests.

  The charges against Mr Harkness have led to big slides in Harkness Pharmaceuticals’ share price, which analysts say would probably have been bigger still but for the continuing and growing popularity of the company’s Elixtris range of anti-ageing products. A spokesperson for Harkness Pharmaceuticals said—