Chapter Three

A week went by, and the letter from the Wayne Foundation did not turn up, but a note from the Batman did – requesting me to leave open the window for him, and to leave out any new books about Gotham I may have acquired. As it happened, there had been a couple in the recent house clearance and I had put them aside for him, but I had had no idea how to contact him.

At about ten-thirty that night he appeared at the top of the stairs to the store, clutching the books. When he had put down what he carried, he removed his gauntlets, then the cowl, with the reverence of a knight taking off his helmet. His face again looked like it had pale make-up on, and there were the dark smudges round his eyes that I had seen before. His hair was standing up in spikes, like some sort of punk. He held out something to me: a bottle of some sort.

'Japanese whisky,' he said. 'Smoother than your Scotch.'

'Thank you. Was it that bad last time?'

He half-smiled, and didn't answer. So we sat in companionable silence, broken only by the clink of ice cubes in glasses and the turning of pages, and drank Japanese whisky and read. He was right, it was smooth, and tasted very expensive.

After an hour or so, he put his book down, and stretched. He stood up to walk around the room. He picked up the photo of James.

'Is this your husband?' he asked. 'Is he away on business? He never seems to be here.'

'He's dead,' I replied.

'I'm sorry. What happened? Was he ill?'

He came back to the armchair, poured us some more whisky, and sat down. I told him my story, I didn't know why, except it was cosy for once in the sitting room, the light was low, the Japanese whisky had a mellowing effect, and here was a young man actually listening.

We met at university. James was an archaeology student, on the same floor as me in the hall of residence. I was studying history with English literature. We used to meet in the kitchen, making toast or tea.

'Always tea with you Brits,' he commented.

James worked as an archaeologist for a while, then got into property development as a consultant. The company he worked for was bought by an American company, and after a while they transferred him to their Gotham head office, although he was frequently away on business, elsewhere in the States.

'Because you Americans, you build over or bury your past,' I said.

'This is a young country. We don't have that much of a past.'

'But the people who were here before you do.'

That was what James was interested in, the heritage of the indigenous peoples and the settlers. He was not popular at his company; people felt he held up construction projects. But he stuck to his guns, to his ethics, to the need to preserve important sites and artefacts. He got invitations to lecture at Gotham University, and became a visiting professor, which he loved. He talked about leaving the company and going into academic life full-time. He was involved in the initial surveys of the new office skyscraper development by the river.

'The one that collapsed?' he asked.

'He was – in it – at the time. Him and three colleagues.'

'I am sorry.'

And I had been unable to see him afterwards. They had identified him by dental records. I had been unable to say a final goodbye. The Bat was looking at me with concern. I fished out a tissue and dried my eyes.

'I don't want to upset you further,' he said, ' but what if I said your husband's death was probably caused by negligence.'

'There's a lawsuit in progress.'

'It will drag on for years, I'm afraid.'

'Tell me about it. Why do you think I live here?'

'Why couldn't the Gotham City Police Department arrest the crooked building contractor?'

'What?'

'That's what I didn't know – what connected you to concrete. The missing piece.'

'So you think it actually was meant for me?'

'Oh yes. Someone knows something and they want you to know that they know.'

'About the building collapse? But you can't just – can you?'

'If you cut corners on the contract – the procurement. It's a foreseeable consequence, I think. And someone knows.'

I had never heard this before, in all the meetings, all the phone calls and documents. I didn't know how to move, to breathe. I felt like my heart had stopped.

'Are you saying . . . ? What exactly are you saying?'

'There might – and I'm saying just might – be a connection between your husband's death and the murder of Asmund Larsson.'

'How?' I stared at him, mouth open.

Then he was asking about James's work for Gotham Developments, was there anything controversial about the site, had he found anything, any artefacts, that would have delayed the building work? I tried to think back; all those conversations couples have over dinner, the ones you listen to with only half an ear, just to be polite, about how was your day: could I remember one or two when James was exercised about something, on his soapbox, as I used to call it when he was sounding off about his colleagues?

Now he was gone, I regretted not paying more attention to him, not listening when he talked about his work. But I had not known that we would not be growing old together, that these were the last conversations we would ever have, and that they might one day matter.

'Emma. Emma.' He called my attention back to him. 'Will you help me solve this? You are involved, whether you like it or not.'

Hastily I wiped tears from my cheeks. I was also under the influence of more whisky than I usually drank. He looked at me critically.

'You need to go to bed,' he said.

'No, no.'

'Yes. I think you do. You know it, really.'

He stood, held out his hand, and led me to the bedroom. He didn't put me to bed – he trusted I could still do that myself. He did bring me a glass of water. I turned on my side, the room not quite spinning, and sighed. Then I heard strange noises: the ripping sound of Velcro fastenings being undone; the squeak of Kevlar-leather being taken off. The duvet moved, the mattress sank on the far side of the bed, as another body climbed on to it, not inside it. He lay behind me, his arm went over me, holding me close.

