Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (6 page)

Clive watched speechless for a moment, then let out a primal scream: “Jackie . . . !!”

Chapter 6

The Knowledge

Knightley drove silently and intently, his foot pressed to the floor as the car raced through empty streets and joined a long highway. At this hour, a few eighteen-wheelers were the only other vehicles on the road.

After what seemed like an eternity, Darkus broke the silence. “Where are we going?”

“The office,” Knightley answered. Darkus raised his eyebrows. He’d never been allowed entry into his father’s professional world, let alone his base of operations. “We might have time for a cup of tea and possibly a jam sandwich,” Knightley continued. “Triangles, not squares, naturally. Then you’ll be on the first train home.”

“What is the Combination?” Darkus asked.

“I told you, it doesn’t concern you.”

“Is it something to do with a safe?” Darkus went on. “Or a bank?”

“Only inasmuch as they rob them—among other far more sinister criminal activities, which I’m not prepared to discuss.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

Knightley switched on the stereo to drown out the question. Smooth jazz blasted out of the speakers, and he grimaced, pushed a few more buttons to change channels, then gave up and switched it off.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Darkus repeated.

“I don’t remember you being this annoying, Doc.”

“You’re exactly how I remember you,” Darkus said frankly.

Knightley frowned. “I may not have been the best father,” he admitted. “But my work—well, it didn’t keep normal hours, and it didn’t involve normal people. And if I didn’t talk to you about it, it was for your and your mother’s protection. I don’t expect you to understand that. Your mother certainly didn’t. She thought I was losing my mind.”

“That’s what Uncle Bill said too.”

“Uncle Bill?” said Knightley, turning his head.

“I told him I didn’t believe him,” Darkus explained in a show of unity, but his father didn’t seem to notice.

“What did Bill want with
you
?”

“He said you’d probably turn up at the house,” said Darkus. “It appears he was right.”

Knightley shook his head. “He never did understand what he was dealing with.”

“Dealing with? What do you mean?”

Knightley began speaking almost to himself, as if a safety valve had been released and he couldn’t control his own mind. “The Combination,” he muttered, “is a criminal organization. It’s a multiheaded serpent—a hydra, if you will—with an almost preternatural ability to remain invisible. Some might call it supernatural. You may see
signs
—the effects of their operations—but never the organization itself . . . They have contacts everywhere; their reach is so vast. What you see on the TV or read in the newspapers is only a fiction—a mask for their carefully planned and meticulously executed acts of criminal infamy.” Knightley paused for breath, then continued. “And those who manage to unravel the mystery and get to the truth, well, they’re called mad. But when
you
know the truth, and everyone
else
believes the lie, who’s crazy then? Huh?”

For the first time in the conversation, Darkus was speechless. Whatever the Combination was, it was the reason his dad was awake and alert—and, by default, the reason they’d been reunited. For now, at least.

Knightley turned to him. “I suppose you think I’m crazy as well?”

“I don’t have the empirical data to make that determination,” Darkus replied.

“Good answer. Neither do I—yet. But I will. Trust me. And when I do, I’ll use it to break the Combination forever.” Knightley pressed the accelerator even harder, speeding under the rows of highway lights that indicated they were approaching London.

The city was still shrouded in darkness. The orange glow of the neon caught the rain in the air, forming an artificial mist over the skyline. Darkus had the curious sensation that he knew where they were going, even though—to his knowledge—he’d never been there before. But in the far reaches of his mind there was a vague memory of an office. Perhaps he’d been taken there once as a young child, or it might have been a made-up memory based on hearsay—a memory of an experience he never actually had.

Knightley guided the car through a series of parks and commons in the outlying boroughs of the city. They passed Richmond Park, the largest of the Royal Parks, and—thanks to King Charles I—home to a sizable herd of red and fallow deer. They continued on through Wimbledon Common, a favorite haunt of Robert Baden-Powell’s during the early days of the Boy Scout movement. Darkus knew his father had promised to take him to all these places, but couldn’t actually recall if he ever had—or if this knowledge was compiled entirely from his own research.

They pressed deeper into the solemn and majestic heart of London, crossing the River Thames, overarched with bridges and overseen by the London Eye, Big Ben, and the Houses of Parliament, all of which appeared to mean little to Knightley. As if on autopilot, he steered the Jag toward north London, and Darkus stopped recognizing landmarks and felt as if he were being led into a rabbit’s warren.

They entered the borough of Islington, once known as a lair of wild beasts, and subsequently a cattle market for the sale of these beasts, before they made way for its current, more upmarket residents. Knightley drove through a maze of back alleys past forgotten warehouses and railway lines until they reached a short residential street with a row of terraced houses, signposted Cherwell Place. The street had an almost imperceptible curve to it, as if it was permanently being observed through a magnifying glass. The odd perspective meant it was mundane yet strangely mysterious at the same time.

Knightley parked the Jag on a double yellow line and quickly climbed out, approaching one of the narrow houses. Darkus went to stand in his wake and followed his gaze up to a dim light on the top floor of the house. Whether the memory was genuine or not, in dreams or reality, Darkus felt certain he’d been here before.

Knightley walked toward the blue door with a brass number 27 on it and pressed the intercom. It crackled; then, after a long pause, a female Polish voice came out of it.

“Knightley Investigations, hello?” the voice said cautiously.

“Bogna, it’s Alan,” said Knightley.

“Alan . . . ?!
O mój Boże
. . .” she praised the lord, and the door instantly buzzed open.

As Darkus followed his father into the house he heard the thundering noise of someone coming down the narrow staircase. He correctly deduced that the large, middle-aged Polish lady who appeared on the stairs in a dressing gown was in fact Bogna.

