Jack in the Box, page 16
*
Shane barely heard her move up the driveway at his back. As he turned to close the door, there she was. He removed the earbuds and hung up his coat.
‘How’s the driving going, then?’ she asked. She removed her coat and did up the top two buttons of her shirt.
Shane looked away, embarrassed.
‘Fine. Just about there, I think.’
‘I saw you on the roundabout at Kelliesburn Toll.’
‘You followed me?’
‘I said I saw you. I was coming back from the office, smartarse.’ He said nothing. ‘You went around it like an old lady.’
‘Old ladies are careful.’
‘Old ladies crash.’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘I want you getting that licence before your exams. Speaking of which – your prelim results in yet?’
‘Think it’s tomorrow.’
‘That’s a weird one. Because I spoke to Orla Kemp’s mother when I was getting petrol. She said the results are in.’
‘Maybe she phoned the school? Orla’s mum is a hysteric.’
‘Or maybe you’re not telling me.’
Shane knew his marks were good, but chose not to tell his mother. The barb, the spear, was always ready to be jabbed home, whether he performed well or not. This was not Shane’s first rodeo either. He was an old stager. ‘I’m sure you’ll find out in good time.’
‘I’m sure I will. Tea’s in the oven, if your stepfather’s done what I asked him to.’
‘Yeah, I can smell the burning from here.’
Nicole Kingsley barged past her son – literally shouldering him out of the way. He watched her go, flicking on the downstairs bathroom light with some savagery as she went, then disappearing inside.
He entered the kitchen. On the Aga beside the huge farmhouse-style window a casserole steamed and bubbled. To be fair, it wasn’t too burnt. Shane sniffed at it, and stirred the pot, watching the tinned tomatoes float to the surface. A creak at his back startled him, but he did not turn. ‘Out you come, pardner,’ he said.
The cupboard door creaked again, opening a little further. A dark sliver appeared, and something that might have been the gleam of an eye.
‘Don’t take all day. I know you’re there.’
The door swung open. ‘Boo!’ Shane’s half-brother leapt out, over-balancing before pulling a superhero pratfall on the tiled floor. Jared was the antithesis of Shane: blond curls, big blue eyes. But the boy never smiled. Even in play he was half looking over Shane’s shoulder.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he said, in his squeaky mouse voice.
‘Out driving.’
‘Dad says you’re rubbish at driving.’
‘He’s got nine points on his licence, kiddo; he should know all about it.’
‘Dad says you’re going to stay with your real dad soon.’
‘Yeah. I might just do that over the weekend.’
Jared checked over his shoulder, then whispered, ‘Can I come too?’
Before Shane could answer, his stepfather stormed into the kitchen. He still wore his work gear, though he’d ditched the tie some time before he came in. He ran his hands through his hair, gurning at his stepson. ‘Get some of that down you, quick,’ he said. ‘And put some out for Jared while you’re at it.’
‘There’s no potatoes. Want me to cook some?’
‘No, I bloody don’t. Just stay in here and eat it. Both of you.’
‘OK. Keep your hair on.’
‘Don’t be cheeky, Shane,’ Neil Glennie said, in what Shane thought of as his glinty-eyed tone. ‘Not today. Some people are coming round to talk to us. It doesn’t really concern you, but they might come in to say hello. They might ask some questions. It’s very important you don’t say anything stupid.’
‘Who is it, exactly? The Feds?’
‘Almost. The police, in fact.’
37
‘That Nicole Kingsley?’ Slater nodded towards the beast of a 4x4 as it rumbled down the road. There was a suggestion of blonde hair in the passenger seat, someone sitting high with their chin up, like royalty.
‘Aye. Spoke to her already.’
‘Anyone would think she saw us coming.’
‘Enough bloody security cameras – maybe she did.’
‘Wee bit dodgy.’
‘Perhaps she’s shy. If I’m honest, it’s a result. I don’t want her around when we talk to his nibs.’
‘Those cameras – reckon it’s the same make as the other places, gaffer?’
Lomond’s keen eyes narrowed as he took in the brass plate on the gate. FiveBarGate, it said: one word, three capitals. ‘Aye. That’s it. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for their products if it wasn’t.’
