Chapter Twelve

I came out of the precinct feeling like a disbelieved, patronised child, not the first time I had felt like this in this whole episode. The detective had sat and listened politely to my story, making the occasional note, but she had been unable to keep out of her face completely her boredom, the look that said 'here's another one'; the resentful glances at her male colleagues who had shafted her by leaving her to take the statement from the old biddy.

'And do you have any evidence?' she had asked, sighing and changing position when I got to the end of my story about the most powerful men in Gotham (the Archangels were all men; for some reason, I couldn't imagine them wanting to admit a mere woman to their dangly bits club, no matter how rich and capable she might be) being at risk of being murdered by – who, exactly? Some sad, strange young man who liked to sit in my bookstore on a Saturday afternoon and tell me bad jokes. Even to me, it didn't sound convincing now I said it out loud.

'Er, no.'

'And do you have a name for this individual? A name we can follow up?'

'Er, no. Sorry.'

I had asked to speak to the Commissioner himself, assuming that because he had spoken to me after the incident at Lacey's house that he would somehow be interested in anything I had to say. The patronising young officer on the front desk had explained in words of one syllable that the Commissioner was a busy man, didn't work in this building, and one of his (the young officer's) colleagues would be happy to speak to me. I wished I had informed him that my degree certificate was older than he was, but that might have made me sound older and madder than he already thought I was.

So the patronising detective with the dyed blonde hair scraped back into the messy ponytail-bun-thing explained slowly and clearly (because I was obviously deaf as well as old and stupid) that they received information about many such threats, they did not have enough officers to act on all of them, but that they would inform said individuals of the possible risk to their lives. And if I found out any more useful information I should contact her. Detective Something Madison. Or was it Madison Something? But I was not going to ask her to repeat it, I decided. I would be the one standing outside the police tape at the next murder scene, arms folded, going 'I said this would happen' to anyone who would listen.

They made me spend time with a photofit artist, trying to create a likeness of Creepy Guy, which proved frustratingly difficult and time-consuming. They wanted his face, not how he would look when he wore his disguise. Did they think that I had made that up? His face was nondescript, without distinguishing features, very difficult to describe to someone else. I couldn't even begin to guess his age. He was young, that was all I could say: not a teenager, and probably not forty. Apart from that, I couldn't pin it down.

Eventually I was given permission to leave and emerged feeling chastened. They hadn't quite dismissed me, but they hadn't taken me seriously, either. I felt like Miss Marple: the knowledge I had was not solid evidence, just things that I knew but could not prove. The difference between me and Miss Marple was that I had not found a sympathetic detective willing to listen and help. Or, like the best private detective stories, I had found a detective – or rather, he had found me – but he was now implicated himself, because of his flaws.

But I had fulfilled Lacey's wish that I go to the police. She was shocked by their response, and started insisting to Harry that he contact his father, to see if there was a way to get an audience with the Commissioner.

'Why?' Harry asked. 'What difference would that make?'

'I don't know, but we have to do something,' she said sharply.

We were sitting round their table, at dinner, in their spacious kitchen-diner. Ranald was there as well, admitted to the inner circle. I had decided he was not involved, not Bruce Wayne's spy, after he went to great lengths to discover the information I wanted. We needed all the brains we could gather. He and Harry had shaken hands warily, trying to work each other out, place the seniority of the other man, so decide without words who got to defer to whom.

'It's not our job to stop him,' Harry said, reasonably enough. 'If the police won't take Emma seriously, then . . .'

'There'll be another murder,' I said. 'And another, and another, until he gets to the end of the list.'

I didn't say whose name was somewhere on the list. A name that might make the Commissioner sit up and take notice, if no other name did. But did the Commissioner know what I knew about that person? Thinking about it, maybe he didn't.

'Does he have the list?' Ranald asked.

'Don't even think about it,' Lacey said in her warning voice, looking directly at me. She might as well have pointed her finger.

'Think about what?'

