The noise was merciless. A constant barrage of hits, as if made by a demented drummer in a rock group, echoed around his skull while his eyelids battled in vain to keep out the light. Billie had never known a hangover like this. He couldn’t recall whose party it was, and when he did dare to open his eyes and try to focus on his surroundings, what he saw brought confusion in place of clues.
He was in a single bed. The room’s decor was bright, populated with feminine soft furnishings and overtly pink. Curtains the same shade as the wallpaper lacked enough substance to conceal the state of the weather outside. An angry wind hurled raindrops at the window like pennies from hell. Billie tried to sit up, but the pain in his head said no. He shut his eyes again, trying to remember, raising one arm with an effort and reaching round to find the tender part at the top of his neck. Ouch! A spongy swelling told the story: he’d hit his head on something—or the other way around. Not a hangover then.
High up in the corner opposite his bed was a small security device. His movement triggered a sensor, which activated a camera, that lit up a monitor in another part of the house. The time on screen was 09.23; Meredith noted the time on a pad.
‘Over ten hours. You were right. I should have used a weaker mixture.’
A voice behind him. ‘Not your fault. Wish I could say the same for the head injury. Better get Helen.’ Nudging a joystick and hitting another button, the occupant of an electric wheelchair steered himself into the corridor.
Upstairs, the assault on the window pane subsided as the rainstorm passed over. Billie managed to sit up and swing his legs out of bed. The action of pushing the duvet back had brought another discovery: he wasn’t wearing anything. He looked around, taking in the dressing table and stool, a free-standing wardrobe, chest of drawers and an armchair. All of it high quality with no obvious signs of wear: Ikea simplicity with a Harrods bank balance.
Then he spotted a blinking LED on the device in the corner of the ceiling. He shivered, aware of his nakedness. On the back of the door hung a fluffy white bathrobe; he pushed himself off the bed in an effort to reach it. The pain in his head screamed back as the floor slanted sharply to his left, his legs failing to cooperate.
Billie felt grateful to whoever had covered most of the stained oak floorboards with a thick rug, its fibres producing a slight chemical odour in close proximity to his nose. But his position seemed awkward, and for several moments he puzzled on what made him get down there. A light tapping sound not far away. More rain? No. Knuckles on wood. A female voice floating above him. Could it be an angel? Never again…
*
‘Please be careful,’ Helen Vinke gasped, as Meredith lifted Billie semiconscious into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, then pushed his arms into the bathrobe sleeves. ‘I thought he’d gone back to sleep, but he was trying to say something.’
‘What? Give me that water.’ Meredith reached out for the glass in her hand.
‘It sounded like “knee daffrin”… Oh!’
Her reaction was a little less shocked than Billie’s as the water was flung into his face. He blinked, opened his mouth for a quick breath and then tried to shake his head. Massive mistake.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Billie would have said more, but his brain was already preoccupied with processing the pain, the presence of two strangers (one female) and the amount of his naked body still on show.
‘Get some more,’ ordered Meredith. ‘But forget the aspirin. He’ll manage. And take your time.’
She opened her mouth in protest, realised the challenge was futile, and left the room. Meredith closed the door behind her, brushed some droplets of water from the sleeve of his jacket, and eased himself into the armchair. Billie pulled the bathrobe around him, feeling for the tie to make it more secure. With that barrier in place, he lifted his head and glared at his adversary.
‘Who the hell—’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Vane.’ His tone was calm and polite, but the eyes were not welcoming. ‘It’s about time we had a proper conversation. So I’ll start with a little information for you, and then it will be your turn. Fair enough?’
Billie remained silent.
‘The name is Meredith. I’m in charge here. You are free to leave at any time, but if you do, I want the bathrobe back.’ He paused, letting the consequence of that idea sink in. ‘I work for a higher authority, and it seems you’ve been helping someone with contrary interests to my employer. I present to you Exhibit A.’ He produced Emma’s covering letter from the Titanic document, holding it up so that Billie could clearly identify it. ‘Then we have Exhibits B and C.’ Now he retrieved two mobile phones from his inside pocket, holding each up for Billie’s inspection before placing them together on one arm of his chair.
Billie could sense his throat tightening in despair, but still felt the need to ask a question. ‘Where are my clothes?’
‘Not here. Probably in a charity bag somewhere. You won’t need them.’
‘You’re working for Peter Gris.’
Meredith’s only reaction was a slight twitch of the mouth. Almost a smile, maybe. He said nothing.
‘I’d like my things back, please. You’ve no right to do this.’
‘I’ve every right. And yes, you can have your things back, once I’m satisfied you’ve told me everything I need to know.’