‘Got to ask them about security flaws. Re-recording, hacking, that kind of carry-on.’
‘We’re already on it. Camera company laughed at us, but we’ll look into it. Techies will take it apart. Tait’s dealing with all that.’
‘Lucky Tait.’
Lomond drove up the long driveway. The house was less than twenty years old, according to a quick search, but it looked much older. A real lawn, too, not especially well kept, with patches of water in dips, and overgrown bushes along the eastern wall. Lomond thought the conifers were a little bit tall, as well. There was private and secluded, and then there was oppressive. Smoke rose from a chimney, and there was a scent of burning logs through the vent of Lomond’s car.
‘Heard about this job that’s coming up, then?’ Lomond asked.
Slater sighed. ‘Aye, gaffer. And, no, I’m not going for it.’
Lomond raised his eyebrows. ‘Be a good fit for you.’
‘So would long johns, but I’m not going for them either.’ Slater frowned. ‘Unless you’re saying I should?’
Lomond hesitated as he engaged the handbrake, and the stone-chipped driveway cleared its throat beneath the car. ‘I’m not saying you should go for it as in . . . “You should go for that, hint hint”, you know? But, all the same, you should go for it.’
‘This is taking a turn for the surreal, gaffer.’
‘It usually does when we talk to a squillionaire.’
‘Gangster, though. Getting together with, what, an architect?’
‘She’s a gangster’s daughter, actually. Bit of a difference.’
Slater snorted. ‘Doubt it.’
‘Legitimate businesswoman.’
‘We sure about that?’
‘All legit.’
‘She’s in bloody property. How legit can she be?’
‘I have the right to remain silent,’ Lomond offered. He unbuckled his seatbelt.
*
As they were led through the hallway, Lomond and Slater passed a doorway through which the view was dominated by a desktop computer. It took a while for Lomond to realise that’s what he was looking at – the thing was shelled in black mesh and dull metal, with slow-blinking lights denoting that it was at peace.
‘Hell is that?’ Slater asked, doing a double take before the door. ‘Not a computer, is it?’
‘It is,’ Neil Glennie said archly. ‘High-end, high-spec. You could edit a movie on that. Special effects, the lot.’
‘Sounds complicated,’ Lomond said.
‘You bet it’s complicated.’
‘Use it for work?’
‘Nah, it’s Shane’s. He’s the tech guy. He codes, helps me with the website, the lot.’
Slater frowned. ‘You know what it reminds me of? You ever seen that film War Games?’
‘Was that the one with Johnny Five? The robot? Had a laser on his, eh . . .’ He tapped his shoulder.
‘Nah, you’re thinking of Short Circuit. War Games has this massive computer, Whopper – W-O-P-R. They nearly launch World War Three.’
Glennie laughed. ‘Well, that sounds like a job for Shane. It’s his build. I should really find out what he’s got on there, one of these days . . . Anyway. Kitchen. Here we are.’
*
‘Sorry, I’m running late here, Inspector . . . Inspectors,’ Glennie corrected himself. He was perched on a seat that seemed a little too high for him, at the end of a breakfast alcove. Lomond had a flashback to being taken to a barber’s by his father, long ago, and suffering something of a humiliation in having to sit on the extension slat across the chair. Legs dangling.
Glennie was over fifty but looked a decade younger. Well-groomed and thick-haired, there was nonetheless something in him that reminded Lomond of Vincent Finch, though he would never have said so to the guy’s face. Glennie was musclebound, while Finch’s look was strictly nouveau-jakey, but there was definitely something there.
‘We won’t take up much of your time. We’ve had a quick look at the documents and blueprints you sent through after we spoke to your wife. Very comprehensive.’
‘Least I could do,’ Glennie said. He leaned back, his legs splayed wide. ‘Terrible thing. I’m happy to help in any way I can.’
‘The house in Myrtlewood Crescent that’s similar to the one in Craigan Walk is also one of yours, I think.’
‘Almost identical,’ Glennie agreed. ‘I designed both streets.’ He folded his arms.
‘Almost?’
‘Sometimes there are modifications. A client can come in at the design stage and request specific features.’
