Dispossession (43 page)

And of course to keep detainees in.

o0o

A steel-sided shoebox of a size for giants’ shoes, inside I
thought it had become a plaything for giants’ children,
let’s build a doll’s house, with walls and doors and
everything
. Where human children would have had only cardboard and glue
to work with, these had used steel for the interior also, to make walls far
stronger than the plasterboard divisions I was familiar with. Even the doors
had metal frames, and I guessed metal mesh reinforcement under their hardboard
skins. But still it was only a box lidded and divided, ultimately utilitarian,
painted an uncompromising white throughout. There was no furniture at all,
which I suppose was adding to the impression of a toy-place, an environment
filled with someone else’s fantasies, my nightmares.

The outer door brought us into a corridor. The room on the
left should have been an office but for its utter disuse, the door standing
open and a fluorescent light-strip shining down on nothing. Half a dozen more
doors in the long wall of the corridor: but it wasn’t that long, there was
barely room for half a dozen doors, and no space at all between them. That
reminded me of something. A public toilet, yes, a row of cubicles with only one
purpose and no need to waste valuable real estate with any more elbow-room than
this; but something else also, something far more significant.

Something else that belonged to Scimitar, had their logo on
its sides. Something designed by the same hands, most likely; and with the same
intent, only a more mobile version that didn’t need a truck and a crane to
shift it. I remembered the glimpse I’d had into their escort van in the
courtyard, before they’d brought the girl out of it. The same line of doors I’d
seen then, except they’d been narrower, even more jealous of space.

So when my escort pulled the nearest door open and shoved me
through it, it was no surprise to find myself in a chamber, a cubicle that
could never have been meant for anything other than a cell.

Two paces long and one pace wide, a light recessed behind a
grille in the ceiling, a high narrow letterbox of a window, barred outside the
glass; nothing else to be seen in here, not even the hinges or the lock of the
door. No eyehole in the door, no slot for passing meals in or waste products
out. I supposed, if they were ever questioned, they could claim it simply as a
store-cabin:
look, no facilities for keeping
people, who’s been making such a ridiculous claim? There aren’t even any
toilets, see...

And there weren’t, and I wished I hadn’t thought of that;
suddenly I wanted to piss, rather urgently.

Plain fear, I thought that was. I tried to crush it under a
rising and legitimate anger; tried to feel outraged at what had overtaken us,
that we who’d come here in all innocence had been imprisoned and threatened and
separated. In truth, though, I couldn’t manage anger. I understood Deverill too
well for that. He had reason enough to do this, at least by his own dark
lights. Dean had died, and he thought we were responsible; what more did he
need?

Hell, we
were
responsible. I was, at least. Suzie had only come along for the walk, for the
curiosity, for me; and oh, I was anxious for Suzie, didn’t see how I could
protect her. Truth wouldn’t be adequate, he couldn’t take his revenge on me and
then let her go. I needed to turn his anger to another target, to Mrs Tuck, to
show him something worse than the death of his man; and all I had was guesses,
suspicions, allegations that I couldn’t prove. Not enough.

Nothing I could do then except sit on the floor in that
bleak and featureless cell, wrap my arms around my knees and stare through the
slit window at the darkening sky; sort in my mind everything I knew or guessed
or suspected, and find somewhere in that chaos the weapon that I needed. It was
in my hands to save Suzie’s life or to lose it, to grip it or to let it slip,
and right now my hands were empty.

o0o

Mostly people do only what they want to do, however they
justify it to themselves. Rarely, they find a stronger imperative: something to
drive them further and deeper, till they will do all that they can bear to do,
regardless of the cost. Discipline or hunger, fear or fury or greed: motives
vary. So do consequences.

For me, I learned that day, the driving force was love.

I wish I could find comfort in that, but there is none. You
do what you can bear to do, and nothing more.

o0o

How long did I spend in my cell, alone with myself? One hour
at least, probably two and maybe more than two. It was full night outside
before I heard footsteps and keys opening locks, before the door finally was
pulled open.

I was on my feet by then and ready, if anyone ever is ready
for nemesis.

o0o

It wasn’t nemesis came through that door, nor was I ready
for it.

