Chapter Four

Lacey phoned me before I could phone her.

'We need to talk,' she said.

She came round as soon as she could. It was Saturday afternoon, the store was empty, apart from the strange young man who liked to sit at the reading desk and write jokes and puzzles. We sat at the counter.

'Have you read them?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'What did you get?'

'Loads of numbers and details of concrete – consistency, volumes and the like. Orders for concrete. Didn't make a lot of sense.'

'They might do when you see these.'

Out of her large tote bag she pulled a plastic wallet. It contained copies of emails. I didn't need to read many before I got her point.

'Holy shit,' I said.

'Exactly.'

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

Because they had no concrete evidence.

But we, apparently, did.

The emails suggested that the concrete for the new tower could be supplied at a lower specification than building regulations required, and therefore at a lower cost. They even suggested that there were building control inspectors who would pass the concrete as meeting safety standards.

'You know what this means,' she said when I looked up, my mouth open in shock. 'This was his insurance policy.'

'Didn't work, though, did it?'

'We should get these to your lawyers. This will mean the end of the lawsuit.'

I could hardly bring myself to think that. The people responsible for James's death were within touching distance.

'Is this admissible?' I asked.

'Why not? We haven't stolen it. It was kind of given to us.'

'But without the knowledge or consent of the family.'

And they were asking for it back.

'Do you want this brought to a conclusion or not?'

'Of course I do.'

'Then don't be so squeamish and get on to your lawyers now.'

I knew there was someone else who was interested in the files, but if I passed them on, would they disappear? Lawyers acting for the relatives against Gotham Developments would take them and perhaps they would shorten this whole tedious process. Until it was settled, I was stuck here, in this city that I didn't much care for.

But something nagged at me. Someone else thought that James's death was not a complete accident. Someone who wanted me to know that they thought that. Someone who knew who I was and where to find me. Who, though?

While Lacey gathered up the email copies, I became aware of the young man, clutching a handful of sheets of paper, lingering at the entrance to the stacks where the reading desk was.

'Can I help you?' I asked, coming out from behind the counter.

'No, I . . . are you closing at the usual time? I haven't quite finished . . . '

Now why was he asking that? Unless he had been listening, and thought we might now have better things to do.

'No,' Lacey said firmly. 'I'm very sorry, but something has come up. Something urgent. We do need to close now.'

'Oh,' he said. 'It's just that . . . there was a book here last week . . . can I show you?'

He led me into the stacks. He claimed that there had been a book on nineteenth century New York humour on the shelves last week, which wasn't there now. Did I have any idea where it was? I said I would look for him, and if I found it, I would put it aside for him, but he really needed to gather his things and go home.

He followed me back to the counter, still holding his papers, which he put down for a minute. Lines and lines of sloping writing in pencils of different colours, interspersed with sketches.

'Did you sell it? Do you remember selling it?' he persisted.

'I really can't say. I don't think so. I'm so sorry. If you would be so kind as to gather your things, I'd really appreciate it.'

Lacey scooped up his papers from off her email copies and thrust them at him, a little unkindly, I thought. He slid a couple she had failed to pick up off the counter, into his bundle.

'Oh. Yes. Of course.' He walked unhurriedly, in his own time, back to the reading desk and gathered his papers into his old-fashioned leather briefcase with the buckle straps.

'I will look for you,' I called after him as he breezed out.

'He's such a creep,' Lacey said. 'You're too nice to him.'

'It's because he's a creep that I am nice to him.'

'He treats this place like a library. No wonder no-one else comes in.'

Despite his air of superiority, he reminded me of those lonely people who lived in libraries because that was where they got human contact, where they could be close to the stream of life and pretend they had purpose. Where someone might see and notice that they existed; in his case, notice his intelligence. He wasn't stupid. I didn't tell her that sometimes, on those long drawn-out Saturday afternoons when time seemed to stand still, I offered him coffee. That on the occasions when he condescended to talk to me, we had had conversations about amusement parks, as he used to work in one, as did my great-uncle. That we both liked the hall of mirrors.

'The eyes are the mirror of the soul and reflect everything that seems to be hidden,' he had said. 'Look it up.'

So I did. Paul Coelho. And like a mirror, they also reflect the person looking into them.

'Look, it's Saturday. The law offices will be closed,' I said.

'Try them.'

The lawyers' offices were, of course, closed, as I knew they would be. I rang the out-of-hours emergency number, but the person on the end of the line was not familiar with the lawsuit, and felt the papers could wait till next week, if I would be kind enough to ring up then and make an appointment. I wasn't sure about keeping them in the apartment, so Lacey invited me over to stay.

Lacey and I were agitated about the papers and what they might mean. Lacey's husband Harry refused to join in with our fevered speculations.

'You should read them,' Lacey said. 'You're in the business, you'll understand.'

Harry sighed, and said he had a short window on Sunday morning, he would have a quick glance before he went off to golf, so now could we talk about something else? They made me watch The Crown on Netflix; I didn't like to say that not all Brits were interested in the Royal Family.