'This is why you don't like to come to bed, isn't it?' he asked in that husky voice. 'Because you are alone in it.'

I let go of the breath I had been holding. I turned to face him. He was wearing a tight, short-sleeved t-shirt. I didn't like to look, I didn't want to send the wrong message, but I guessed he was probably still wearing the lower half of the suit. I took his face in my hands.

'Such a beautiful face,' I murmured.

Without thinking, I kissed him. This brought tears to my eyes. If he was surprised, he didn't pull away or make a face.

'I'm sorry. I miss him,' I said. 'I miss the physical presence of him. His touch.'

'I will hold you till you are asleep,' he said gently.

I turned away from him, he put his arm back over me. I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on the weight of his arm on me, the sound of his breathing, just the warmth of him. All the things that had been missing since James died.

I slept well, but of course when I awoke, he was gone. I knew I would never see him again – the spell was broken. I lay in bed and thought about it. I had crossed a line, and there would be no chance to apologise or explain. It was not all the fault of the whisky, although it had released the inhibitions that normally would have stopped me. But he had seen me, in a way most people don't see women of my age. Once we can no longer bear children, we become invisible, as if we no longer have purpose. We don't move through society like ghosts, but more like nuisances, to be swept aside. He had seen me, and not only that, he had understood my pain. I hugged that knowledge to myself. Even if I never saw him face to face again, I would always feel I had a bond with him.

I was surprised to find he had left a folded piece of paper on the work surface in the kitchen, with instructions for me to put it in the store, in the exact place where I had found the original riddle. So it seems he was not offended by what had occurred last night, and he was still expecting my help.

I had intended not to tell Lacey about my encounter with the Bat, but it came out over our regular morning coffee.

'Holy mother of God!' she exclaimed. 'He took off the suit? He got into your bed – with you?'

'Not in it – on it.'

'Mere technical detail.' She leaned in closer, although there was no-one else in the store, no-one to hear. 'Did you let him park the bus? Please tell me you did. Please tell me you let him park a whole fleet of buses.'

I thought I knew what she meant. Not quite what it sounded like to me.

'No, I didn't – we didn't.' I didn't tell about the kiss. That would be my secret – mine and the Bat's.

'Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the angels! What am I going to do with you? There are women who would kill to be in that position – in bed with the Bat! And you were there, and you turned him down?'

'He didn't offer.'

'You have been out of the game for too long,' she said. 'You have forgotten how men work. You don't wait for him – you just wind him up and watch him go.'

Before she could say any more, the door opened, the bell jangled and an expensively dressed young man stepped inside. The same dark, lank hair that I remembered, the same serious face.

'Mr Williams,' I said. 'Welcome. What can we do for you?'

He studied Lacey briefly before moving further into the store, his hands in his coat pockets.

'Just curious,' he said. 'I just wanted to browse, if that's okay.'

'Please, be my guest.'

He disappeared between the shelves. Lacey turned her back to him, her eyes like saucers.

'Do you know who that is?' she whispered.

'He's from the Wayne Foundation,' I whispered back.

Her eyes opened even wider, if that were possible. 'That's Bruce Wayne,' she mouthed. 'Himself.'

It was my turn to widen my eyes in total surprise.

'Are you sure?' I whispered.

She nodded emphatically. 'Absolutely. How can you live here and not know that?'

Then she followed him into the aisle and asked if we could help, if there was anything in particular he was interested in. He was polite but non-committal. He asked her how the books were ordered, so it was likely he was looking for a particular section. She came back.

'We could carry on sorting the books,' I said. 'There are still some boxes in the far aisle.' Then I whispered: 'I think he's interested in where they came from.'

She got my meaning, that he might be tempted out to the counter if we were emptying boxes. We went to fetch one, and started unpacking.

Bruce Wayne, or whoever he was, only spent a few minutes browsing the shelves. He reappeared, nodded to both of us, and left.

'You frightened him off,' I said.

'He won't have recognised me. I've only been in a room with him a couple of times. I've never actually spoken to him. Harry has, though.'

'But he realised you recognised him, though.'

'Do you think? What is going on with you at the minute? First the Batman, now Bruce Wayne. Who else is going to beat a path to your door?'

'No-one, I hope. Well, Bruce Wayne is technically my landlord, but the Bat . . . I can't explain it.'

We sorted the books. Most of them were in excellent condition, looking like they had not even been opened, let alone read, as if they were for show on that vast expanse of shelving. Leather-bound sets of American classics: John Steinbeck, Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Henry James. I was not sure I could sell those in the store: most of my customers were interested in single volumes.

'We should contact interior design firms,' Lacey said. 'These are clearly for display, for showing off, not for actual reading.'

