Chapter Nine

I kept messaging Lacey, but she didn't reply. I hoped against hope that Harry was okay. No doubt she was shocked and needed to rest, but it was difficult to be patient. I couldn't think why she would be angry with me, but I suspected our friendship was going to be tested by what was going to come out about Harry. I needed to know, so I could decide how much our friendship could absorb, how far it could bend before it broke. Perhaps she was worried that I was angry with her.

Ranald turned up on the doorstep early, before I was dressed.

'Oh my God, oh my God, are you okay?' he asked as soon as I opened the door. He stepped in and put his arms round me and held me for a moment.

I gestured for him to follow me up the stairs.

'I saw it on the news,' he said. 'Why didn't you call? I'd have come over.'

He followed me into the kitchen. I made coffee.

'I wasn't hurt,' I said. 'Just shocked.'

'Did you go to the emergency room?'

'No. I didn't – it wasn't. It wasn't offered. It wasn't an option.'

He took the mug I offered.

'You insist, you don't wait to be asked. But you were probably in a bit of a state. Do you feel okay now?'

I insisted that I did, that someone had seen me home and made sure I was all right. He wanted to know what had happened. I gave him some sort of account.

'But why them?' he asked. 'Why them? Was it a robbery gone wrong?'

'No, I don't think so. Or rather, I think the police don't think so.'

When I said I hadn't heard from Lacey, he offered to drive me over. I accepted the offer, I needed to know how she and Harry were.

Police forensics investigators were still at Lacey's house, so we couldn't go in. Of course the officers at the scene were not going to give us any information about Lacey and her whereabouts. I just had to wait for her to get in touch.

After what seemed like an age, she did. In reality it was more like two or three days. She was holed up in an apartment block just off the entertainment district. Getting in to see her was like getting into Fort Knox. In addition to the doorman and the concierge at the desk in the lobby, there was private security provided by GoD, who appeared from the back office as soon as Lacey's name was mentioned. They demanded photo ID and phoned up to Lacey to check. Eventually I found myself in the elevator, on my way up to her apartment.

She looked haggard, tired, not her usual, groomed self. We hugged.

'Oh my God, Em. Oh, my God.'

'How's Harry?' I asked.

The apartment was tiny; the one reception room had a small kitchen-diner at one end, the sitting area at the other. I parked myself on the couch while Lacey made coffee.

'He's okay, he's okay,' she said, letting out a sigh. 'He doesn't have brain damage, thank God. He's coming home later today.'

She brought the coffee to the couch and sat at the other end, handing me my cup.

'So . . . what ? . . . Why?' I asked.

'He wanted the Larsson papers.'

'But he didn't need to do that to Harry just to get them.'

'I know.'

'Taking out the trash. Cleaning up. Cleaning up what, Lacey?'

'He called the Batman your boyfriend. Is it true?'

'Does it matter? Cleaning up what, Lace?'

'I just thought – as your best friend – you might have mentioned it.'

'Okay. Look. We slept together – once.'

Her eyes became like saucers. Her eyebrows disappeared up to the top of her head. 'Seriously? How did that happen, for Christ's sake? I just can't imagine how it came up in conversation.'

'It just happened, okay? There wasn't a big discussion beforehand. Can we drop it now? Cleaning up what?'

'Holy Mother of God. And you actually did it.'

'Yes. I actually did. I'll tell you the gory details – after you've told me about this.'

She had to be content with that. I didn't really want to share the details, and I didn't intend to tell her everything, but I needed to find out about Harry, what he had got himself into, and how it connected with James and his death, as Edward Whateverhisnamewas seemed to think. Especially as we thought it was all over, now the Larsson papers were in the hands of my lawyers.

But I didn't like to share Bruce Wayne's thoughts that I would not get the result I was hoping for from the Larsson papers. That it was not done and dusted. That Gotham Developments would wriggle out of their obligations to the victims' families. Was that what Harry's responsibility was? To get Gotham Developments off the hook? After the Founders' Ball, I had had the feeling that Lacey was trying to steer me towards a settlement, no admission of liability.

