Chapter 46

Richard

My intercom buzzes.

“Yes, Francis?”

“Mr Haswell, I have the police commissioner on for you.”

“Put him through, please…” The phone clicks… “Richard?”

“Will, good to hear from you. What can I do for you? Do you have any news?”

“I do, Richard, yes. But it’s not good news I’m afraid.”

Damn…

“Go on.”

“I’ve emailed you a report from the authorities in Brazil. Briefly, there was an explosion in a hotel room
in São Paulo; a booby-trapped lavatory would you believe. It took out several rooms and there were a
lot of casualties. Two bodies were taken from the room. One was a member of the hotel staff. The other
was a guest. The passport identifies him as one Harry Hughes: English. But take a look at the
photograph and tell me what you think.”

My mouth sours…

Christ…

If it is…

“Can you hold, Will, while I pull up the email.”



“No problem. Take your time.”

Tap… Tap… Tap… Click…

Password…

Scroll…

Click…

Crap!

I breathe in. Let out air.

“Yes, that’s him. He’s clever with the hair and the glasses. It’s quite subtle and you wouldn’t see it on a
casual glance, but that’s him…”

…

“Richard?”

…

How do I tell Mitch?

… Or Charlotte?

…

…

“Richard? Are you alright?”



“In truth, Will, no, I’m not. It might sound ridiculous. We know the man Klempner was in the past… But
the courage he’s shown… The way he behaved when Charlotte was abducted… And when he knew
there was a threat to Mitch. And James. There was a real human inside there somewhere, fighting to
get out. And now… his chances have gone.”

What a waste…

“I’m sorry, Richard… Would… would you like me to call by and tell Mitch myself? Give her the official
line?”

“No, she deserves better than that. I’ll tell her. Or I’ll tell James and Michael, and get one of them to
break it to her.”

“Okay. If there’s anything I can do, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Will.”

*****

James is in his office next door to mine. He takes the news badly.

“James?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing. “I feel terrible. This is all my fault.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I know it ninety-nine per cent for sure. I gave Juliana the wedge to crack his defences. It’s almost
certainly down to me.” He breathes in, then out again. “No. The question is, how do I tell Mitch?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t tell her. At least for a while. After the birth. She could miscarry.”



“That’s months away.” He tugs at his chin. “She’s already stressed out with waiting and hoping. Could
this be worse? At least it’s closure and she knows what she’s dealing with. She’ll have all her family
around for support.”

“Maybe you should move her back into the house? So we can all keep a closer eye on her? Elizabeth
and Charlotte may well prefer that.”

He chews at a thumbnail. “That might make her feel we’re spying on her. But we could make up her old
room again, so it’s there as an option if she wants it.”

“Good idea. Shall we go. Deliver the news face-to-face. I’ve already asked Francis to cancel
appointments for both of us.”

He straightens up. Eyes red-rimmed, he tugs his jacket straight. “You’re right. Time to face the music.”

*****

 

Klempner

Without warning, the light flicks from dim to bright, and grunting, I raise a hand to shield my eyes for a
few seconds. By the time I’m blinking back to normality, the click-click of stiletto heels is drawing close.

She has her usual bag, stuffed with God-knows-what, and as usual, colour-co-ordinated to her outfit.
“Good afternoon, Larry. How are you?”

She’s in red today; very gaudy, very Latin. The dress fits too tightly and the lipstick is too bright for her.
Although that might not show on the casual glance.

“Why do you wear sunglasses underground?”



“It’s a fashion statement.” Her voice is airy.

I don’t bother to get up. Sitting with my knees up to relieve the strain on my fettered ankle, hands
loosely clasped around my legs, I do shift a little, moving my weight from one side to the other. I’ve
almost ceased to notice the cold striking up from the concrete, but it still rubs, being in contact with the
unyielding surface all the time.

She’s gone for the whole Latin thing today. The wig is black; much too dark for her complexion. Not that
her complexion is visible, with her face plastered under a brown sludge that would be flattering on
some young woman of genuine Latino descent, but which simply looks unsubtle, almost grotesque on
Juliana. A scarlet hibiscus set in her hair completes the ensemble.

“Join me for lunch?” She smiles brightly and tosses a potato at me. On auto-pilot, I catch the miserable
thing mid-air before it hit the deck but, despite the clenching in my gut, I don’t eat.

Lunch?

She takes the usual paper packet from her lunch box, unwrapping some fragrant dainty, then appears
to realise I’ve not moved. She nods down to the potato. “Go on. Eat it. It’s fine. Keep me company.”

Still, I don’t move.

She blinks, then, “If you eat that one now and behave yourself, I’ll give you another before I go.”

Pride surges, but common sense beats it over the head. I take a bite from the potato, chewing slowly to
convince my stomach it’s getting a good meal. What’s galling is that my stomach is coming to believe it.

“Enjoying that?” she says.

“I'm trying to give them up for Lent, but you know how it is…” I take another small bite.



Juliana watches me for a few seconds then returns to her own food. But she makes no attempt to
torment me with her latest gourmet selection. Instead, she simply eats and talks.

“There’s a new park opened in the city you know. Did you see it before… well… “ She simpers…
“Before…?”

“Before you brought me here? I didn’t, no...”

Where the fuck is this going?

“… Is this in São Paulo?”

“That’s right. I went for a walk there last night. It was lovely, under the moon and the stars, with the
cicadas buzzing. You know. Like they do.” She frowns… “Or are they crickets? I’m never sure.”

“Cicadas probably.”

Her brow clears. “Yes? Well, I suppose you’d know. You’re a clever man, aren’t you. And you travelled
a lot...”

She rattles on, relaxed and chatty exactly as if we were some normal couple at a restaurant, and not a
murdering psychotic with her chained and incarcerated pet ex-trafficker.

I take another slow bite of my potato. She’s still talking, but I’m only half-listening…

A park in São Paulo…

Last night…

And now she’s here with her lunch, bought from some street bar…

Not so far away then…



“What else do you do with your time, Juliana?” She glares at me, eyes slitting, and I hold up my hands,
one still clutching the remains of my potato… “Sorry… Solana. When you’re… um… between visits…
What do you do?”

“Oh, this and that…” She waves a hand in the air… the one holding her pastry… scattering pastry
crumbs and fragments of meat in her wake. “I like reading. And there are some very good museums
and galleries.” She wrinkles her nose. “I really should make more of an effort to learn the language
properly, but I get by.” She takes another bite from her pastry, chews and swallows. “What about you?
What do you do in your spare time?”

I simply stare at her…

“Ahhh…” She has the grace to blush. “… I suppose what I mean is, if you could, what would you do?”

It barely seems worth trying to answer.

She cocks her head at me. “What are you thinking?”

“I was wondering what you look like without all the fakery.”

Her face morphs to edges and blades. “What do you mean?”

I wave a hand at her. “Isn’t it obvious? The wigs. The make-up. The different face every time I see you.
Every time anyone sees you. You’re coming down a sewer for God’s sake and you’re wearing four-inch
spikes. What the hell for? D’you think you’re going to impress me?”

Her face freezes over. Mouth pinched, she rewraps her sandwich, puts in it her bag, turns and leaves.
The heels click-click away into the shadows. Two minutes later, I’m plunged into inky blackness.

And I didn’t get the extra potato.



*****


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