Chapter Ten

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. Lacey's bitter words came back almost as soon as the Bat was gone. That was so James: Harry understood him better than I realised. Sometimes I felt James almost revelled in causing arguments at work. When he came back fizzing from one of these, I used to say there was a strong smell of burning martyr in our house. And he loved nothing better than when he won.

But me, I was the risk-averse one, the peace-maker at almost any cost, the 'let the law take its course' one.

And all of this felt very risky: opening up the store and allowing a suspected murderer free access, with no security other than a CCTV camera. Not even a panic button. I couldn't settle behind the counter; I had to prowl about the store, touching and straightening books, always listening out for the street door opening and the bell that meant someone had entered. My nerves were shredded.

When eventually the bell jangled and someone did enter, I jumped. I was surprised by who it was. A tall, good-looking young man of First Nation heritage, hair curling over his collar, looking scruffier than when I had last seen him.

'Calvin,' I exclaimed. 'What brings you here?'

'You, Mrs Rossingdale.'

'Emma – please.'

'Or rather, your husband.'

He approached the counter and laid on it the record bag he had slung over his shoulder. Ripping open the flap, he produced a couple of battered document folders, fat with papers and a book, and a laptop. We looked at each other.

'These are Professor Rossingdale's. On here – ' he tapped the laptop ' – is the work he was doing for us. About the land transactions.'

'Why – why do you think I need them now?' Three years after James had died. They had had plenty of time to return them.

'Because of the death.' He almost whispered it.

'You mean the lawyer's . . ?'

He nodded. It was like he didn't dare mention any names.

'Can you explain that a bit?'

He looked round anxiously. I closed the store and took him upstairs. We sat in the living room, Calvin perched on the edge of the couch, ready to run at a moment's notice, his right leg bouncing up and down. This was not the cool, collected young man who had looked after me so ably at the Founders' Ball. I plugged in the charger then opened James's laptop. He always used the same sort of password, so it was not hard to gain access. Tears filled my eyes as I looked through his documents. I could hear his voice in his writing, in his emails. How I missed him: his presence, his voice, his touch. His sense of humour. He took care of me, and now I had to take care of myself. He had believed in me, and I knew he would have told me I was perfectly capable, but I didn't feel it.

There was a video file. With trepidation, I opened it. James and I were too old for video messages or anything like that. We had texted and emailed each other, but if he was away on business, we had preferred to hear the other's voice, warm in our ear. If this was him, then it was serious. It was. His anxious face filled the screen – not that I could see it very clearly through my tears – and he spoke urgently and quietly.

'Emma, my love. If you are watching this, then something has happened and I have either had to disappear – or worse.' His voice cracked at that point. He took a breath and carried on. 'Everything I am going to tell you is backed up by evidence on this laptop. Don't lose it. If the Unalachtigo have brought it to you, then you will need to use this information, maybe as a bargaining chip, if nothing else.'

He then went on to outline what he knew about the site of the collapsed tower: how the Unalachtigo had had a claim to the land but could not prove title because they had never owned it in a way that Europeans understand property ownership, but how they had been given an insultingly small amount of compensation, given the land's true value. This much I knew from my conversation with Calvin at the Founders' Ball. As far as James could tell, the sale had been a complicated transaction involving offshore and shell companies, which were nowhere near his area of expertise. He had a few names, but the one that jumped out at me was Wayne Enterprises. And my new friend, Ranald Fairfax, my apparent suitor, was now head of property and maintenance. How long had he worked there? Was he implicated?

But that was not the end of James's revelations. He talked about the artefacts he had found, which proved that the site was an important and sacred one to the Unalachtigo, and how Harlowe personally had buried the report, an action which James had considered unforgivable. He was very hot on sensitivity to sacred sites. On the laptop was the last known digital copy, and a hard copy was in the safe at the Unalachtigo office. He hoped I had found the book. I paused the video while I looked in the document wallets. And there it was:

Behind Closed Doors: The Secret Societies That Built Gotham

He didn't have time to explain it all, he said, but the information in the book, combined with the documents on the laptop should, if his research and assumptions were correct, identify the Archangels. After their behaviour towards the Unalachtigo, Harlowe's refusal to do the decent thing, James had decided to go after the Archangels and expose their role in this shabby affair, and God knew how many others. The hill he had chosen to die on, little thinking that it might come to that, was my immediate thought. If he had not, perhaps he would still be here.

