Christopher Brookmyre (31 page)

'He's a whole bundle of fun,' Jane remarked.

'No, don't be fooled by the facade. Beneath that icy and impermeable exterior there beats a heart of pure, simmering evil. Some nights we just laugh and laugh,' she added grimly.

'I'm not sure I caught his first name. In fact, I'm not sure he gave one.'

'I'm not sure he has one. I find he usually responds to "Sir". You could try Fuckface.'

'Perhaps not while I'm a guest.'

Jane followed her up the broad staircase, conscious of the reverberations her footsteps made around the high walls and marble floor below. She lowered her voice to speak.

'I'm sorry if I've not turned out to be much help,' she offered meekly. 'I get the impression there's a bit of tension over me being here.'

'Don't sweat it, I'm sure you'd sooner you weren't. It was Bett's idea to bring you in, and not everybody was sold on it, but he's the boss, and they're used to that. Doesn't mean they like it, but he's got an infuriating, chronic habit of turning out to be right. They're used to that, too, it's just . . . '

'What?'

'Nothing. I've said too much. You've got enough to worry about without our squabbles.'

'You can't leave me hanging there.'

'Well, Bett's about as single-minded as it's possible to get, and on the whole you don't ask questions because, like I said, he usually turns out to be right. He knows what he's doing and he doesn't take chances.'

'But you think that's what he's doing with me?'

'Me? I'm taking the fifth. But it would be fair to say there's a concern that Bett's being more single-minded than usual, and nobody can work out why.'

'So me failing to supply many answers in there didn't make it any clearer.'

'Not much, no.'

Jane stopped on the first-floor landing and looked along the corridors in both directions. She dallied a moment as Alexis led off to the right rather more urgently than seemed necessary, even if Jane was in serious need of some rest. It seemed less a matter of hastening towards her destination than anxiety that she should be contemplating another. Jane stared along to the left a moment longer to test her thesis, prompting a beckoning gesture from her guide by way of confirmation.

'What's down there?' she asked.

'That's the west wing. Bett's private area. I mean, it's all his house, but, you know, that part's more his than the rest. It's where he hangs upside down or naps in his casket, or whatever, I don't know. But don't go there. Come on.'

They reached the door Bett had directed them to. Alexis opened it and stepped aside to invite Jane past her. She walked in to find an area boasting more square feet of floorspace than an entire storey of her house. The fourposter against the near wall meant it could technically be referred to as a bedroom, but to Jane it looked like a flat missing several walls. Four windows gave out on to the lawns, each three panes tall, each pane six feet wide and three feet high. There were antique wardrobes, a chaise longue, a mirrored dresser, a bureau, two armchairs, a low coffee table and just acres and acres of space.

'There's an en suite through there,' Alexis pointed out, indicating a halfopen door to the right. Through the gap, Jane could see the end of a roll-top bath standing free upon a broad tiled floor.

'So is this the Romanian Suite?' she asked.

Alexis laughed rather darkly and shook her head.

'No, no, this is . . . this is the VIP suite. He's not the most communicative, so consider this Bett's big stab at courtesy.'

'I'd take this over a kind word, wouldn't you?'

'Sure. But you'll be a long time waiting to get both.'