“You are alive!” she shouted, crushing Knightley in an embrace.

“Yes, but don’t tell the whole neighborhood,” he answered.

“I’m sorry, Alan. I just thought . . .”

“I know, everyone did. But I’m perfectly fine,” he assured her.

Bogna spotted Darkus standing behind his father and did a double take. “This is Doc,” she announced, grabbing Darkus by the shoulders and inspecting his features.

“It is,” said Knightley. “But he won’t be staying long. I have work to do.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Darkus, then he turned to find his father already pacing up the stairs, and set off behind him.

“The phone keep ringings for over one year,” Bogna explained breathlessly in her broken English, following them upstairs. “Then it was not ringings so often, and now it doesn’t ringings at all. I have keep everything exactly how you left it,” she continued.

They reached the top of the house, and Knightley strode across a small landing to a heavy oak door with his name etched on the outside. He paused a moment, then turned the handle and opened the door. Darkus watched from behind as his father beheld his former office: a large wood-paneled room lined with shelves weighed down with books and periodicals. At the window was a broad mahogany desk accented with Carpathian elm, with a leather office chair and a globe mounted on a brass spindle. A slightly dated computer faced the empty seat, as if the user was temporarily out of the office. There was not a cobweb or a speck of dust in sight. Knightley approached a closet and opened it to find a row of herringbone coats and tweed walking hats, neatly arranged. He fell silent, sparing a moment to take it all in.

“Shall I prepare some sandwich?” enquired Bogna.

“That would be most accommodating. Triangles, not squares,” said Darkus with a nod.

Bogna did another double take, then nodded and thundered back down the stairs. Knightley didn’t respond, lost in thought.

“Dad . . . ?” said Darkus, breaking the silence.

“Yes, Doc?” he answered blankly. He appeared to be somewhere else entirely, his eyes slowly roaming the room, noting familiar objects and mementos.

“Have I been here before?”

“Once, with your mother. A long time ago,” he responded softly.

“Are you going to be working here again now?”

“I only wish I could perform all my tasks from the relative safety of this room. But I fear my enemies will draw me out into the open, where I’m more vulnerable,” he said with a hint of trepidation. “Which is why I must do my best to locate them first . . .”

Knightley walked to a space between two large bookcases, locating a painting of a pastoral landscape. He carefully unhooked the painting to reveal a small, old-fashioned safe recessed into the wall. He spun the dial clockwise, then counterclockwise several times, listening to a series of clicks, until the lock disengaged and he opened the door.

Inside, the space was empty except for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Knightley narrowed his eyes. “That was my emergency pack,” he said, perplexed.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” said Darkus.

“Your mother and I both did once,” he admitted. “It did nothing for my reasoning skills,” he added, then without looking up, called out: “Bogna!”

More thuds ascended the stairs, then Bogna entered the room breathless, awaiting instruction.

“There were several personal items in here,” said Knightley. “What happened to them?”

“Mrs. Jackie took them,” said Bogna with a shrug. “She said it was for, how d’you say, sentimental’s reason?”

“Sentimental reasons?” Knightley asked, puzzled.

“That’s what she say, yes.”

“I’m looking for one particularly sensitive item, which you may recall,” Knightley told her calmly. “A device that contains the sum total of all my notes.” Clearly he was trying hard not to alarm her with the importance of his request.

A lightbulb went off in her head. “Ah—you mean the Knowledges?” she said. Her Polish accent made the words hard to distinguish, the meaning even harder.

“Yes, the Knowledge,” said Knightley impatiently. “What happened to it?”

Bogna shrugged hopelessly and shook her head. “Two men come looking for it, after you went into your coma state.”

“What sort of men?”

“They said they were policemens. I tell them it’s not here, I don’t know where it is. They make a lot of mess.”

“Did you tell them anything else?”

“No. I know the rule,” said Bogna obediently. “Strictly needs to know.”

“Dad?”

“Not now, Doc.”

“What does it
look
like?” Darkus went on. “This ‘Knowledge’?”

“It’s a hard drive, about yea big, stowed in a small leather case with a strap.” Knightley gestured in the air to aid the description.

“Ah . . . ,” said Darkus deliberately.

Knightley’s eyes lit up. “You mean you know where it is?”

“I know more than that,” said Darkus enigmatically. “I know everything . . .”

Knightley looked at his son, mystified for the first time.

Jackie watched as a squad of bumbling policemen marched through the house, scribbling on their notepads. She had been married to a private investigator long enough to know these local officers of the law would have trouble locating their own shoelaces, let alone her son.

Nearby, Clive sat slumped in an armchair, still in his pajamas, his head in his hands.

A burly man in uniform approached Jackie with his pen poised. “Chief Inspector Draycott, ma’am,” he announced. “Now, you say you believe the boy’s father is the kidnapper,” he said, stroking the thin mustache under his nose.

“I never used the word ‘kidnap,’” she responded.

“What about ‘carjack’?” Clive piped up from his chair.

“Shut up, Clive,” she said firmly. “He might not have left if you’d kept your mouth shut.”

Chief Inspector Draycott made another note. Clive grimaced.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Jackie said anxiously. “He always answers his phone.”

“Then exactly what crime would you like to report?” Draycott inquired.

“A missing kid. A missing car. And a man who may have taken leave of his senses,” explained Jackie.

Draycott thought carefully about how to word this last piece of testimony. As he returned to scribbling, Tilly brushed by indifferently. The others cleared a path as she marched up the staircase looking decidedly unimpressed. One officer made a note, but struggled to describe the color of her hair. The end of his pencil broke, and he gave up.