McLennan was reading copies of the statements they'd taken from the driver and the guards although, to anyone watching, the expression on his face as he did so would have looked like the very highest representation of bitter confusion.
The stories tallied perfectly; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that there was very little to any of them. Despite making a full recovery from a moderate concussion, the younger guard had seemed distracted when dictating his statement and, in spite of continual reassurances from McLennan and Finch that he was in safe hands, had persisted in his assertion that he'd caught no more than a vague impression of the suspect beyond the all-encompassing black garb and the mask. Some kind of Halloween mask, he'd said, and that was the best description he'd been able to muster.
His companion had had even less to say for himself, having seen little more than a reflection in the window. However, he did recall that the perpetrator had spoken, and proceeded to repeat the phrase as best he could. McLennan had merely frowned at this; although Finch had obviously recognised the words and had scribbled R. Stones – Sympathy f/t Devil? on his notepad, almost without conscious involvement in this act, before pushing the pad across the desk for his superior's attention.
This supremely cryptic quotation had since been added to the whiteboard in the incident room, where it hung above McLennan's head like a particularly troublesome Zen mantra. The problem with clues like this, he was well aware, was that if you spent your time chasing them for meaning when it turned out that your suspect was nuttier than a Snickers bar, you'd end up with nothing more than an awful lot of wasted time on your hands, and in professional terms, that was always very embarrassing.
The door clicked open, and McLennan jerked out of this morose reverie to see Finch slope into the room, a file tucked under his arm. The weather had obviously improved in the past hour; Finch carried his dingy grey overcoat over his shoulder. He hung this up with exaggerated care before passing the file across the desk.
"Sorry, sir," he said. "No prints on the carriages or the engine that can't be accounted for. No hair or fibres either." He pulled out a chair and slumped into it, exhaling raggedly as he did so. "This is fast turning into a weird one, all right."
"Turning into?" McLennan repeated ironically, flipping through the forensic report as if he required at least this much confirmation of Finch's statements. Unfortunately, it was all perfectly true. Their suspect may as well have been a poltergeist for all the mess he'd made, yet without leaving a single trace of his identity behind.
"I've got good news and bad news, sir," Finch continued, apprehensively. McLennan glanced up from the report, and then folded it closed on his lap and leaned back.
"Not," he said, very wearily, "that I believe for one second that there's any good news about any of this but, assuming for the moment that there just might possibly be, I'd like that first, please."
"I've managed to get copies of the shipping notes from Northwest, although they gave me a bloody hard time about it. Customer confidentiality my arse," Finch spat, "they're up to something. Anyway, I only had to use the word 'warrant' twice before they gave up."
McLennan wriggled uneasily in his chair, dropped the file onto a side table, laced his fingers and said: "Well?"
"Only one shipment was missing," said Finch, carefully, studying the papers he'd produced. "A large consignment of South African cut diamonds with..." he paused ever so slightly here, like a dog anticipating a kick, "...an estimated market value of just over four hundred and thirty thousand pounds."
Finch watched dully as the colour poured out of the Chief Inspector's face like wine from a carafe, and decided to soldier on with the rest of the bad news.
"Apparently, the buyer was supposed to collect the diamonds from the train at Derby via a private security firm. He's the Viscount Scarsdale. Maybe you need a coffee, sir?" Finch added, aware that he was now the sole standard-bearer of this conversation. McLennan was deathly quiet, and never had a phrase been more appropriately employed.
After they'd fetched some coffee, and McLennan had regained a percentage of his composure, he made further inquiries.
"Has his Lordship been told about all this yet?" he asked tentatively, hoping against all hope for a negative response. Finch, however, nodded mournfully.
"I'll say. He's having an eppy, by all accounts."
"Bugger," said McLennan, his voice suddenly somewhat distant. "That means we're going to have to call a press conference before those swine get hold of this anyway. They'll have heard about the derailment and, thick though they may be, they'll put two and two together.
"Oh, I'll also need to have a word with the Viscount, though Christ knows what I'm going to be able to tell him that isn't going to make matters ten times worse. Can you sort all that out, Finch?"
"Right away, sir," Finch replied, hauling himself out of his chair and slipping out of the room. Only when the door had closed behind him did McLennan let out a long, luxuriant sigh and rub his forehead distractedly. This was rapidly turning into his worst nightmare, and he had an inkling that it was going to get darker still from this point on.