'Lace. This is important. Does Harry work for the Archangels?'

'Why? Who wants to know?'

I wasn't sure if I wanted to tell her that, at that moment. Her caginess suggested he knew that he did.

'Does he know who they are?'

'Again – who wants to know?'

I gambled. 'Bruce Wayne.'

'You mean there's something going on in this city that he can't control?'

I sighed. 'That's a bit unfair.'

'Is it?'

'Look, Lace. If Harry's got himself into something deep – '

'Bruce Wayne will protect him? Are you best buddies, all of a sudden?'

'Are you jealous? Is that it? Because if you are – I'll swap places with you any day. You can have the dead husband, the never-ending court case, the – '

'Jealous? Of you? Just because some – some boy – '

'Some extremely rich boy, let's not forget that – '

'– wants to get up close and personal with you. For some totally unfathomable reason – '

'Now hold on a minute, there, lady – '

'And I almost did have the dead husband, thanks to you.'

So it all started to come out: the stress of the other night found its outlet. It was my fault Harry was attacked because my stupid husband had gotten himself mixed up in something, as usual, that he couldn't handle; my holier-than-thou husband, who never knew when to quit, who never knew exactly which hill was worth dying on and which wasn't; who needed baling out by Harry more times than Harry had been able to count. Without James, his death, the lawsuit, none of this would have happened to her and Harry.

'So why was Harry such good friends with him?' I shouted in exasperation. 'If he was so useless. If he was such a pain.' I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. 'And it was the Larsson papers he wanted – if you remember. Whose stupid idea was it to keep copies?'

'Yours – if you remember! But if we hadn't had those copies, he would have killed us both,' she shouted after me as I left.

I never normally argued with Lacey. I couldn't remember the last argument we had had: probably over which brand or flavour of gin we should drink, with which mixer. And even then it would have been an animated but polite discussion. Lacey and I never shouted at each other. She was always the main attraction, and I was the straight person, the side-kick. The balance usually worked well. All I could think of, as I lay in bed that night, was the argument: how it had kicked off, and what I should have said, how I should have reacted – or not – to what she was saying. Her pride was hurt. I had apparently attracted the attention of a young man, something she tried and failed to do. But like a cat who had not been taught to hunt by its mother and couldn't deliver the killing blow, I didn't know what she would have done with a young man if she had actually caught one. But the truth comes out in anger: this was what she and Harry really thought of James, and it hurt to hear it. I had failed to achieve my objective, which was to find out what Harry's role was in Gotham Developments now. Of course, I had gone round as well to find out how they were, to make sure they were all right, but I had been hunting information. I was not a good detective. I had failed.

Because I felt I didn't sleep till the early hours, I was later getting up. I didn't feel awake or refreshed. But I knew it would make no difference if the store opened on time, or ten, twenty minutes, even an hour, late. Following my regular morning routine, prior to sliding back the bolts and turning over the closed sign, I wandered up and down the aisles of the empty store, mug of tea in hand. I was kind of inspecting the estate, not expecting to find anything, not really concentrating on what was passing in front of my eyes. But there, in the small section of law books, were two notes: sticking out from between two old (and therefore probably out-of-date) textbooks. My hand trembling, I pulled them out. One was a folded piece of paper; the other was an envelope, addressed to the Bat. At the counter, putting down the mug of tea, I unfolded the paper and slid my glasses down from my hair.

What is the difference between a good lawyer and a great one?

Another riddle. I couldn't answer it.

Just for good measure, there was another one below it this time:

Where do vampires learn to suck blood?

I couldn't see the connection. Then my cell pinged. It was a message from I.C.E.

The Bat.

He never sent me messages.

Seen the news?

The lead story on the Gotham news channel was the murder, in his office, of Ouray Mahigan. I had to sit down. I struggled to breathe. My hands shaking, it was my turn to message the Bat:

I found riddles in the store this morning. And an envelope addressed to you

He answered.

