He had hardly had time for more than a cursory glance when he was fielded by a man already in dinner jacket, whose dead-fish eyes and bulging unsuitedness to his suiting marked him instantly as a bouncer – or security specialist as he no doubt liked to be known these days.
‘We’re not open, sir.’
‘I’ve come to see Mr Bell,’ Atherton said, showing his brief. ‘He’s expecting me.’
The flat eyes sharpened an instant, memorising Atherton’s appearance. He turned his head slightly, revealing the curly black wire behind his ear, and spoke to his lapel. Atherton could hear the faint bat-squeak of the reply, and saw the nearest security camera up on the ceiling turn minutely towards him. He half expected to be patted down and was rather disappointed to be seen as so little of a threat.
‘Would you come this way, please, sir,’ the man said, leading Atherton towards the back where, behind a screen wall, there was a bank of lifts. He unlocked one with a key from a bunch chained to his belt, showed Atherton in, pressed 2, and stepped out before the door closed. ‘Someone will meet you at the lift,’ he said.
Someone did, and it was a relief for Atherton that it turned out to be a smart and pretty woman, who smiled and offered her hand in a friendly way and said, ‘I’m Lorraine Forrest, one of Mr Bell’s assistants. He’ll see you right away, if you’d like to come this way.’
Atherton suppressed the obvious riposte as she walked off, revealing a very nice posterior in a tightly fitting skirt, and made himself wonder instead if she shortened her name to Rain. It was a belter of a name in these eco-nutty days.
He caught her up. ‘What’s he like?’ he asked, in a low voiced, chums-on-the-way-to-the-headmaster manner. ‘I mean, I’m a bit nervous, what with all this.’ He waved his hand to indicate the Empire. ‘He’s a multibillionaire. What’s it like to work for a man like that?’
‘He’s very nice,’ she said, giving him a humorous look, ‘and I like working for him, and I don’t think you’re the slightest bit nervous, so stop trying to yank my chain. Here we are. Go in, and he’ll be there in a second.’
She shoved him in a motherly sort of way through the door into a vast office, rather dim because of the low ceiling, the tinted glass in the huge windows and the acres of purple carpet on the floor. It was deafeningly quiet. Despite looking down on Leicester Square, with its crowds and fairground rides and all London’s traffic nearby, there wasn’t a sound from outside – quadruple glazing at least, Atherton thought. There was no sound of air conditioning, either, though the air was neutrally cool and odourless. There had been something of an air-brake type of resistance when the door closed behind him, which gave him the hint that the room was sound-proofed and therefore probably miked as well. Standing still, he allowed his eyes to wander casually round the room and spotted four good sites for hidden cameras, which probably meant there were more than four. They were watching to see what he’d do when left alone. Freddie Bell was taking no chances, and given his wealth and the nature of his business, it was probably just as well. Atherton looked straight at the suspect light fitting and gave a big grin. No harm in letting them know he knew.
The right-hand wall of the office was covered floor to ceiling with bookcases, and given that the books were all matching sets of leather-bound hardbacks, he guessed that there wouldn’t be much choice if you actually wanted to read one. Sure enough, immediately after his grin, one whole section swung inwards, revealing a false door, and Freddie Bell himself walked in and closed it behind him.
‘Inspector Atherton?’ he said.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant, actually. But thanks for the promotion.’
‘What, I don’t merit the top man?’ Bell said jovially.
He advanced across the hampering carpet but did not extend his hand. Atherton was tolerably acquainted with his appearance from newspapers and the television, but those media could not convey the sheer animal presence of the man. He was not unusually tall, probably five-ten or eleven, but he was massively bulky, as if he had been designed on a grander scale, perhaps for a planet with a different gravity. His shoulders bulked under his suit jacket as if they’d been borrowed from a Hereford bull. His hands were huge, decorated with a heavy gold ring on the third finger of each, and a watch so massive you could have clubbed seals with it. His head seemed bigger than normal, but his features were big enough to fit it, with a thick nose and a prominent underlip, and blue eyes under strong, fair eyebrows. His light brown hair was cut in a fashionable disarray that must have cost hundreds each time to get it to look so casuaclass="underline" it stood out slightly from his head, which gave the impression that it was being forced outwards by the tremendous pressure from inside the skull that held the brains of this huge and successful empire.
All in all, Atherton thought, you could see what he was – a man who had made his own fortune from nothing and was increasing it all the time, a man in control, a man of power. His suit was fabulously expensive and well cut, his shoes and tie were to swoon for; but strip him of all that, and place him in any surroundings, and Atherton would have bet he would still have looked like an emperor. The power came from inside. Atherton was suddenly glad he had not had to shake hands.
Bell looked to be in his late fifties, although he could have been older but very well preserved. His face was firm and pleasantly tanned, and Atherton supposed it was handsome in a tough Daniel Craig sort of way. He did not have to suppose that women would find Bell attractive – that was well documented. But to talk of Candida Scott-Chatton fancying a bit of rough was to miss the point entirely. This was a rich, powerful and clever man; and after being married to her earl (who by all accounts was a bit of a wet), then mistress of virtuous Ed Stonax, and having worked in the charitable sector all her life among fluffy volunteers and the terminally well-meaning, she might well have been pining for stronger meat and drink even without knowing it. And Atherton could see that it would be intoxicating – if you could keep it down.
Nine
Green Unpleasant Land
‘Well, Sergeant, what did you want to talk to me about?’ said Freddie Bell. He did not look at his watch, nor say, ‘I’m a busy man,’ as lesser men would. He stood quite still, an extra stillness in this unnaturally quiet room, as though like a black hole he drew all sound and movement into himself. Atherton could feel the astronomical mass of him and almost wanted to take hold of something to keep himself from sliding helplessly across the carpet like a pin towards a magnet.
Was that why they called them magnates? he wondered frivolously. He took a grip on himself and got to the point. ‘Ed Stonax,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ said Bell, his eyes searching Atherton’s face briefly. ‘I read about the murder. Terrible thing.’ His voice was dark and gritty but without accent, except a sort of man-of-the-people ordinariness. He had grown up in t’north but had long ago shed any regional markers. ‘Some punk broke in and robbed him. But you’ve got the man – didn’t I see on the TV you’ve arrested someone?’
‘Yes,’ said Atherton.
‘Well, it doesn’t look as if you need my help, then.’ One of several telephones on the massive desk rang, and he said, ‘Excuse me. I have to take this.’ He went round the desk so that he could answer without turning his back on Atherton, and kept his eyes fixed on him as he said, ‘Yes?’ and then listened. ‘Let him go to a hundred, then cut him off. No. Tell King and Morris to stand by. OK.’
He put the phone down, sat down, and gestured Atherton to a chair in front of him. ‘So, what is it, then?’