He leaned back in his chair, basked in the weak, watery sunlight that slipped in through the slatted blinds, and tried his hardest to compose the beginnings of a press statement that wouldn't make it sound as if he were coming unglued.
Gordon awoke to the muted, lovely strains of Puccini's Madama Butterfly from a distance, which went at least part of the way towards soothing the blunt-edged ache behind his forehead. He rolled over, heavily, and felt cool satin beneath his cheek, and it was only at this point that his eyes flicked open in an overload of confusion and he absorbed his surroundings.
He looked down at himself, noting that he was still fully dressed aside from his jacket and shoes, although a fine, soft woollen blanket had been laid over him. He was in fact arriving at a recall of the previous night even as he sat up, although it took the memories some time to click back into place and, in the meantime, he studied the room with piquant curiosity.
It must at one point have been one of the cellar's side rooms. Although Gordon had a vague recollection that the doors had been removed and stacked at the far end of the cellar, either he was mistaken or V had rehung them at some point, for there was indeed a door to this room and it was pulled all but closed.
Aside from the bed, the rest of the furniture consisted of...books. Nothing but books, in random, haphazard and occasionally precarious piles. They had, he assumed, been gathered with painstaking care from the shelves of the rooms and suites far above this lair and, though they'd been given no such home or any particular grace of arrangement about the room, had nevertheless been taken in with love and devotion, even if there was something of the packrat about it all.
He shifted his legs off the bed and stood up, a little uneasily, the sudden change in elevation intensifying the thud of the headache once more. He waited until the room had stopped pulsating in time with the pain, and then pushed the door open.
The music swelled in volume as he wandered out into the cellar. Out here, it echoed, and seemed scratchy and slightly rough, as if it were being played on an old gramophone. Only now did he notice that someone somewhere was singing along with the aria, taking Pinkerton's part in the duet. Gordon hesitated behind a pillar, feeling somewhat prurient for listening in on this but, at one and the same time, loath to interrupt the sweetest, most spine-tingling tenor he'd ever heard.
"Stolta paura, l'amor non uccide...ma dà vita e sorride per gioie celestiali..."
The music was a mere underscore to this plangent siren song, at least as far as Gordon's ears were concerned. Butterfly had always been one of his favourite operas, and he'd heard many differing performances both recorded and live, but to the best of his memory he'd never been serenaded by a voice of such purity.
Gordon didn't realise he'd been holding his breath until he was forced to let it out again in one all-encompassing gasp, and it was at this point that the singing stopped, abruptly, and was replaced by swift, light footsteps.
V presented himself, stepping around the pillar and bowing his head in greeting. Gordon was prepared to swear that he could all but hear the soft blush rising behind the mask, so strong was the aura of discomfiture emanating from the man. He then felt that small, fragile soap-bubble of embarrassment burst, and V's shoulders settled minutely.
"Good afternoon, Gordon," V said, his manner as impeccable as it had ever been. "I trust you slept well? I thought I should leave you to wake in your own time."
"Um. Tolerably," Gordon admitted, "but I'm beginning to wonder if it's just coincidence that I always seem to have a headache when I'm around you..."
V laughed companionably at the implication. "I'm afraid that I can't accept responsibility for this one, at least," he said. "You took the best part of a bottle of wine on top of a tranquilliser and thus were in no condition to drive home, which is why I had to insist upon your staying here."
"Thank you," Gordon replied, then, after a pause, considered a technical point. "Where did you sleep?"
Later, Gordon would undergo several mental replays of the way V's head had cocked to the side at that question, time enough to reach a conclusion as to the shade of inference behind the gesture. He eventually decided that it was an expression of supreme puzzlement; almost as if the query were quite without meaning.
This may or may not have been the correct interpretation but, either way, V apparently declined to answer. Instead, he extended a courtly hand in the direction of the kitchen.
"Would you like something to eat?"
"Thank you, yes." Something occurred to Gordon, belatedly, and he added, "as long as it's something simple. I'm not sure I can face grease just at the moment."
"Understandably so," V purred.