Open it and tell me what's inside. Send me the riddles

Carefully I opened the envelope. Another folded piece of paper. At the top was a montage photo of spectacles, some of them round, black sunglasses, some with their lenses smashed or cracked. None with eyes behind them.

For some reason, I thought of Eliot: Eyes I dare not meet in dreams / In death's dream kingdom

The text was: quis custodiet ipsos angelos?

Who guards the angels themselves?

His reply was fast:

Close the store. Lock up. Wait for me

It was a long hour before he came. I spent a lot of it pacing up and down, pausing occasionally to peer out of the window that overlooked the street. One or two people rattled the door handle, surprised to find the store closed. No police patrols that I could see. Did that mean there were no serious implications for me? I struggled to stay calm while I waited. Finally the black car pulled up outside, and the familiar figure rang the doorbell.

He parked himself on the couch, sitting on the edge, and scrutinised the sheet of paper with the riddles. He put down other pieces of paper on the coffee table and pulled off the gauntlets. He did not remove the cowl: he was working, and he wanted me to know that.

'Worked them out yet?' he asked.

'No.'

'Thought you might have Googled them.'

'You mean, they're not original?'

'Oh no. It would take you seconds to crack these online.'

'I'm disappointed. And?'

'And what?'

'What are the answers?'

The first one was: a good lawyer knows the law, a great one knows the judge.

'Which means . . .?' I asked. I could work it out, I just wanted him to confirm it.

'The killer thinks Ouray Mahigan is corrupt – along with some of the local judges. Or maybe City Hall officials.'

'And the second one?'

He gave me a pitying look that meant – are you seriously telling me you couldn't work this out?

'Look, I didn't sleep very well,' I said by way of excuse.

'I'm going to regret this, but go make coffee,' he said. 'Law school. A vampire learns to suck blood at law school.'

So Ouray Mahigan was – had been – a blood-sucking, corrupt lawyer. Nothing new from what Bruce Wayne was implying. I brought the coffee. He tried not to pull a face as he tasted it, but not completely successfully.

'So . . . who killed him, and why?'

He passed me the other pieces of paper.

'Recognise these?'

A chill went through me. They were photocopies of emails: from the Larsson papers.

He nodded. 'So it looks like it is your friend Edward. Unless anyone else has copies.'

'Only the lawyers for the tower families. Where – where did you get them?'

I hardly dared ask.

'Stuck to Mr Mahigan's body. Including his eyes. With darts. Oh, these are clean copies, made at the scene, don't worry.'

Darts. Eyes. Larsson emails. It was all becoming quite bizarre. And frightening. He had no idea why the darts. He walked about the small living room as best he could, thinking aloud, musing on the information he did have. I was able to tell him a little about Edward, his obsession with riddles and jokes.

Eyes are the mirror of the soul and reflect everything that seems to be hidden; and like a mirror, they also reflect the person looking into them

'Apart from coming in the store, there's no connection you can think of between your husband, this Edward character and you?'

'No, none at all.'

'No reason why he would be interested in your lawsuit?'

Cleaning up; taking out the trash. It wasn't the lawsuit itself, it was the incident that made the lawsuit necessary. Apart from that:

'No, not to my knowledge.'

I was more worried about how he had got in, to leave the note. Except for when I went to visit Lacey, I had been in the store, or it had been closed, the front door locked. There was nothing on the CCTV, just me in the store, dealing with the few customers who had ventured in.

'But let it run on,' the Bat said.

And there, in the middle of the night, he appeared, seemingly from the stock room. The dark image gave no more detail about him.

'It's pretty obvious. He has keys.'

'What?' That freaked me out.

'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'

'No shit, Sherlock. But where would he have got them from?'

The Bat shrugged. 'Do you ever leave them on the counter?'

'I would have noticed if they had gone missing.'

'But he could have done the old wax impression trick. What about Mrs Johnson-Brown's keys?'