For her.

I’d been expecting Deverill, come to interrogate; what I got
instead was Mrs Tuck, come to ensure my silence.

She had the tool for that, after all, right there under the
palm of her hand, convenient for any use she cared to put it to.

She stood in the corridor, her hulking driver behind her,
and she looked at me weighingly, took my measure. Then she tossed the keys to
him, said, “Wait outside,” and stepped herself into my little cubicle, quite
unconcerned at sharing such close quarters.

Quite rightly unconcerned.

“I need the toilet,” I said, though it wasn’t true any
longer, something deeper than fear had dried me from the inside out. Nor was it
part of some careful plan, only reflex. If they gave me the chance to escape, I’d
hesitate too long before I took it.

“Too bad,” she said. “Cross your legs,” she said, “that’s
how we like to keep our guests. Makes it harder to run, you see.” And she
smiled, sweet little middle-aged woman showing her teeth.

“Have a lot of guests in here, do you?” The question again
was pure bravado, me playing tough-guy detective still investigating up to the
final bullet, but only because I thought it was expected of me. If not Mrs
Tuck, then Suzie would surely expect it.

“Oh, a fair few. One way and another. We’ve been watching
you, of course,” she said, cutting abruptly to the chase. “Ever since you first
came to Vernon, claiming to know something about Lindsey Nolan. Then I thought
you were a con-artist, though it didn’t seem to fit your profile; now I’m not
so sure. I think perhaps you were conning us both, weren’t you? Telling Vernon
nothing of any value, so that he would tell me, and I would think you were no
risk?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t remember.”

“No, perhaps not. But I think you’ve been rediscovering,
haven’t you? Talking to your mother, among others.”

“She doesn’t know a thing,” I said quickly, truthfully.

“Be sensible, Jonty. It wasn’t passion that took her into
Nolan’s bed, the man’s a frog. My sources tell me that your mother is something
of an investigator on her own account: like mother like son, yes?”

Yes
, damn it, though I
hated to admit it. Had spent much of my life, indeed, trying to deny it or hide
it or else run away from it...

Mrs Tuck must have had good sources, to learn anything about
my mother’s less visible life. But, “She wasn’t interested in you,” I said,
still truthfully. “He never told her anything about you, and she didn’t know to
ask.”

“Well. I think I’d like to hear that from her directly.
Where is she?”

“Gone back to wherever she was hiding out before,” I said,
lying in my teeth. “No good asking either of us, I told her not to tell us. Oh,
and she’s got a copy of the file on disk, the one you pinched my computer for?
Maybe I’ve been lying to you, maybe she does know by now. If she’s read the
file yet, she does.”
It’s too late to hush this up
,
I was telling her; and,
if we turn up dead, you’ll
have an avenging angel on your back, too loud to silence.

“Mm. What’s on the file, Jonty?”

“What, haven’t you cracked the password yet?”

“Not yet, no. Have you?”

I debated inwardly, whether to give it to her. Once she’d
read the file, she’d know how little I was certain of; but she’d also know that
given that much to start with, any good investigative reporter would dig out
everything there was to dig. And she clearly knew something at least of my
mother’s reputation.

Besides which, I had a lie to support. If I played
mysterious she might not believe even that I’d got into the file myself, let
alone given it and its key to my mother.

“John Hughes,” I said. “But don’t ask me why, you have to
work that out for yourself.”

Not much sense of humour, in the glance she gave me then;
but no blame to her for that. I wasn’t feeling so much like laughing myself.
Being defiant was only another way to pass a little more time, to slow down
what was coming. Just a tad, perhaps, but every breath counted. I could measure
out my life, I thought, in the number of breaths I had left, and no danger of
losing count. I’d put the last one off, any way I could; but that again was
just reflex. I had no expectation of a miracle for me. Best I dared hope for
was miracles for other people, for my mother and Suzie; I could maybe bargain
for those.