After a strengthening plate of lightly buttered toast, Gordon managed to fight off the foggy remnants of his hangover. At one point he'd found himself about to ask whether V would be joining him, before tact dug its spurs into his brain, caught up with his mouth, and reminded him that this would necessarily involve removing the mask. Instead, he simply settled down, cupped his chin in his palm and sipped his tea carefully.
"V?" he said, idly. "There's something I've been wondering."
"Yes?"
"What was it like? The robbery, I mean." Gordon, sensing the beginnings of a frown from the far side of the table, ploughed on. "I'm just curious as to how it felt. I was a bit of a tearaway when I was younger, but I never went so far as to make off with a sack of diamonds."
V seemed to give this question all of its due weight in consideration. He leaned back against the kitchen worktop, folding his hands in front of him and cogitating for long moments.
"I confess," he said, eventually, "that I'm not at all sure what it is you wish to know. Don't blame yourself for any confusion; your curiosity is perfectly human. I, however, take a different approach to things than most.
"What can I say?" V went on. "I lacked the customary motivations for theft or, at least, I had a motivation that is scarcely commonplace, especially in these times. I did not steal from the demands of avarice or for the thrill of the pursuit. I did it to restore the balance between us. I did it because it needed to be done and because it was all I could do to achieve my aim. That is, I'm afraid, the best explanation I can offer you."
Gordon set his cup down, and was about to say something more when a rat darted across the flagstones and over his foot. He yelped aloud, and made a spirited attempt to climb onto the table, shaking with fright and nausea. The animal veered in its course, tail whipping violently, and scuttled beneath the oven, where Gordon could hear it shuffling about.
"V, there's a..." he gasped for air, and tried again, "...there's a rat in here!"
"I know," said V, lightly, and this simple admission sliced through Gordon's reflexive disgust, replacing most of it with incredulity. He clambered back down off his chair, although he kept a close eye on the oven, watching for the re-emergence of the rodent.
"You mean you..."
"Yes," V responded, and now he crouched down by the wall, putting a hand out, waiting patiently. Gordon shied back as the rat trundled out from the shadows, sniffed at V's glove for a moment and then hopped quite nonchalantly onto his wrist. He stood, raising his hand, the rat balancing carefully in his palm all the while, and then lifted the creature quite smoothly up to eye level.
"I think I could turn and live with animals," V murmured, studying the quivering animal with overwhelming equanimity. "They are so placid and self-contain'd..."
After a few seconds, which passed in absolute silence, Gordon cleared his throat meaningfully. When this failed to have any effect, he spoke up.
"V?" Still no reaction. He tried again. "V...are you all right?"
The mask swung around with such suddenness that soft black strands of hair flipped across it for a second. That gesture, that turn, was, somehow, momentarily threatening. Then the rat scampered up V's arm and nestled into his shoulder, and the passing flash of tension vanished into the ether.
"I'm fine," said V, smoothly. "I'm sorry, Gordon. Are you afraid of rats?" Gordon swallowed, unsure of whether he ought to concede this matter, but got the distinct impression that he was being scanned and read like an open book. He settled for nodding slowly.
"Then I shall ensure that you see no more of them," V continued, and reached up to remove the animal from his shoulder. Placing it gently on the floor, he watched as it scuttled away into the shadows surrounding the door to the upper cellars, its tiny feet pattering on the stones. Gordon finally exhaled.
"You let rats in here?" he asked.
"I do not go to great lengths to keep them out, certainly." V replied, finally turning his even gaze away from the doorway and returning it to Gordon, who flinched minutely. "It is warm here, and preferable to the Underground tunnels. We don't trouble one another. Besides, they are...uncomplicated company."
"But you can persuade them to keep away?" said Gordon, determined to explore every tiny aspect of this unsettling revelation.
"Oh, yes."
"How?"
"I cannot say, because I do not know," V admitted. "I can no more answer that than I can tell you how my heart beats. It is a facility that, for reasons unknown, I appear to possess...and that is all I can tell you."
Gordon hesitated, aware that a vivid pink flush was rising on his face from the sudden, furious embarrassment at his own internal monologue. Recent events in his life that had started out eccentric were now entering the suburbs of insanity, and the only reason that he wasn't drawing parallels between all of this and a story from the Brothers Grimm was that even on mescaline, Jacob and Wilhelm would never have created anything quite like this. Still, Gordon valiantly recovered some lost ground.