Amongst the boxes there was one we didn't recognise. We decided the security guard must have loaded it into the van, thinking it was to go with the others. When we opened it, we found files: ring binders, lever arch files, cardboard wallets. There was even a small, sealed freezer bag with a couple of memory sticks in it.

'Damn,' Lacey said. 'Does this mean we have to take this all the way back?'

'Either that, or get done for stealing.'

'Not right now, though. They clearly haven't missed it.'

She picked up the bag of memory sticks.

'We could see what's on them.'

'Aren't you worried about viruses?'

'You're too practical. I'll take them home, read them on Harry's machine. They'll think it was some dodgy business email.'

'They can identify those things, you know. Where they come from.'

'I'll risk it.'

She pushed the pile of files towards me.

'You read these, then.' She saw my hesitation. 'What? Why not?'

Shaking my head, I carried them upstairs while she shoved the memory sticks in her handbag. She tucked the box away in the stockroom.

She looked at her watch, was shocked at what the time was, and grabbed her coat. She promised to tell me if she discovered anything interesting on the memory sticks, and made me promise to share any exciting finds in the files I had.

Almost as soon as Lacey had gone, as if he had been waiting for just that event, Mr Williams came back into the store.

'Mr Williams,' I said. 'Or is it Mr Wayne?'

He nodded. 'Mrs Johnson-Brown the Third did tell you, then. I wondered.'

'How do you know her? Or should I say, how does she know you?'

'She doesn't know me to talk to. I have met her husband a few times. Business conventions, places like that. He's probably got a photo of us shaking hands in his guest washroom.'

That was true, now I thought about it. James used to make fun of them for that.

'But you didn't come back to chitchat about Lacey's décor.'

'No.'

He removed a long envelope from an inside pocket.

'Your letter.'

'That's very kind, to deliver it personally.'

'Think nothing of it. I am only sorry it has taken so long. Am I correct in thinking . . . you recently cleared the library of Asmund Larsson?'

'I believe I said on your last visit, I don't feel I can divulge that information.'

He nodded as if he understood.

'The library has been recently cleared, and your business is identified on the invoice. And . . . you have a copy of Ibsen in the original Norwegian in your stockroom.'

He paused, waiting for me to challenge him on that, but I couldn't.

'So . . . Some files have gone missing, and . . . Mrs Larsson wondered if they had been accidentally swept up with the books.'

'There were a lot of books.'

'Have you unpacked them all yet?'

I shook my head.

'If you find the files, maybe you could contact my office.'

He offered me a business card. As I took it, he held my gaze, unblinking. He was suspicious: how could I possibly mistake an office ring binder for a book? Putting the card in a safe place was my excuse to break off the unnerving eye contact.

'I understand your husband died in the tower collapse,' he continued.

'Yes.' I didn't know why he was bringing this up.

'He worked for Gotham Developments?'

'Yes.'

There was no other reason for him to be in a partially completed building, just the concrete shell and concrete floors, no windows or anything else.

He nodded. 'Hmm. Working for GoD. I wonder what that was like.'

'It was work hard, play hard. They took their pound of flesh.'

I wondered if he actually knew what work was. He was extremely rich, and young, with no need for a job.

'I'm sure.' He started towards the door, then stopped. 'I don't know, but I wonder if Mr Larsson's company was involved in the supply chain.'

'What are you suggesting?'

'I'm not sure I'm suggesting anything. But your lawyers might like to consider all the angles. There is a rumour that Larsson has – had – connections to organised crime.'

That was something I hadn't heard before.

'And be careful who you let into the store from now on,' he continued. 'The CCTV will be installed in a day or so.'

Who else said things like this to me?

'Thank you.'

'Do you know, do you have any idea – who the Archangels are?'

A casual question that he just slipped in there. The Archangels were reputed to be the people behind Gotham Developments, maybe a hedge fund, no-one knew for sure.

'Do you mean their names? No, I don't. My husband never talked about them.'

I don't know if he even knew their names. He was not a corporate player. He was an academic in a suit.

'Do you think you have been in a room with them?'

'Sorry, I have no idea.'

He nodded again.

'Well, nice to see you again, Mrs Rossingdale.'

And he was gone. A few minutes later, it suddenly occurred to me – how did he know there was a lawsuit in progress? I had thought it was private, at the request of Gotham Developments. Perhaps it was the American thing – where there's injury, there's a compensation payment. Maybe he assumed there was one. Nothing, it seemed to me, could be an accident, could happen by chance or bad luck in America. Everything bad that happened was always someone's fault. Someone had to pay. I had to admit, I had joined the lawsuit. I wanted someone to pay for James' death, for the fact that I was suddenly alone in a foreign country, my best friend ripped from me in an untimely and horrible manner. Without a powerful earthquake, there was no way that building should have come down the way it did. I decided to spend the evening reading the files.