'Oh, didn't she tell you? She's developed this alarming habit of taking the law into her own hands.'

Harry looked ill while Lacey described my encounter on their driveway with the Bat. It was too traumatic for him to relive what had happened to his precious Gotham Knights memorabilia.

Ranald's mouth dropped open, his eyebrows rose.

'Woah, you did what?' he exclaimed. 'And you got away with it? Jeez, you were lucky.'

'What, you think he beats up women?' I retorted.

'You wanted to beat him up. Fair play, I would have said.' But his eyes were crinkled with amusement. 'Harry, I hope you've got that bat locked away securely now.'

'Never letting her anywhere near it ever again,' Harry said, with feeling.

'So no, Em, you are not going after this psycho,' Lacey said.

And that was the end of that conversation, as far as Lacey was concerned. I could understand her nervousness, after hers and Harry's encounter with Creepy Guy. I was obliged to try and concentrate on polite dinner party conversation while my mind whirled in the background. I knew she was right, but I didn't want to go after him, in order to deliver him to the police. I wanted to know what he knew about James and his death; what names he had; if he had any evidence that would stand up in court. Those were the people I wanted to see brought to justice. Whoever they were. I got caught out several times, when it became obvious that I wasn't paying sufficient attention to the ebb and flow of conversation.

'So where were you?' Ran asked in the car on the way back to mine. 'Once Lacey told you you weren't going after him, you switched off.'

'Sorry.' I patted his arm briefly. 'Thanks for holding the fort. I just . . . the idea that James might have been murdered . . .'

'That's a tough one.'

'And she doesn't get it. She doesn't believe it, and she doesn't understand that I have to know. I have to know.'

'He could be lying to you.'

'He probably is. But I can't think why, and I can't let it go now. The genie is out of the bottle, and is not going back in.'

He nodded in understanding.

When we pulled up outside the store, he said he had something to show me, reaching for a briefcase on the back seat. Inside the apartment, he pulled out a sheaf of papers, each one with a few photos on, accompanied by a name.

'As many Edwards who have worked for Wayne Enterprises as my ex-wife was prepared to look out,' he said. 'And there were loads, even after she excluded those over forty. Recognise anyone?'

Surprised, I sifted through them while he leaned back on the couch. They looked like HR record photos.

'What made you think . . ?' I asked.

He shrugged. 'Wayne Enterprises is a big network of companies with many hundreds of employees and ex-employees. Had to start looking somewhere. It's a long shot.'

It made sense to me. If Creepy Guy knew who the Bat was, then he might have been a Wayne Enterprises employee at some point. A cold prickle ran up my spine as I recognised one bland, unremarkable face.

'That's him,' I said.

Ran sat up straight and studied the photo I had picked out.

'That's the one I thought, as well, after I saw him that once.'

Edward Nashton.

'No details?' I asked.

'Sorry, it was more than her job's worth. She could get sacked just for giving me these. I'll probably be paying this back for years.'

'Thank you. I appreciate it.'

He smiled warmly.

'But you didn't want to give me this name at Lacey's.'

'I was going to, but I reckoned if she had a name she would have sent you back to the police. I don't know why, but I get the feeling that's not what you want to do.'

He was very astute. He took my hand.

'Emma. Please be careful.'

'I will.'

'How can I say this? You and me, people like us, we can't deal with people like him. He will see you coming.'

'He thinks he's helping me.'

'Are you totally sure on that? Talk me through it. For my own peace of mind.'

So I explained it, as best I could. That Nashton thought that by killing Larsson and causing Larsson's hidden documents and emails to come to light, he had forced Gotham Developments to come to the table and negotiate with me.

'But that wasn't why he did it, was it?' Ran asked. 'That was just something that happened as a consequence, wasn't it? I assume he didn't do it in order to get the papers.'

'But he did it to expose the corruption, the faulty building standards. But he knew the tower collapse was something to do with me.'

'How do you know that?'