The next morning, over breakfast, Lacey thrust the photocopies of the emails under Harry's nose, taking away his tablet computer. We watched his face carefully. At first he had a resigned expression, but it changed to disbelief. He stopped skim-reading, and started taking the content seriously, moving backwards and forwards between sheets.

'Who knows you've got these?' he asked.

Lacey and I looked at each other.

'Well, there's the creepy guy at the back of the store,' Lacey said. 'He's the only one, isn't he?'

But it wasn't just the creepy guy. There was the security guard, who had loaded the box into the van; the Larsson family, who suspected we had the box; any associate of Larsson's who knew the papers were in his house; any of his employees involved in the scam. But it was just the creepy guy who knew for sure that we had something dynamite that didn't belong to us. We could hardly believe he would be remotely interested. But maybe he had a job in the construction industry; given the way he dressed, he could be a contract manager or an architect. He wouldn't condescend to be a labourer, I was sure. Maybe he was involved in some way. We couldn't remember when he started coming in to the store, but it had to be fairly recently. But was it after Larsson's murder? We didn't know.

'Who remembers shit like that?' Lacey said.

'They're going to my lawyers next week,' I said. 'Do you think they will make a difference to the lawsuit?'

'If they don't, then your lawyers are idiots,' Harry said. He had gone pale. He looked anxious. Lacey and I looked at each other, stunned. It was difficult to rattle Harry.

Lacey shoved as many of the papers as possible in their safe, in Harry's study. Once he had gone, we were settled on their large, comfy couch with coffee.

'There isn't much that affects Harry like that,' Lacey said.

'Those papers are pretty incendiary, then.'

'Oh, but hopefully that will mean an end to the lawsuit. Maybe some answers. Won't that be great?'

She squeezed my hand. It would be great; it would be the answer to prayers for the families of all those who died in that building.

'Do you think we should copy the papers?' I asked.

'What, like an insurance policy? Good idea. We can't risk them going missing.'

So we did. The Johnson-Brown printer was running a bit warm when we had finished, and the ink levels were low. Lacey stuffed the copies into a carrier bag, then pushed it into the top of the wardrobe in their guest bedroom.

'They'll be safe there,' she said.

'Won't Harry mind?'

'What he doesn't know can't hurt him.'

That remark worried me a bit, as I had not wanted to keep them in my apartment. But Harry and Lacey had a bigger, more secure place.

I remembered Bruce Wayne's request to be told if the files turned up. I wondered if we should give him the copies, and the originals to the lawyers.

'What? No!' Lacey said emphatically. 'Do you know whose side he's on? If you do that, you could get us killed.'

'Why? How?'

'He's rich, right? He has powerful connections. If he knows we have seen the files, who knows who he will tell? And what they will do about it.'

'But he's getting CCTV put in the store. He's acting to protect me.'

'Is he? He could be spying on you. Just – don't let them put a camera in the bathroom.'

She looked serious for a minute, then we both burst out laughing.

'As if,' I said.

'You may laugh, there's bound to be someone out on the internet who likes to watch old ladies showering. Or look at your smalls drying for hours on end.'

Bruce Wayne as a purveyor of kinky porn. It didn't fit, somehow. There would be no camera in the bathroom. I slept well, in Lacey and Harry's luxurious guest suite, almost bigger than my entire apartment, even though the photocopies were close by. I felt safe, that my whereabouts were not known.

Monday was an early start, but by lunchtime the CCTV was installed. There was no camera in the bathroom, but there was in the living room.

'Sorry, lady,' the engineer said. 'My instructions are quite specific. You can turn it off, though.'

He showed me how to, on my laptop. It was weird, looking at pictures of the store, the stockroom and the stairs up to the apartment. Not to mention the living room.

'Am I the only person who can see these?' I asked.

He shrugged.

'You don't know, or you can't tell?' I asked.

He shrugged again. 'You'll have to ask your landlord – ' he consulted his paperwork and his eyes widened ' – the – uh – the Wayne Foundation, is it? Jeez, I had no idea.' He packed up his tools and left-over bits of wire. 'Them's powerful friends you got there, lady.'

'He's not my friend,' I said.

But it didn't matter whether he believed me or not. He clattered down the stairs, calling good bye as he went, like he couldn't get out fast enough.

The CCTV guy was closely followed by other workmen, who fitted shutters and locks, repaired the shower and brought a new cooker. I was rather dizzy with the revolving doors of it all, but Bruce Wayne had been as good as his word, and the repairs that the Wayne Foundation had ignored for years were finally done. With all the comings and goings, it was late when I got round to phoning the lawyers'. Of course, the lead lawyer was out of town for a few days, but I was not concerned. I had in my possession the means to end the lawsuit and bring Gotham Developments to account, and it would not matter if there was a delay in the papers arriving. Judgment day was coming.

Quotation from:

Manuscript Found in Accra by Paul Coelho

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