"Well," he volunteered, managing a weak smile as he did so, "if this jewel thief angle doesn't work out, you'll always have a future in pest control."
There was a soft and sibilant laugh from behind the mask, and a short, sharp reflection in its eyes that, once more, almost created the impression of living tissue.
Gordon left the hotel a little while later and – though some tiny part of him thought better of this – elected to go straight to the studios. There was nothing at home that he couldn't duplicate there; there would be strong tea and a shower, a comfortable backstage room to relax in and a change of clothes. Makeup would be able to take care of any lingering shadows beneath his eyes. He didn't doubt that they'd be there, after his last night's exploits.
If nothing else, the studios had one advantage that his home lacked: the presence of other people. Normal, everyday people who don't hide behind disturbing masks or consort with rats, he added, although he was very shortly appalled at his own vitriol which, even taking into account the fact that he still felt as if he'd been press-ganged, was uncalled-for.
As he drove, Gordon made a concerted effort to recall the guest list for that evening's show, which he'd gone over with Anne just the previous afternoon. Unfortunately, it appeared to have dissolved in that rich cocktail of white wine, little white pills and undue emotional strain. All he could currently recall was that it followed the standard chat show formula quite faithfully, and comprised one A-list celebrity and two hopefuls, the latter probably soap stars or stand-up comedians.
Never mind, he comforted himself. Anne will be there by now. She'd developed this precise routine through the last several years of knowing that Gordon might at any point in the week show up at least as hung over as this, and probably more so, and she would consequently be ready and able to shepherd him through his final preparations with a minimum of fuss.
Anne was, indeed, waiting in Gordon's dressing room with a cup of tea and a list of the questions that they'd agreed upon with the stars' agents earlier in the week, although Gordon took one look at the carefully neutral expression on her face and quickly concluded that there was some bad news of indeterminate severity lurking just beyond the horizon.
"Afternoon, sweetheart," she gave him, and then patted the chair beside her. "Once again, you trail in here looking like an extra from a Hammer horror film. Still don't want to discuss it?" Gordon eyeballed Anne for a second, and then flopped down onto the chair.
"It's not a case of not wanting to discuss it," he said, sighing theatrically as he did so. "It's just that you're better off not knowing."
"Isn't that my decision?" she asked, putting her head to one side.
"Nope. Sorry." Gordon countered, although he was smiling as he did so and, though she clicked her tongue in annoyance, Anne dropped the subject straight away.
"We've had a minor technical hitch," she said ruefully, handing over the papers. "George Clooney's not going to be able to make it."
Though he would have liked to express dismay at this news, Gordon felt that this would be a staggering example of intellectual dishonesty. He had long harboured a deep crush on George Clooney, and the thought of having to sit less than six feet away from him caused a stomach-burning stress reaction.
"Who have we got instead?" he inquired, though without much hope in his voice. Who would they have dredged up at half a day's notice?
"Johnny Depp, apparently. He's in London for a premiere and he didn't mind doing it on the fly." Anne paused, seemed to switch direction, and asked, "He's not your type, is he?"
"Good grief," said Gordon, the words soaked in an incredulous laugh, "am I that transparent?"
"I'm afraid so," Anne shot back, grinning just as broadly herself.
"Well, we can both relax, then. No, he isn't my type. I'll be fine." Gordon stretched now, feeling every single little creak and click in his back and shoulders as he did so. When he opened his eyes again it was to see Anne's face mirroring his own discomfort. She sighed delicately, and laid her clipboard aside.
"Gordon," she said, with exquisite affection, "you look like lightly-warmed shit. Go and have a shower, I made sure the bathroom was clean and there're fresh towels in there. And mouthwash," she added pointedly, not quite as an afterthought, and only then did it occur to Gordon just how bad his breath must be. He wrinkled his nose in silent apology, but Anne wasn't quite finished.
"When that's done," she continued, "I suggest you have a lie down for a bit. You won't be needed for another few hours yet, and I'll make sure you're not disturbed. Just don't you dare take any pills and don't you even think about drinking anything else. Got that?"
It was undiluted impulse, he knew, but he couldn't think what else to do, so Gordon reached out and grasped Anne's hand. She reacted with vague surprise, but didn't pull away, and returned his squeeze with her own.