'He . . . wrote me a note. Well – he send me a riddle pointing me in the direction of Gotham Developments and dodgy practices.'

'He sent you a riddle.' Ran shook his head in disbelief. 'The longer I live in this city, the madder I find it. It never used to be like this, I swear. A riddle.'

He looked at me for a long moment, eyebrows raised. 'So let me get this straight. A guy who comes into your bookstore on the weekend and sits and writes jokes – right? – you think sent you a riddle to tell you that there was a problem with the building your husband died in.'

'There's no other explanation for it. It's the way he works . . .' I took a deep breath. 'And. . . he suggested that James – my husband – might have been killed before the building came down.'

How he didn't laugh at that point, I did not know. His eyebrows could not have gone any higher.

'And who does he say ordered this?' he asked carefully.

'The Archangels.'

'The Archangels. Right . . . And why would they . . .? I mean, no offence, I'm sure your husband was an important executive, but . . .'

'James and Ouray Mahigan – it's a long story – they managed to uncover the names of the Archangels.'

'Really. No-one knows who they are. Not all of them, anyway.'

But James and the unfortunate Ouray Mahigan had known. They had also known about the land deal with the Unalachtigo. Ran wanted to know if I thought that was the reason James had been killed.

'Isn't that enough? That the indigenous owners of the land were cheated out of it, their cultural feelings about it totally ignored?'

'You don't usually go round killing people who find out uncomfortable stuff about you. You buy them off, or discredit them. They could have framed him with drugs and or prostitutes.'

'But they wouldn't want their names getting out – would they? Associated with cheating a local tribe?'

He pulled a face of doubt. 'Honestly? In the grand scheme of things? They probably could have dealt with it. They would have denied it all, and James and this lawyer guy would have had to prove it. They'd have sued their assess off.' He put his hand on mine. 'It's how things work over here, if you've got the money. So what proof does Nashton have?'

He was not impressed by the site visitors' book as proof of James's murder.

'I frequently forget to sign in,' he said. 'It probably means nothing.' He leant forward. 'What did he tell you about the Batman?'

Almost nothing, when I thought about it. Just the hint that he had the smarts to try to pin Ouray Mahigan's murder on Nashton. That he was violent enough to have killed James, but Nashton hadn't provided any motive or evidence. The motive for the Bat, which I couldn't discuss, would only exist if Bruce Wayne was an Archangel, and they had felt James was a threat to them. But Bruce wasn't. Ran thought it was all sounding very thin, and I had nothing plausible to persuade him with. Not even an explanation. Miss Marple would be disappointed in me. But I couldn't betray the Bat's secret – or was it Bruce's? And without that link, my panic of a few days previously started to look unjustified seen through the lens of Ran's practical, down-to-earth, emotionally detached perspective.

'I can't – I can't explain it. I mean . . . '

He looked at me sympathetically. 'Don't try, then. This is still worrying you, I can see that. But Emma – you can't sort this yourself. You know that, right? You've got to go back to the police.'

He could tell from my face that that was not going to happen. 'Promise me. Promise me. You won't go after him alone.'

He surprised me with that comment, that he even thought I was capable of such a thing. I had no intention of going after this Nashton person, but I had someone in mind who did want to, and as a consequence of that who might help me get the information I so desperately craved.

'I promise,' I said, because it was true – I would only go anywhere near Nashton with the protection of the Bat, assuming I could obtain it. Assuming I could make things right between us.

Ran let go of the breath he had been holding. 'Well, that's the best I'm going to get, isn't it? I may come to regret saying this, but is there anything I can do to help?'

Just be there, is what I wanted to say. Could he protect me from whatever I needed protecting from? I had no idea, and I had no right to involve him in something that wasn't his fight, something that might turn violent. And just be there might have a meaning for him that, for the moment, I didn't want it to have. He would eventually stay over, and I was surprisingly okay with that idea, but that was not what I wanted or needed right then.