John Hughes.
She jotted
it down in a little notebook, showed it to me to confirm the spelling, put the
notebook away with a satisfied
snap!
to the
catch of her handbag; and then said, “The other thing I want from you, Jonty,
is your assurance that you will say nothing to Vernon. About Lindsey Nolan, or
anything else you have learned. Your problems with him are your own concern and
none of mine; you’re in his hands now, we were contracted only to supply you.
But I need to know that you won’t try to divert him, with stories about me and
my business activities.”

“And if I do?” I challenged.

“I have your wife,” she said, “locked in a room in the main
house. Vernon wants to talk to you, not to her.” Which meant
no limits
, that didn’t need spelling out. Suzie
was hostage against my good behaviour. No contest.

“No stories,” I conceded immediately. “Though I can’t see
why you’re worried. After what he did to that girl, right in front of me—I
mean, what have you done that’s going to bother him?”

I was only talking, counting breaths, putting off the bad
time. I didn’t really expect her to tell me. But she smiled again, and said,
“Vernon has his own scruples. I don’t share them.”

“Murder?”

She made a little face, a little gesture,
comme çi comme ça
, that seemed to me to be saying
yes and no, that and other things and that not the worst of them, not the big
one. I thought perhaps I’d given something away there, shown her too much of my
abiding ignorance. Too late to salvage that; my eye wandered around the cell
and found again what I’d noticed earlier, patches of fresh white paint showing
clearly on the grubby walls.

“What do you use this thing for, anyway?” I asked, hoping
only to get her talking, to win back a little of what I’d lost. “Most security
firms don’t run to private detention facilities, they don’t need them. Even if
they were legal, they wouldn’t need them.”

“We don’t operate on quite the same basis as most firms,”
she said, with a hint of smug.

“No, I’d twigged that. Keep that kid here, did you, before
you killed him? The one whose body you swapped for Marlon Thomas?”

Her eyes widened slightly, all the reaction I needed. Point
to me.

“He was a client of mine,” I said conversationally, “did you
know?”

“Yes, I knew that.” Of course she would know that, I was
only trying to misdirect her. Leave her wondering how I’d found out about
Marlon, whether the boy had been in touch with me, or with anyone else who
might have come back to me with the news. It was a fruitless game, but I did
want to rock her certainties a little. “And yes,” she went on against my
expectation, “we did keep that other boy in here for a while, though the cabin
was in our compound then. We brought it here this evening for Vernon’s
convenience.”

“For us,” I said, nodding. He’d want his prisoners where he
could lay his hands on them any time, day or night; Deverill liked to witness
his justice being meted out, in person. I’d seen that.

“For you,” she confirmed, “and for that wild man you brought
here. When we lay our hands on him. I’ve men out looking now. Who is he?”

I laughed. “Luke? He’s not a wild man, he’s an angel. Your
men won’t find him, he’ll be long gone now.”

“You could tell us where to find him.”

“I could, but I won’t.” Not that I was concerned about Luke.
Even if they found him, they’d never hold him. Never come near to hurting him.
I just needed to mark a boundary, to say
thus far
and no further
. “How long did you keep that boy, then? Before you used
him?” My mind was filled with pictures, a terrified kid crouched in here—in his
own filth and stink, most likely, I doubted that they’d given him a pot to piss
in—using perhaps his belt buckle or a rivet from his jeans to scratch his name
in the paintwork, desperate to leave a mark before they took him away and put
him down, before they came back with new paint to obliterate his traces.

“Oh, a few days. But we’d used him already,” she said,
“before we brought him here. We already had a supply of boys; it was easy
enough to find one who fitted the description.”

She paused, looking at me with a half-smile, waiting for
reaction. All I gave her was a shake of the head,
I
don’t understand
, but that it seemed was all she wanted. The smile grew,
still more prim than generous, and utterly in contrast to the words it shaped
itself around.

“We have an ongoing arrangement,” she said, “with some
clients who are fond of teenage children. Paedophiles, I suppose you’d call
them. The clients are an informal grouping, and they’re quite widely scattered
across the country. We pick up suitable children, deliver them, move them
around the country; often we hold them for a while in facilities like this. And
when they’re no longer wanted, of course, we dispose of them.”