As soon as Alexis had departed, Jane ran a bath, peeling off her clinging and less-than-fragrant clothes as soon as she'd turned on the taps. She laid her garments on the arm of a chair and stood in the doorway, watching the tub fill and listening to the splashing resound noisily about the tiled walls. It was cool in the room, but it felt good to be naked, to feel the air on her skin. She lay and soaked for a while with her head half-submerged, closing her eyes and letting the water block her ears. She could imagine other circumstances under which it would be close to heaven, but for now it served only as respite. Nor did it last, her mind still too full and busy to let her relax. She lay only a few minutes then got on with her ablutions. When she emerged, wrapped in a heavy cotton dressing gown, she found that a tray had been left on the low table and that her clothes were gone, but for the open plastic pack of underwear she'd purchased last night at that twenty-four-hour supermarket. The tray bore a plate of quiche, cheeses, cold meats and relish, as well as a baguette, a small bowl of fresh fruit, an earthenware pitcher of water, two glasses and a bottle of wine. Jane fell upon it ravenously, devouring the quiche and tearing into the bread before pausing to take a drink, surprising herself with how hungry she was. Calmed a little by this glut, she examined the bottle. There was no label, nor any impressed markings, not that she'd have known a Cabernet from a Cranberry. Curious, she poured a little into the unused glass and had a sip. It was lighter than she was expecting, less bitter. It didn't have that dilutedperfume taste of the white stuff Catherine had insisted she try, nor the bloodlike thickness she remembered from sampling a red before. She took a bite of Stilton and then had some more. The wine tasted sweeter in contrast to the cheese, pleasantly warming going down her throat. She could feel it right across her chest, in fact, and after another few mouthfuls, in her face too. Jane almost giggled with a childish kind of pride when she saw that she had actually finished a whole glass. She ate a forkful of carpaccio and poured herself another. Ten minutes later she was sound asleep. She awoke to find herself stretched out on top of the bedclothes, still wrapped in the bathrobe. The dinnerplates and glasses were gone and in their place there was a silver-coloured jug from which she could smell coffee. She looked at a clock on the wall. It said seven twenty-five. From outside she could hear a low chug-chugging, some gardening device being put through its paces.

Jane sat up and walked to the table. As she poured herself a mug of coffee, she spotted that there was a black lycra dress draped over the back of an armchair, roughly where she'd left her own clothes last night. She picked it up, causing a pair of black nylons she hadn't noticed to fall on to the upholstery. Jane shook her head. What age did they think she was? She couldn't wear that. She never wore skirts these days, never mind a dress. It was too small as well. She'd never get into it, let alone walk in the thing. Faced with the alternative of going downstairs in only the bathrobe, she decided to try it on. As it turned out, it wasn't too small, though the hemline was six inches higher than anything she'd contemplated in a decade. Nor was it restrictive, the material comfortably snug and accommodating as it stretched and contracted with her movement. The colour did, however, serve to emphasise the grey streaks in her hair, though they were the least of her tonsorial worries at that point. She hadn't dried it before the wine zonked her last night, so she had that Bride-of-Frankenstein thing going on. She noted a brush and a comb on the dressing table, but there was little they might achieve that would improve upon tying the whole thing back with an elasticated scrunchie.

Her mane thus restrained, Jane had another swallow of coffee and ventured downstairs. The chugging sound got louder as she neared the open front door; it was powerful but still unexpectedly muted. She wandered outside, where she discovered that this was because it was coming from the rear of the house, where the rotor blades of a helicopter were rhythmically chopping the air. Walking around the building, she could see Rebekah at the controls, Bett and Nuno standing to the side a prudent ten yards away. Nuno noticed Jane's arrival first and tapped Bett on the shoulder. He turned, saw her and beckoned her forward.

'Good morning,' he hailed as she approached, calling loudly over the sound of the helicopter.

'I'm ready,' she said.

'Ready for what?'

'Anything it takes, remember?'

Bett nodded. 'Welcome aboard.'

Several hours later, she was in another set of someone else's clothes, once again a good enough fit, though this time a little more formal. The peaked cap was her particular favourite, accompanied by wraparound shades that she was supposed to wear at all times, indoors and out. They were for concealment and disguise, but she'd have been surprised if Connelly had ever paid enough attention to know what she looked like anyway.

They'd arrived in Barcelona by mid-morning. It took Bett less than an hour to organise the vehicles and Nuno little more to suggest and secure a suitable venue. The longest single stretch had been Jane's driving lesson, first getting used to the vehicle and then learning the route. She'd have liked more time to practise, given the thing had a turning circle of about a quarter of a mile, but them's the breaks. Somehow she didn't anticipate her driving being the biggest thing her passengers might have to complain about. In the meantime, Rebekah had gone to the hotel and run a tail on Connelly, picking him up on his way to lunch and following him around a few bars until he decided it was time for a pre-match siesta. Jane pulled up in front of the Gran Havana at bang on four o'clock, Nuno in the passenger seat, Bett in a hired A6 just around the corner. The place was utterly swarming with guys in Celtic tops, waving and grinning stupidly to each other whenever they encountered another of their kind. Nuno opined that they wouldn't be smiling in a few hours, but Jane suspected he was overestimating the importance of the actual game to such a trip. Bevy and parties were going to be top of the agenda, win or lose. However, she did know of at least one Celtic fan who definitely wouldn't be getting the result he wanted.