At this point, as he revealed his decision, I looked up. Calvin was watching me anxiously, his face pale. James was still speaking, talking about the empty seat round the throne, as the head of the Archangel's place was called – a seat that had been made vacant by the sudden and untimely death of Thomas Wayne . . .

'Dear mother of God,' I breathed.

James was finishing his message:

'Take care, Emma, my darling. If you are watching this, then – just take care, this information is dynamite. Your enemies are powerful people. The Unalachtigo will protect you as best they can, but. . . Keep yourself safe. All of you, keep yourselves safe. I love you.'

I closed the lid, and pressed my fingertips to my lips, tears running down my face. Calvin and I looked at each other.

'Oh, my God. Oh, my God,' I said. 'You had better tell me how Ouray Mahigan fits into all of this.'

While I got tissues, wiped my eyes and quietly blew my nose, Calvin explained as best he could. Ouray Mahigan was First Nation, so he had an interest in finding out what had gone on with the land transaction. He had come across James and his work through Calvin, who had sat in on one of James's lectures by chance (he turned up to the wrong lecture hall, but stayed to listen) and had talked to James afterwards, finding out his role at Gotham Developments. No wonder Calvin was twitchy: he had set all of this in motion by introducing the lawyer to the academic. Had he ever imagined, when he did that, that they would set out to uncover the financial trail of the land transactions? He never could have foreseen that they would both end up dead, even if James's death was an accident. Mahigan had also wanted to identify the Archangels and to expose any wrongdoing, any shady dealings on their part. He was kind of undercover with them. It sounded like he had managed to get in far deeper than James had. Had he dragged James in with him? How much information had they shared with each other? By now, Mahigan must have discovered the identity of all of them, surely. James had been frightened by what he himself had come to know, which gave me chills.

'So why do – people – think he is – was – connected to the mafia?' I asked.

'It's what he had to do,' Calvin said. 'He wanted to get close to them. He thought they had darker secrets to hide. And the way in is through the Falcone family, apparently.'

'Is Carmine – is that his name? – Falcone an Archangel?' I was leafing through the book as I spoke.

'No. But they are the enforcers, Ouray said.'

So Ouray Mahigan really had wanted to help me. And Bruce Wayne had warned me off. Now the rottweiler was dead. Big boys' games, big boys' rules . . .

'What do you know about Thomas Wayne?' I asked. The name meant nothing to me, apart from the fact that he must belong to the richest family in Gotham.

'Not a lot. Bruce Wayne's father. He was killed in a street mugging – him and his wife. Shot dead in front of the kid.'

'Really? No. Actually in front of . . .? So how old was he at the time?'

Calvin shrugged. 'I don't know. Teenager, maybe. Not that old.'

I do know what happened. I was there. I saw it. And it is my life's work now to make sure that no-one else suffers . . .

My heart bled for him, for that boy. No wonder he was so angry. No wonder he wanted to inflict vengeance on any low-life who had the misfortune to cross paths with him. At night, in his bat suit, he was free to give rein to those feelings: that rage, that impotence, that violent grief. But Bruce Wayne the businessman, with his emotions under tight control, what was he protecting? Was he, or his company, implicated in the death of my husband?

'You can't trust him,' Calvin said. 'Bruce Wayne.'

'Why do you say that?'

'He has connections with Carmine Falcone.'

'How do you know?'

'We – and Professor Rossingdale – we were trying to find out if he became an Archangel. If he took up his father's seat. What his father's role was. So I have seen them together.'

'So why do you work for him? Why do you take the risk?'

'To see what I can find out.'

'Oh, Calvin.'

'It's okay, I'm careful.'

'I bet that's what Ouray Mahigan said.'

He stood up. 'I have to go. I – I . . .'

He shook his head and spread his hands wide, in a gesture of helplessness and hopelessness.

I had to remind myself he was probably only about twenty years old, a student. No wonder he was frightened. I could feel a tide of panic rising inside me. I didn't want him to go, but I couldn't ask him to stay, regardless of what James had said in the video.

'No, no, it's okay. It's not your job to protect me. Will you – will your people help me, if I need it?'

He nodded and fished a business card out of his jeans pocket. 'Call the office. We'll do our best.'

There was a big but at the end of his sentence, left unsaid. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Rossingdale. Do you – do you have a gun here?'

'No.'

'Do you want me to bring you one?'

'No – thank you. I can't use one. It will make no difference.'

He nodded like that made sense to him, but I doubted if it did. I let him out of the apartment, and bolted the door behind him. I was not going to re-open the store. It was only early afternoon, and already I was sitting on a bomb.

