72

 

 

Gwen felt a wave of tiredness begin to wash over her. She recognized it as the aftermath of adrenaline. Now that danger had passed, her body and her mind just wanted to switch off. She glanced around as Messenger led her through his home. Polished wooden floors. Persian rugs. A huge, stone fireplace dominated a room with a soaring roof and floor-to-ceiling windows. Modern art decorated white walls. Not her style, but striking. Gwen bet it was Messenger rather than some tony art adviser who picked the pieces.

He led her upstairs into what looked like a guest bedroom, on into the en suite bathroom.

“I’ll just get my bag. And a chair. And some dry clothes.”

He came back carrying a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and sweatshirt. “These should fit. My wife, my ex-wife,” he corrected himself, “she was near enough your size.”

“Thanks,” said Gwen, as Messenger strode out.

She pulled off her wet and bloodstained dress, dropped it in the bath, pulled on Messenger’s ex-wife’s clothes. The jeans were tight, Gwen’s thigh muscles were not designed for skinny jeans, but they were dry and they were warm. Tee and sweatshirt were fine. Gwen looked in the mirror. The eyes that looked back at her were not as cocky as she’d have liked. Silly Mandy, she thought. Nearly fucked us both up big time.

A knock at the door made her jump. Messenger stood there carrying an armchair and a traditional doctor’s bag. Gwen looked at it curiously.

“I thought they only existed in old movies.”

“A present from my ex,” he explained. “It’s quite useful, actually. Sit.”

Gwen suppressed a smile. There was just one thing more dictatorial and God-like than a private equity guru and that was a doctor. She sat.

Gabriel Messenger extracted a somewhat disturbing collection of instruments and set them on a plastic sheet he took from his bag. He then took out a bottle of what must have been a sterilizer and washed his hands, then his instruments.

“Do you want a local anaesthetic?” he asked, brandishing a needle. “Most people I would simply stick and not ask, but I wouldn’t dare do that with you.”

Gwen chuckled. “Why not?”

“You’d bite my head off and tell me you didn’t need it, that all your limbs have been torn off and reattached without it.”

Gwen grinned. “Well, now that you mention it … But thanks for asking, and no jab. I’ll anesthetize myself at home later.”

“It’ll hurt, you know that.”

“Get on with it. Please.”

Messenger sat on the edge of the bath, bent over her arm, face wrinkled with concentration. Occasionally, he would glance up, look into her eyes, check that she was fine. It was oddly, discomfortingly intimate. The healer, the murderer … Involuntarily, Gwen shuddered.

“You OK?” Messenger asked, concern etching his brows.

“Mm. Sorry.”

“Delayed shock, maybe.”

“No. Just cold still.”

Five minutes later, Gwen’s wound was swabbed, cleaned, stitched, and bandaged.

“Get your own doctor to check it and rebandage in a few days. You know the drill; any undue pain, any fever … straight to A and E.”

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you, Doctor.”

“My pleasure.” Messenger stuck out his hand, took Gwen’s, and pulled her to her feet.

“Thank you for saving Mandy. She was too drunk to appreciate the risk she was in, the risk she put you in.”

Gwen gave a rueful look. “Maybe you should have a bowling party next year. In Utah.”

Messenger barked out a laugh. “Maybe I will. But right now I need to go back out and salvage what I can of my party.”

Gwen nodded, felt like a heel again. “Mind if I lie down for a few minutes. Just want to gather myself.”

Messenger gestured to the bed. “Please do. Take as long as you need. You took one heck of a bang.”

Gwen nodded, watched him go, closed the door behind him. She lay down on the bed, ruffled the cover a bit, then got up and edged over to the window. A few moments later she saw Messenger striding from his house, down the steps, onto the emerald grass.

Quickly, she got up, grabbed her bag, and tiptoed out into the hall. Where was his study likely to be? Upstairs with a killer view, or downstairs with a great one? She trotted down the stairs, tried a few doors, found his study on her third attempt. Her heart was pounding. She pulled the door closed behind her. A desk, a computer, a six-screen Bloomberg Terminal. A huge window, covered with drawn blinds to frustrate prying eyes, no doubt. Gwen imagined the party outside, perhaps just yards away. The glass window was too thick to allow any sounds of normal volume to penetrate. No sounds issued from the hall.

On the desk there was also a phone and four silver picture frames: ex-wife and three sons, all fine looking. Healer, murderer, husband, and father.

Gwen searched the room. Desk light, hollow base of, Dan had suggested, or the underside of a desk, far enough in to avoid knocking anyone’s knees. The desk was a single sheet of cherrywood, thin, attached to metal stanchions. The bug, small as it was, would stand out a mile if anyone looked. She checked the Anglepoise on Messenger’s desk. Flat base. Strike two.

She looked around. There was an antique filing cabinet in one corner. She hurried up to it. There was a lip on three sides that protruded an inch and a half, leaving a gap between it and one wall. She inserted her fingers, probed the gap. Enough space, if she were dextrous enough to stick it there. She got out the GSM, held it in place, hand trembling. Perfect fit. She smiled, felt the adrenaline pump.

Quickly, she took out the dental paste, the palette knife, the chopstick, her bottled water, and the saucer, which she unwrapped from the hand towel. Mercifully it was unbroken. She shook out some dental paste in powder form, added water, stirred with the chopstick. It thickened quickly. She took the palette knife, smeared it with paste and quickly smoothed the paste under the lip and as far back as her fingers were able to reach. She smeared some more dental paste onto the device, then pushed it against the filing cabinet, holding it in place.

She counted to sixty. Each second seemed to have been elongated. She could feel the blood pounding in her head. No way to explain this away if Messenger walked in. She counted to sixty again then gingerly released her fingers. The device stayed put. She blew out a breath. Now for the store-and-forward device, which was bigger, harder to hide.

She checked the Anglepoise lamp again. The base comprised a large plastic disk, attached by screws. She dug out the screwdrivers. The second one worked. Quickly she unscrewed all five screws. There was a gap, several inches high. Plenty of room for the device. Again she mixed up dental paste, stirred in water, smeared it on the top of the hollow space and on the device, held them together till the device adhered, then quickly, fingers still trembling, she reattached the base and replaced the screws. She put the lamp back, stashed away all her tools, turned three-sixty, made sure she had left nothing she hadn’t intended to leave. Then she stood by the door, ear cocked to the hall, listening. No sound, but she had an irrational fear that someone was there.

She held her breath, cracked open the door, peered out. The hallway was empty. She edged round the door, slipped out, softly closed it behind her. She was sweating. She drew her hand across her face. A new wave of tiredness hit her. Now she genuinely needed to lie down. She hurried back upstairs into the guestroom, dragged back the covers, lay down, her bag beside her. She yanked the covers over her, felt her body subside in relief. Just five minutes was all she needed, then she’d get the hell out, go home. In less than a minute she was fast asleep.