Having seen them approach, Rebekah walked out through the glass doors and made her way to the Audi, while Nuno picked up the car phone and asked to be put through to Connelly's room.

'Senor Connelly?
Si
. Is just a call to say that your limousine is waiting downstairs whenever you are ready, to take you to Camp Nou. No, Senor, I eh . . . I
comprendo
, you no order,
si
. But is okay, you no pay. Is ordered by friend. He say is, how you say, gift, in interest of business,
comprendes? Siiii
,'

Nuno nodded, grinning. 'That's right. A "wee thank you",
si
. Okay. Is . . . my driver, she is outside now, she take you, okay? But she not speak English, Senor. Only right and left, okay?
Si
. Okay. When you are ready.
Si. De nada,
Senor.'

He put the phone down.

'A wee thank you?' Jane asked.

'His words. Meaning he's already made the sale.'

She nodded, understanding. Their default gambit was to play it as a perk from a prospective buyer, Bett carefully phrasing 'in interest of business' to keep the tense neutral. Connelly had assumed who the gift horse was from, and instantly taken it as a gesture of gratitude. He wasn't looking it in the mouth. Too bad for him it was Greek.

'Time to go to work,' Nuno said. They both got out of the car, Nuno heading for Bett's Audi, Jane taking position, arms folded, leaning against the side of the black stretch limo.

Ten minutes passed, throughout which Jane was anxious that Connelly might be calling someone to acknowledge the gesture. In any eventuality, Bett had anticipated that both curiosity and flattery would get the better of him and he'd get in anyway, keen to discover who was behind the gesture and what opportunities they might have to offer. Bett had therefore reasoned that any caution on Connelly's part would be overcome by the sight of a lone and female driver, predicting further that the booze-lubricated back-seat conversation would be less circumspect if they thought she didn't understand a word of it.

Finally, the concierge held the doors open and Connelly stepped into view, accompanied by a tall and heavy-set minder she recognised from her taxi days. Charlie, his name was, or Big Chick. She felt her chest tighten as they both looked at her, their stark familiarity making reciprocation seem inevitable. Now she understood why Bett insisted on the sunglasses; they were as much to hide her reactions as her appearance.

Neither of them exhibited the slightest glimmer of recognition. They were mainly looking at the car, grinning at each other with a nauseating selfsatisfaction. From behind her shades she felt as though she was looking at them through a two-way mirror. She could see them, but they couldn't see her, and the membrane that protected her from their view was much thicker than glass.

'
Hola
,' she said, holding open the door and offering a thin, professional smile. Don't look too friendly, Bett had coached her. It hadn't been hard. Connelly climbed inside, but Big Chick paused on the pavement, his expression looking suddenly uncomfortable.

'Eh, we want . . . we're hingmy, you know, no' wantin' tae go straight tae the gemme. No . . . football . . . yet? You understand?'

This was the guy's pitch at bilingual communication. Connelly's abilities were doubtless no better, but he had the seniority to leave making an arse of himself to his minion. She almost felt for him. The guy's face couldn't have looked more contorted or pained if he was straining for a jobbie.

'
No comprendo.
'

'Eh . . . hingmy, it's a restaurant we're after the noo. Restaurant?'

'Restaurant? Tapas?'

'Aye.
Si
.'

'Fuck's sake, Charlie, show her on a map,' Connelly called from within, where he was already removing the foil from a bottle of Cava.

'Huv ye got a map?' Chick asked.

'Map?'

He mimed unfolding and pointing, or at least that's what she assumed from already knowing what he meant. Marcel Marceau could rest easy.

'Ah,
mapa
?' she asked.

'Naw, map,' he insisted.

'Fuck's sake, man, mapa
is
map.'

'Oh, right. Aye,
mapa
, hen,
mapa
.'

Jane opened the driver's door and retrieved a map from the side pocket. It was handed through to Connelly, who pointed out a destination to Chick, who in turn demonstrated it to Jane. She pretended to examine it. '
Si, si
,'