The rest of the afternoon I spent trying to make sense of what I had learned and the material I had in my possession. I read the book, which gave me a history of the development of Gotham City, as far back as the author could go, making sure he had historical record to back him up. The original settlement was founded by a Norwegian, hence all the Norwegian-sounding names in the area. But the British, in our inimitable fashion, sensing an opportunity, had taken it over. The same family names cropped up again and again: Crowne, Kane, Dumas, Elliot and, of course, Wayne. When Bruce had said that this was his city, he was not exaggerating.

Skim-reading as I was, it was difficult to take in all the detail, but I was looking for particular information. Various secret societies had come and gone: societies that involved some, all or none of what were considered to be the founding families. Some were honest and open, some were criminal, or sailed close to the wind of criminality. Most foundered, especially the open and honest ones. The aim seemed always to be to control the development of the city, the levers of power, in some way. Some, like the Masons and the Rotary Club, survived, but I felt that they were not significant. The Archangels seemed to have arisen in the late twentieth century, in the greed-is-good 1980s. The pool from which its members had been chosen had had to widen through necessity, as there seemed to be threshold test of wealth, or control of capital, as an entry requirement. The Waynes were involved, but the author was sure they thought they were joining a charitable organisation, and in the beginning, the author surmised, it was. Only as the membership changed over the years did the aims and ambitions transmute to something more sinister, and the organisation started to become more secretive. The author had been unable to fit the Mafia into this pattern. When I Googled him, I found he had committed suicide about fifteen years ago, soon after the book was published. I bet he did, I found myself thinking. A cold chill crept over me.

I hoped against hope that the Bat would not turn up unexpectedly. I was not sure I felt safe with him anymore: at least, not till I had worked out what it all meant, and how he and Bruce Wayne fitted into the picture. But it also meant I couldn't bounce theories off him about who killed Ouray Mahigan and why, despite what it had been made to look like. The locksmith came, as he had promised, and handed me a set of new keys

For three or four hours I worked through the papers and the book, piecing together what I could, until I had a provisional list of names of the Archangels. Bruce Wayne was on there with a question mark. If he was an Archangel, then he had lied to me, comprehensively, consistently and fluently during our meeting. But what nagged at me was the thought that if he was an Archangel, then he would not have needed to invite me to the Founders' Ball. So why had he done that?

Once I had put together the list, then I worried about where was the best place to keep it, the precious book and James's papers with the incriminating evidence of names all safe. The one person I knew who would be able to do that for me, and who would be interested in the contents, I could no longer ask.

At about five o'clock I threw on my coat and went out for some fresh air, trusting that the apartment would not be ransacked in my absence, that my new locks would hold. While I walked, I tried to sift through it all. The traffic was building, the red tail lights trailed down the main drags. The noise of the city distracted me and it was difficult to concentrate as I dodged round pedestrians. Pedestrians going home to their uncomplicated, boring lives – as mine had been, until a short time ago. Until I had been beguiled by a bat in the bookstore.

I wandered off the main through-routes and down the smaller roads of old Gotham, till I came to the harbour, and the walkway that ran alongside, giving views across to the little islands just offshore. I stopped to lean on the railings, looking down into the dark water, eddying below me.

Someone came to stand beside me. Someone in dark clothing, a hood pulled up over his head, a small backpack slung on his shoulder. As a Londoner (as I usually described myself, although I had grown up in a western suburb), I did not like strangers standing too close, getting in my personal space, if they could be further away. It wasn't done in London: if you got on the Tube, you didn't sit next to someone unless you absolutely had to, and you definitely didn't look at them or talk to them. If you had to stand close to someone, you both made sure there was no eye contact; the psychological space was preserved. But here, in Gotham, even though it was a crowded city, people did not always follow the rules, and that made me uneasy. This new person leant on the railing next to me, far too close. Just as I was about to move, he spoke:

'Worked it out yet, Emma?'

I gasped, my heart jumped almost out of my chest. I turned to run, but he grabbed my arm.

'I'm not gonna hurt you. I just wanna talk.'

He let go, and I turned towards him. Creepy Guy. I couldn't speak, my breathing was too shallow and shaky. I thought I might pass out on the spot.

'Ouray Mahigan . . . you know about that, right? What . . . happened?'

I nodded. I wasn't going to speak until I knew where this was going.

'What did you make of it? Or rather, what did your boyfriend tell you to make of it?'

'He's not my – '

He dismissed my objection with a wave of his hand.

'But he fed you some line about it. Said it was me – yes?'