Billie understood the threat behind the words, and felt absurd relief at a light knock on the door. Meredith pursed his lips in annoyance, pocketing the letter and phones before barking out a command.
‘Come in!’ He stood and took a step nearer to Billie as Helen entered the room clutching a fresh glass of water. ‘Five minutes. Then I want him downstairs and ready to talk.’
Billie found himself holding his breath as Meredith left the room, a waft of expensive cologne in his wake. Helen’s presence was more welcoming. He looked into a pair of grey-blue eyes as she sat on the bed next to him, and handed him the glass.
‘Thanks.’ He sipped gratefully.
‘Are you another policeman?’
‘What?’
‘Are you a policeman? Why did he hit you?’
‘No! No, I’m not. As for why… you didn’t get me an aspirin, did you?’
A nervous smile. She opened her fist closest to him to reveal a couple of white pills. He looked down, then past her face towards the corner of the ceiling.
‘We’re being watched, aren’t we?’
‘Yes. But they can’t hear us.’
‘Sure?’ He palmed the pills.
‘It only displays video when there’s movement. No sound. My husband and I had it installed. They’re in most of the rooms.’
‘Who are you? Where is this place?’ He popped the aspirin and slurped some more water.
‘I’m Helen Vinke. My husband—’
‘The writer? This is your house? Emma told me…’ He stopped. Was it safe to say anything to anybody about Emma? Then another thought occurred. ‘Are you being held against your will?’
A tear appeared and her face crumpled. She nodded once and let her head drop, reaching into a pocket for a tissue. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I don’t know where Eric is.’
‘Wait a minute. You asked me if I was another policeman. What did you mean?’
She looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Did I? I don’t remember… I’m sorry. Sometimes I suffer short-term memory loss. We’d better go. He’ll want to see you.’
As she pushed herself off the bed, Billie felt a sudden rush of panic. ‘Is he here? Peter Gris?’
‘No, he’s dead. Didn’t you know?’
Billie stood up carefully, testing his balance before following Helen through the open door. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that. Meredith must work for him, surely?’
They were at the top of a flight of stairs, a small landing around a dozen steps below, where a second set made a dogleg to the next floor. Helen stood to one side, watching as Billie clutched the bannister rail for support. A huge frosted picture window at landing level was ablaze with sunshine as the rain subsided, and Billie blinked at the intensity of the light.
‘Well, I know that he did. But now?’
They made their way down the stairs, Billie surprised at how shaky he still felt, and how bilious. He was struggling to make sense of anything. Trying to remember what happened in Bootle. A face in a doorway. The man who called himself Meredith. He must have been the one that hit him. But where was Emma? She was working with Vinke, so surely… ‘Have you seen Emma?’
‘NO!’ Helen’s reaction seemed unwarranted. ‘Stop asking me questions! I’ve told you all I know!’ They had reached the landing together. The sunlight was no longer in his eyes and he stared at her angry face.
‘Helen?’ Meredith’s calm voice, waiting at the foot of the stairs. ‘I wonder just what you do know. Come down here now. Both of you.’
They descended the last steps in silence, Billie feeling even more alarmed, especially at Meredith’s next invitation.
‘There’s someone here who’s keen to meet you. Follow me.’
Meredith led the way through an archway, where the house underwent a transformation. Billie realised he was leaving an older building and entering a huge extension comprising a vastly contrasting suite of rooms. His legs still felt weak as they walked through a large modern kitchen, glistening grey-faced units and white marble worktops, wood-effect flooring and floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. There were well tended shrubs and a glimpse of trees beyond, cane patio furniture and a manicured lawn. Then they were in another space, a dining area or maybe a boardroom? Original artwork, mainly landscapes, bedecked the plain white walls, and a vase bursting with a riot of summer blooms drew the eye to the centre of a highly polished table. It was big enough to set a dozen places, but at present Billie’s eyes were drawn to a figure sitting with his back to the door. The top of a bald head protruding above a neck rest, attached to a beast of an electric wheelchair.
Meredith led Billie further into the room, stopping part way down the length of the table at a point where his boss could comfortably inspect their new guest. Billie’s heart thumped loudly as he braced himself for his first sight of Peter Gris. The eyes of his prospective host were hidden behind oversized tinted lenses, the face bloated with purple lips. There seemed little resemblance to the suave politician who had featured so many times in the tabloid press of the 1980s, with his trademark mane of hair and steel-framed glasses. Each looked at the other without comment, before Meredith made the introduction.
‘Mr Vane, sir. And this… this is Sir Antony Jaeger.’