‘Christ,’ Slater said suddenly, his foot slipping off the rail of his stool. ‘Mind if I stand up? I feel like a singer on an old chat show.’
Glennie cocked his head. He sounded a little annoyed as he said, ‘Ergonomics not suiting you?’
‘Just general physics, I think.’ Slater studied his notebook. ‘Feel like my plums are on show. Anyway . . . these extra features you’re talking about? Would these include things that might not have been on the initial blueprints?’
Glennie chewed the side of his mouth and studied the spotlights on the kitchen ceiling. ‘Maybe not the initial ones, but I’m sure you got all the modifications and final plans. I was quite meticulous about it.’
‘You were,’ Lomond agreed.
‘So what sort of modifications did you have in mind? Helicopter pad, sex dungeon, that sort of stuff? Aw, don’t look at me like that.’ Glennie chuckled. It was a jarringly insincere sound, as fake as the antique-effect radio, silenced in the corner. ‘I have designed all of those things for clients.’
‘Now that you mention it, I was thinking more like panic rooms. Hidden passages, escape hatches – anything of that nature.’ Lomond kept his tone and his expression neutral.
‘I don’t think so, not on either of those homes. As I said, any modifications will show up on the blueprints I sent you. I’ve left nothing out.’
‘Just checking.’ Lomond smiled. ‘Because we’re going to rip both those houses apart.’
Glennie blinked. ‘What?’
Lomond considered a moment. ‘Let’s say someone asked you how to break into a house you designed, with a security system you specified in partnership with FiveBarGate. You’re the expert of all experts, right?’
‘I suppose.’
‘How would you do it?’
‘Well . . . I’d take out the security system. Then maybe I’d have a key to the door. I don’t know. That is a hell of a thing to ask . . .’
‘It’s expertise I’m after,’ Lomond said. ‘How could it be done?’
‘This guy . . . the one they’re talking about on the telly . . . this is what he’s doing?’
‘Two people have been killed in houses you designed,’ Slater said. ‘You’ve got a few estates dotted about the city and the wee posh armpits here and there, but your stuff isn’t, like, everywhere. So it’s a bit of a coincidence, we think.’
‘Nothing to do with me. Or my designs.’
‘Someone’s breaking into the houses and leaving no trace, Mr Glennie,’ Lomond said. ‘There’s nothing on CCTV. There’s no sign of forced entry – no broken windows, or pits in the garden – and he hasn’t teleported so far as we know. But he’s getting in. How would he do it?’
‘Hiding,’ Glennie said, snapping his fingers. ‘He might be hiding. In the loft. Somewhere in the house.’
Lomond pulled his stool closer – and, like Slater, almost slipped off. ‘Now we’re talking,’ he said. ‘How would he hide? What’s the best place?’
‘I designed big walk-in cupboards . . . it’s possible. Did either of the houses have CCTV inside?’
‘Nope, just at the front and back doors.’
‘Maybe he’s sneaking in and waiting. Holing out in the attic, or maybe a spare bedroom – did they have spare bedrooms?’
‘They did,’ Slater said, ‘both of them.’
‘So that’s possible. Maybe he sneaks in . . . it’s not difficult to do when someone’s come home and switched off the cameras and the systems. Maybe when a pizza’s been delivered, or a parcel – that kind of thing. Window cleaner’s come round.’
Lomond and Slater shared a look.
‘That’s a decent idea,’ Lomond said. ‘But they’d have left a trace, wouldn’t they? And this person hasn’t left a trace. We’ve been up in the loft, looked through the cupboards . . . All we can be sure of is that they sneaked in, and sneaked back out. The back doors were locked.’
‘Sorry,’ Glennie said. ‘You’ve stumped me. And scared me, a bit.’ He glanced at his own back door, looking out onto the garden. Dark, now, with the trees leaning in a sharp wind.
‘Amen to that,’ Slater said.
A door behind them creaked. All three leapt. It was the kitchen cupboard. A tiny face, grinning with some glee, emerged from the crack in the door. For a moment Lomond was reminded of a ghastlier face he’d seen, not so long ago. Born again, he thought.
‘Jared!’ Glennie said, face reddening. ‘That’s rude. I’ve told you not to hide in there.’
