Peter Temple - Dead Point

I couldn’t run away from this. There wasn’t any way to backtrack, to undo.

Bergh’s phone bill. Another look at it.

The city hadn’t fully woken yet, only those without a choice were astir: the greengrocer on the corner, the newsagent, dry-eyed shiftworkers going home. I was opening my office door in ten minutes.

There hadn’t been any malice in the job they’d done, but they didn’t care who knew they’d been there.

My one filing cabinet had been emptied, every file taken from its folder and dropped to the floor.

My old Mac’s hard drive was gone.

The in-tray where I’d carelessly tossed Bergh’s phone bill was empty. So was the out-tray.

There was the faintest glow of light from the back room.

I went to the doorway. The door of the small fridge was open and a rectangle of pale-yellow light lay on the floor.

I switched on the light.

Everything had been taken out of the small sink cupboard — ancient dishwashing liquid, a tin of drain cleaner, a few scouring pads, a bar of yellow soap I’d never seen before, two rolls of paper towels, a box of tea bags, the jar of sugar.

They’d looked in the old microwave, left the door open. I went to the steel back door. It was open. They’d left that way, down the lane, carrying the hard disk.

I locked the door, looked around, feeling light-headed, queasy in the stomach.

What else had been in here?

Robbie’s suitcase. I’d put it between the fridge and the sink.

Gone.

If things had gone to plan, I would be dead now, lying in the park, dragged into the bushes, blood seeped into the tanbark, waiting to be found by some early walker’s dog. And there would be nothing in my effects to connect me with Marco or Bergh.

I went to the front room, willed myself to tidy up, failed. What was the point?

Eric the Geek had done the Bergh reversedirectory for me. Would he have kept a copy of his findings? Possibly. There was something distinctly retentive about Eric. I got out my wallet to find the card with his number, searched through the pockets, couldn’t find it. In exasperation, I pulled out half-a-dozen cards.

A small dark-blue object. For a moment, it meant nothing. Then I remembered.

The small plastic torch-like device from Robbie’s jacket, found in the inside key pocket. The device without hint of function.

I held it between finger and thumb, pressed the button, looked at the red light it emitted for a second or so, turned it over. Something had been scratched into the plastic. I held it to the

light. Numbers: 2646.

I thought I knew what this thing did.

The Cathexis carpark was in the basement, entered from a concrete driveway on the eastern side of the building. I found a park two blocks away and walked back, a cold wind opening my jacket, no-one in the streets.

I didn’t turn in when I reached the driveway. I walked to the far side, then turned right and stayed close to the wall as I made haste to cover the 50 metres to the carpark entrance. The camera above it was stationary, looking down on where drivers would activate the door-opening machinery by communicating with a steel pillar.

Robbie’s device was in my hand as I walked. At the carpark’s huge door, I did a right-angle turn, went up to the pillar, saw the eye set into it, pointed the small torch and pressed the button.

The carpark door made a noise and began its rise. I was inside long before it reached my height.

No more than two dozen cars were in the brightly lit chamber. Quality not number, all foreign: Mercedes, BMW, Volvo, Saab, Audi, an Alfa, a yellow born-again VW Beetle in the corner.

I looked around. In the centre of the space, a glowing green arrow on a concrete shaft pointed upwards. I was there in seconds.

Another eye.

I pointed and pressed.

The lift door opened.

A big stainless-steel box, carpet on the floor, deep plum-coloured carpet. No ordinary lift. No floor buttons to press, just a keyboard, an eye and, above it, a green screen. Beside that, two large red rectangular buttons said ASSISTANCE and EMERGENCY.

The green screen had a message: Welcome to Cathexis. Please enter your code.

Point and press.

The screen said: Thank you. Please enter your password.

My password?

I hadn’t thought about a password. Ah, the numbers scratched on the torch. I managed to read them, typed them in: 2646.

The screen said: Error. Please re-enter password.

Time to leave. I was turning when I remembered. The apartment was in a company name. The woman at reception had said it. It had crossed my mind that it was an anagram of Rosalind.

Dalinsor Nominees.

It was worth a try. I typed in Dalinsor.

The screen said: Thank you.

The lift was moving. I breathed again. Numbers blipped on the screen, stopped at 12. The door opened.

A foyer with a pale rose carpet. Soft lighting came from wall sconces beside four doors. Number 12 was on my right, a security camera set into the wall above it. Plus another electronic eye, another keyboard. How did the residents put up with this? Better to risk burglary.

There was a button. I pressed it. If anyone was home, I had explaining to do.

No response. I pressed again, waited. Then I gave the eye a beam with the torch.

The keyboard lit up and a voice said: ‘Entry code, please.’

If the number scratched on the torch didn’t work I was going to be trapped up here on the twelfth floor, waiting for security to arrive.

I tapped in 2646.

The voice said: ‘Thank you.’

My shoulders sagged. Bolts slid.

I went into a long hallway, unfurnished, looked around for the alarm system. It was behind the door, a steel box with a green light glowing. The entry code had deactivated the alarm.

An open door from the hall led into a huge sitting room, empty except for two leather chairs and a sofa. Outside, on a balcony, the wind was whipping the bare branches of trees in pots. I walked through into a kitchen, stainless steel and granite, sleek, no visible appliances, no signs of habitation. From the sink, you could look out over the city, blurred by the wet glass.

I went back to the hall, found the main bedroom. The bed was the size of a Housing Commission bedroom, bedding on it, striped sheets stripped back.

Facing the bed, a home-cinema-size screen was built into a wall of cupboards, record and stereo equipment beneath it.

Was this where Susan Ayliss had seen herself on screen? Live in action with Marco.

A dressing-room led off the bedroom. I had a look in the cupboards. Two held women’s garments, after-dark wear at a glance, and there were underclothes in drawers and women’s shoes in a rack. Ros Cundall obviously used the place occasionally.

Beyond the dressing-room was a bathroom that was also a gym and spa and sauna, an antiseptic Nordic-looking place. In a glass-fronted cabinet, glass shelves held cosmetics — jars and tubes, bottles of all shapes and sizes containing pale liquids and golden vials — three perfumes, atomisers, cologne, cottonwool balls, ear buds, mouthwash, toothpaste.

Nothing. I was wasting my time.

I went back to the kitchen, sighted along the granite countertop, saw the faint trails. It took a while to find the fridge but it was empty except for a bottle of Perrier water.

I opened another door off the hallway. A study, built-in shelves along one wall, a modern desk and a chair, nothing in the desk drawers. Tall and narrow cabinets flanked the doorway. On the way out, I opened the door of the right-hand one. Empty. I tried the other one. Empty.

Time to go, to end this trespass.

But I was reluctant to leave. I went back to the sitting room, looked around, walked around the kitchen again opening doors, checked the other bedroom, the main bedroom again, the dressing-room, the bathroom/gym/sauna.