Could he have taken them during the – whatever it was that had happened the other night? I had no idea. I had been too frightened to take in any detail except what was taking place right in front of me. He was looking at me expectantly; but how could I explain that I couldn't ask her because we had had a massive argument? Over him. And she was jealous. As hell. Reluctantly I got out my cell and sent her a message.

Please let's not fight. This is important. Do you know where your keys to the store are?

I put my cell away, not expecting an immediate answer, if I got one at all.

'I don't want to stay here if he has keys,' I said.

'I still don't think he wants to hurt you. He is just using the store as a mail box, to communicate with you.'

Dead letters sent to dearest him who lives alas! away

A dead letter drop, like the spies were supposed to use. For some reason, I thought of James.

'Or you.'

He looked puzzled.

'Lucifer,' I said. 'He thinks you are Lucifer.'

'Cracked that one yet?'

Lucifer was the fallen angel, the one who challenged God for supremacy, to be ruler of heaven, and failed. He and his followers were thrown out of heaven and became the seven princes of hell.

The seven princes of hell were associated with the seven deadly sins.

'Lucifer's is pride,' I said. 'And the Archangel who opposes him is Raphael. His virtue is humility.'

'Do you have a list of these?'

I opened my laptop and printed off what I had.

The Archangels and their virtues that I had been able to find out about were:

Raphael – humility; Michael – charity; Gabriel – diligence; Uriel – chastity; Jegudiel – kindness; Selaphiel – temperance; Barachiel – patience.

As for the princes of hell, only some of their names were familiar:

Lucifer – pride; Mammon – greed; Asmodeus – lust; Leviathan – envy; Beelzebub – gluttony; Satan – wrath; Belphegor – sloth.

We drank the coffee while he processed that information. They were not the names Creepy Guy had used as he climbed out of Lacey's window (I didn't like to call him Edward, even in my head. It was too ordinary, too nice a name for someone as arrogant and cruel as he was). And there was the puzzling duplication in the list of Lucifer, Satan and Beelzebub: the same character, in my view. The Bat couldn't make any connections with the Archangels, with Asmund Larsson, Rafe Harlowe or the unfortunate Ouray Mahigan. Or pride. Was he proud? I had no idea, I knew so little about him. But wrath – he definitely had that. I had seen his violent anger in action, somehow justified in his mind. Why didn't Creepy Guy call him out as Satan? Maybe Creepy Guy had a different list. The names were never quite the same, whichever source you used. And if Rafe Harlowe was Raphael, well, there was nothing humble about him. And which sins did Larsson and Mahigan represent? You could have made a case that all the Archangels were in it for greed.

While we were quiet, Lacey pinged me a message:

Funny you should say that. My keys are missing. We are getting house locks changed. Suggest you do same at store

I showed the Bat. He pursed his lips. Eventually he sighed deeply.

'We need to identify him. We need to find him.'

'How?'

There were no clear CCTV images. He was too clever to let his face be captured. The Bat shook his head.

'I don't know yet. I must go. Give me access to your CCTV feed.'

I wrote the ID and password on the sheet about the princes of hell. He folded the paper and made it disappear somewhere into the suit.

'How am I going to keep myself safe?' My voice sounded a bit shaky.

From somewhere he produced a cell phone. He disappeared into the kitchen to call, then came back.

'Let him come and go into the store. Keep the lines of communication open. But someone will come to change the lock on the front door and the one up here.'

'Will that be enough?'

'Oh yes. Like I said, you are not a target.'

I was also standing by this time. He paused beside me and put a hand on my arm.

'You'll be okay.'

He put on the gauntlets and gathered the papers.

'Should I – should I keep the store closed?'

'No. Open up, carry on as if nothing is happening.'

One last glance, then he was clattering down the stairs to the front door and I was on my own.

Quotations in order:

The Hollow Men by T S Eliot

Manuscript Found in Accra by Paul Coelho

I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, not Day by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Once you eliminate the impossible . . . Sherlock Holmes

Emma and Lacey's argument has been edited a little, in order to comply with Fanfiction's maximum rating of T for this genre. To find out what Lacey really said about Bruce Wayne and the Bat, head over to AO3.