‘Keek!’ the boy said.
Lomond laughed, as much to break the tension as anything else. ‘Keek yourself! How you doing, my man?’
‘Fine.’ The boy sniffed.
‘Shows you how easily it’s done,’ Slater mumbled. He fidgeted with his coat cuffs, nervous tension from the fright needing to drain somewhere.
‘Go to your room,’ Glennie said.
The boy pouted and walked out of the room slowly, head held in mock shame. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Six-year-olds,’ Glennie said, face pinched in anger. ‘Nature’s wee comedians.’
‘Ach, no harm done,’ Lomond said. ‘When my lassie was six she decided to make a cake when we thought she was playing in the garden. Used a full bag of flour and every egg we had. When we went in the kitchen–’
‘I’m sort of busy, gentlemen.’ Glennie patted the table with an impatient little rhythm. ‘Was there anything else I can help you with?’
‘What are your thoughts on Vincent Finch?’
Glennie’s percussion solo ended. ‘Finch.’
‘That’s right. He’s your . . . stepson’s father, is that right? Forgive me,’ Lomond said, genuinely embarrassed.
‘Well . . .’ Glennie lowered his voice, one eye on the door lest another member of his household should spring forth, ‘Vincent is a pain in the arse. That’s my honest opinion.’
‘Any adult reason behind that?’ Slater asked brusquely.
‘As a matter of fact, yes. He never really got over the divorce. He’s remarried, and we’re all very civil at the birthdays and the other life events that everyone has to go to . . . and he pays attention to Shane. He’s not hands-off. Not like some get. But he got a bit nasty during the divorce. Not nasty enough to wind up Nicole’s brothers . . . You know who Raglan Kingsley is?’
‘That name’s familiar,’ Lomond replied before Slater could.
‘Then you’ll know why he didn’t get too silly. But he’s playing daft wee games, you see. With the property business. He got the Myrtlewood Crescent house out of it, and another set of flats that he’d paid into years ago. Quite canny with his deals. Sold and reinvested at the right time. He’s trying to put his own wee empire together. Game of Monopoly, for real, with new-build houses and some city centre property. He keeps making deals ahead of Nicole. Ahead of Avalon King. Not sure how he’s doing it, apart from undercutting. Or how he’s finding out about the best plots. Nicole’s fuming, but she won’t do anything about it. Guess it’s best not to let it get too nasty, for Shane’s sake.’
The front door closed. Jared reappeared, carrying a box that was a bit too big for him. ‘Daddy, there was a parcel at the front door.’
Glennie frowned. ‘I didn’t hear anyone knock.’
‘I saw a van,’ the boy said. He lurched and stumbled. Lomond instinctively caught an end of the box, to stop him dropping it. That’s when he noticed the red scarf trailing from the lid, tickling the floor, threatening to tangle in the boy’s legs. Then he saw the red writing on the top of the box. What was written there was not an address.
Lomond snatched the box from the boy, who looked up at the policeman with fear. ‘That’s good,’ Lomond said, with a note of forced jollity. ‘Tell you what, wee man, why don’t you head outside and play?’
‘What? It’s freezing.’ He looked at his dad, confused.
‘What’s going on?’ Glennie said, getting out of his seat.
‘Get Jared out of the house. Right now. Tell him to go to the end of the garden. Is his big brother in?’
‘Yes—’
‘Jared, go knock on your brother’s door and tell him you’re both to get out of the house. Right now.’ Lomond’s eyes were hard. The box quivered in his hands. The red scarf dangled like a spent party streamer.
Glennie’s face changed. He’d read the writing too. ‘Jared? Do what the man tells you.’
‘Dad . . .’
‘Jared! Now!’ Glennie practically screamed it.
Startled, the boy turned and fled.
‘Gaffer,’ Slater said, voice scratchy, ‘tell me this is a joke.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ Lomond said.
On the top of the box, six inches from his chin, slashed in red ink on white printer paper, was a stark message. DEAR HOUSEHOLDERS AND GUESTS. IT WILL GO OFF IF YOU TRY TO LEAVE. YES, IT IS WHAT YOU THINK IT IS.
38
Lomond took the weight of the box in one hand. He flipped the paper over.