"Tough love. I know, Anne, and I'd be a little lost without you. Thank you," he said, gently. She nodded in acknowledgement and then stood up, brushing the creases from her skirt as she did so.
"I'll come and get you at five o'clock," she said, "now get cleaned up and get napping, all right?"
When Anne had pulled the door closed behind her, Gordon sat back in his chair and stared into the mirror for quite some time, almost as if trying to recognise the face he saw in it. The lights around the frame were piercing, and unnecessarily cruel in the level of detail that they illuminated; it was not a very pretty sight that met his gaze, he conceded, and reached out to switch them off, plunging the room into relative darkness.
That done, he reached into his pocket, withdrew his mobile phone and flipped it open.
It was long past midnight. A scrawny suburban fox was prowling through the debris beneath a privet hedge, pushing its soft nose into the litter, trying to root out the faint scent of food that had drawn it here from across the street. It paused for a second, head flicking up from its endeavours, and its coppery eyes darted about it for a second as its hind legs bent in a reflexive action and prepared itself for flight.
The fox remained quite still, head aloft, tail tucked beneath its body, as a velvet figure drifted past it, only vaguely outlined against the dull glow from the streetlights. The animal crouched lower under the hedge, but made no move to escape, even as it heard a tiny sigh, scarcely more than an exhalation in itself, issue from the shadows beneath the wide hat-brim. This shade then passed by without incident, and the fox returned to its explorations.
V stopped outside the house he sought and raised his chin, studying the building intimately and with profound care. Every light in the house was off and, aside from the soft breath of the fox he had passed and the distant traffic on the high street, he heard nothing. Even the biting autumn wind had settled. The street might as well have been dead.
Opening the gate, he paced quietly up the front path and slipped into the gloom of the porch. Withdrawing a long sliver of steel from his sleeve, he slid this into the lock and twisted it fractionally. This produced no response, so he adjusted the set of the pick and tried again. The lock finally submitted, and he pushed the door inward, edging through the gap and closing it again with one hand on the latch to keep the noise to a minimum.
The hallway was in near-absolute blackness, but V's eyes adjusted with useful speed, and he paused here to attune his hearing to the background noises of the house. The central heating ticked to itself, obviously only recently switched off. The clocks in the kitchen and the living room added their arpeggios, as did the refrigerator. The general effect of this symphony was soporific.
Discerning no human movement, he turned and started up the stairs, keeping to the sides of the treads to reduce any chance of their creaking. The hall bore some weak light from an open door at the near end, but was otherwise in shadow. As he passed this door, however, V pulled himself up in his tracks and crept a little closer, head cocked, suffused with rapt attention.
A woman lay sleeping in a double bed, although she was alone. Somewhere in her early forties, with her strawberry blonde hair ruffled and tangled and spread out over the pillow; it was evident from this, from her puffed eyelids, and – V took one pace forward, sighing sadly – from the half-empty bottle of Valium on her bedside table that this sleep was neither easy nor easily won.
He watched her breathing, he watched her eyelids flicker, as the seconds clicked past on the alarm clock, and then moved on, head bowed and fists clenched so tightly that his gloves squeaked. He knew that what he sought was not in this room and, though it troubled him to turn away at all let alone so soon, time was not his ally in this event. He straightened his shoulders and moved toward the other bedroom.
When he returned, stowing a small black leather case inside his cloak, he hesitated once more and, this time, drifted through the bedroom door to study the woman at closer quarters. Her face maddened him with the effort of recollection, but found that it was like trying to piece together shattered crystal. He'd known where he had to come. He'd known what he had to retrieve. But this woman...all that he knew was that the sight of her stirred something that clawed at his gut and, as much as he wanted to linger, in some other way that prospect was a painful one.
Even so...
Without making a decision of any kind, V reached down and brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. She twisted slightly, and muttered something in a voice so soft and subtle that even he could not catch it.
"Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee," he whispered, as gently as a butterfly, "that thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, and steep my senses in forgetfulness?"
The woman's turmoil seemed to ease, almost as if she had heard this, and her faint struggle against her dreaming state ceased. V nodded just once, in understanding, then turned on his heel and left the room.