'But – it looked like you. You left riddles in the store. Who . . .?'

'I'll admit, it looks like my work. Very like it. Who else could have done it, though?'

I shrugged.

'Oh, come on! You're brighter than this. Aren't you? You disappoint me. You must have a thought.'

'The mafia? The Archangels?'

His eyes widened, his eyebrows lifted, he half-smirked. My heart jumped as I realised I had already given away too much, without meaning to.

'Come on, you have to spill now. Why did you say Mafia? Why would they do that, when we thought he was one of theirs?'

We? Who was this we? He wasn't anything to do with me.

'Because . . . you break the code of the mafia, you pay. With your life.'

He gave me a pitying look. 'Did you get that from The Godfather? Pretty fucking banal, if I may say so. No, no, no. You don't get off that lightly. What do you know about Mahigan and the Mafia?'

He fell silent as a couple of people walked past us. I was tempted to call out to them, ask them to call the police – but he wasn't holding me and I had not attempted to walk away. I thought better of it.

He shook his head. 'I like you. You are nice to me. You're an outsider, like me. You see with an outsider's eyes. I thought we had a bond.'

He held me with his gaze, an unpleasant experience. Like being a specimen pinned by a Victorian insect collector.

'I don't owe you.'

'Oh, you do. Think about it. Why couldn't the Gotham City Police Department arrest the crooked building contractor?'

He watched the penny drop. 'Anything you get out of Gotham Developments will be down to me. So. Tell me. Everything you know about Ouray Mahigan and his – what shall we say? – business dealings.'

I told him as little as possible, keeping James out of it. He shook his head, disappointed.

'I thought you were going to tell me something I don't know.'

He had known about Mahigan's connection to the Mafia, he had assumed Mahigan was doing their dirty work, keeping their guys out of prison, setting up dodgy contracts.

'So they would only kill him if he was betraying them in some way. Is that it?'

'I don't know.'

'I think you do. I think your husband told you something.' He sighed, he waited, but I didn't reply.

'But this is too flashy, too clever for a Mob hit, don't you think? Mahigan would have disappeared into the harbour or the foundations of a building. They don't have the brains to make it look like someone else's work. So who does?' He leaned a little closer. 'Who does, Emma? . . . No thoughts on that? Who do we know who is violent, and thinks nothing of beating guys to a pulp? This – this is just a small step up for him.'

'No.'

'Oh, he's taken you in, good and proper, hasn't he? You feel sorry for him. But think about it.'

It was like he knew that I was already pushing that thought away: that somehow the Bat was involved.

'What – what's the motive?'

'You tell me. There's a connection to the Archangels, isn't there?'

'Is there?'

'You said so. You said the mafia or the Archangels. It's the only thing that makes sense. If there's something you're not telling me about all of this, I will find out. And it will make me angry. We should work together on this. We are on the same side. Trust me.'

Again he waited, but I did not speak. It was like he knew about Mahigan and the Archangels, that the lawyer was spying for the Unalachtigo, but for some reason wanted me to confirm it. But how could he possibly know? In truth, I was getting confused, and a little frightened. I didn't want to be on the wrong side of him. But I didn't want to admit defeat and tell him all I had discovered that afternoon. I had no way of knowing how he would use the information, who else might end up dead.

'I know who he is, by the way. In case you're wondering. The poor little orphan boy. Never figured him as Oedipal, though.' He stole a glance at me. 'But it makes sense. Some of us don't need to go down that route, though. Some of us just survive.'

His theory was that Bruce Wayne was indeed one of the Archangels but Creepy Guy said he couldn't quite work out a motive for Bruce to kill Mahigan, or have him killed, whereas Creepy Guy was hunting the Archangels themselves, because of the damage he thought they were doing to the city, because of their lies and deceit. He could not abide lies.

'But why? Why would he do that?'

To protect his involvement, somehow, his family's involvement, in what the Archangels were up to. Their corrupt land dealings, their crooked building scams, which put other companies out of business because they could not compete. To make sure the crimes, and there were serious ones, he was sure, didn't come to light. He was convinced they would have their hooks into many areas of city life. It didn't fit with what Bruce Wayne himself had told me, but. He lived a double life. He could not admit the truth, even to himself, about what was going on in his head. His two personas were, in some strange way, separate people.

'How many other buildings are at risk of coming down because of dodgy concrete contracts? And what do they get out of it? Nickels and dimes. Pennies, compared to their personal wealth. There has to be something else, something really big. Something that would bankrupt Gotham Developments, or bring them all down if it came out.'

'Is – is that what this is? Is that the – the – trash you're taking out?'

He nodded. 'Bravo, you worked it out. Just a shame your boyfriend's part of it.'

He leaned closer again. 'He is protecting his name and his wealth. More important for him, his sainted father's name. And if he thinks you could expose him, he will come for you, too. Don't think he won't.'

I had to look at him at that point, too shocked almost to breathe. He smiled.

'I know, distressing, isn't it? Lover boy the murderer. Does he keep the mask on, by the way? No, don't tell me. I don't want that picture in my head. He's just using you. That's all. You don't mean anything to him.'

Surely not.

'Oh, you've asked him, have you? You've had a cosy chat about it.'

Damn. I had shown him I was rattled. He smiled.

'You hate that idea, don't you? Get over yourself. And why is he trying to pin Ouray Mahigan on me? Because I have an MO he can copy. Because I have form.' He watched my face carefully. 'We can do this, Emma. What does the Batman put in his drinks?'

He waited for my answer, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. He sighed.

'Just – ice. Are you doing this to annoy me? We can bring him to justice. Justice is what he claims to be doing, so let him taste it himself. See how he likes it.'

Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream

I bit back a comment that the Bat called himself Vengeance, not Justice. Justice was most definitely not his thing. And Creepy Guy's idea of justice was extremely unlikely to be the same as mine.

He straightened himself up and swung the back pack off his shoulder. 'I have something for you.'

From it he produced a hard cover, A4 book. 'The visitors' book from the building site where your husband died.'

'Where – where did you get it?'

He flicked through the pages till he came to the date on which James died.

'Look. He didn't sign in. And he did on other days. You can check for yourself.'

'I can't read it without my glasses.'

He sighed in annoyance at the infirmities of the old. 'Blind as a. Of course you are. Ask yourself why that was, when he was so careful about following site safety rules.'

I held my breath. I couldn't bring myself to think where this was going.

'You gotta ask yourself, was he already dead before the building came down? And if so, who did it? I'll let you think about it. Bruce Wayne is not above doing his own dirty work. He wants to be God. He thinks he is God.' He pushed the book into my hands. 'I'll be in touch. Let's do it, Emma.'

'Why do you call him Lucifer?'

'I just explained it. Weren't you listening?'

'But I'm talking about – '

'Where does Bruce Wayne get his energy from? Bat-teries.'

He started to walk away.

'Why – why are you so interested in – my husband's death?'

'It's the gateway, the way in to this puzzle. Did you think it was all about you?' He laughed unpleasantly. 'You – you're not important. Sorry to disappoint.'

'Quis custodiet ipsos angelos?' I shouted after him. Who will guard the angels themselves?

'Soli ipsi angeli,' he called back. 'I think that's right.' Only the angels themselves. 'Which you can do, if you're Lucifer. Or God himself. Watch out. He's coming for you.'

His voice faded as he strode away into the darkness, not looking back, his words hanging in the evening air, leaving me standing by the railing, unable to catch a breath. I went to sit on a bench on the other side of the walkway. That was not what I had expected when I had set out for a walk. The idea that he was following me – stalking me – made me start shivering. And there was no-one I could tell, or ask for help. Not Bruce Wayne / Batman, who may or may not be an Archangel himself and possibly implicated in James's death; not poor, frightened Calvin, who was out of his depth now. And not Ranald: someone I hardly knew, who was in the right department at Wayne Enterprises to have been involved. Had Lacey been right all along? Had Bruce Wayne set me up? That just left Lacey and Harry. Lacey still wasn't speaking to me. Even if she was, how could I ask her and Harry to help me against – who? Powerful, rich people prepared to sanction murder. Including Harry's boss. And they had already suffered because of the little we had known then about what was going on. But was Harry involved, as Creepy Guy believed he was? Was he getting his hands dirty for the Archangels and if so, what was he expected to deliver? I couldn't believe it was just to get me to accept a settlement. Harry was definitely not the violent type: he wouldn't knowingly have got himself involved in murder, but he could have been an unwitting accessory. James would have trusted him totally.

But I couldn't do this on my own. Harry and Lacey were my only realistic option. I would have to park the matter of their actions for another, calmer time. It would have to be their choice to get involved again or to stay behind the security wall Gotham Developments had built for them. Taking a deep breath, trembling, I got out my cell and pulled up her number.

Quotation from the book of the prophet Amos, ch 5 v 24 and Nemesis, by Agatha Christie