It was late, it took a while to usher him out, but eventually he stood on the doorstep. We kissed, he held me close for a moment, I resisted the urge to pull him back in, because it would be for the wrong reason, and for a night on the couch.

'Be careful,' he said as he let go.

'I will.'

'Call if you need me. For anything. Anything at all.'

'Thank you. I will.'

'Shut the door, don't wait.'

But I waited and watched him walk to the car. He turned, we waved, then I retreated inside.

Once the front door was locked and bolted behind him, I thought about retiring for the night. If life was going to return to normal, I would need to get back into the routine of opening the store.

When I entered the bedroom, and went to the window to close up the shutters, I became aware of a dark shadow sitting on the fire escape outside. I caught my breath; I had no idea what mood he might be in. It took a moment after I had opened the shutters and casement before he spoke, without turning his head towards me:

'Got over your tantrum yet, Rossingdale?'

'Might have.'

Then he favoured me with a glance.

'Good. It's safe to come in, then.'

He climbed in and followed me into the living room. We stood and faced each other. He had his hands on his hips.

'I'm sorry.'

He nodded. 'Don't explain. In case you dig yourself in deeper. Maybe we can have a sensible conversation now.' He took off the gauntlets and the cowl, shaking out his hair.

'But you are talking to a mad woman.'

'Yeah, I figured. I'll risk it. So long as you're not off your face on something.'

'I don't even know where to score that kind of thing.'

'Nearer than you think. Get the whisky. Don't forget the ice.'

He made himself at home while I fixed the drinks, removing the top half of the suit, draping the cape – cloak – thing over the back of the chair. On the coffee table were my laptop, papers from James – and the book. When I came to sit on the couch, he was leafing through it. There was probably nothing in it now that could shock him as much as I had shocked Bruce with the news that his father had been an Archangel.

'No, you can't have it,' I said. 'It came from my husband.'

He nodded. 'Tell me what's been happening. What brought on that little scene outside Lacey's.'

I started with the name Ran's ex-wife had found: Edward Nashton, the ex-Wayne Enterprises employee. If he already knew, he pretended he didn't.

I filled him in, leaving out nothing. When I got to the bit about Nashton talking to me at the waterfront, he leaned forward, listening intently, elbows on knees, lips pursed. Especially to the stuff about him and the murders. I left out Nashton's psychological assessment of him. When I finished, he leaned back and studied me with those cool grey eyes.

'Okay, I get it now. Where you were coming from.'

'But why? Why was he trying to implicate you?'

'To make you angry and frightened, for one. Which he did, quite successfully.' He leaned forward again. 'Do you still believe him? That I killed your husband and dumped his body in a building that I knew was going to collapse? If you do, I need to know.'

He looked like he had just asked me the most innocuous question he could think of, not whether I still thought him capable of cold-blooded murder, but he was studying my face, my body language. He was no stranger to shocking brutality, I had seen it for myself, but I would have said it was spur-of-the moment, not premeditated. There needed to be some reason for an outburst of violence, in his own mind if in no-one else's. And what reason could James have possibly given him?

He took a sip of the whisky, swinging the tumbler seemingly absentmindedly from his fingers.

'It's okay to say if you do. It's okay.'

That quiet, husky voice was soft, gentle in tone, but there was hidden steel in it. So unlike his response on Lacey's driveway. Nashton's warning about Bruce coming for me flashed through my mind but I had to hope it hadn't registered on my face, as the Bat hadn't take his eyes off it. Had my gamble in talking to Bruce paid off? My feeling, after that meeting, was that Bruce and the Bat weren't involved. I decided to go with my feeling.

'No,' I said finally. 'It didn't – it doesn't – make sense. There's no motive – is there? And – and how would you know if a building is about to collapse? There was no evidence of explosives.'

'Are you sure? I need you to be sure.'

'I'm sure.'

How could I doubt him?

'Good.' The tumbler went down on to the coffee table. Back to business. Finally he allowed himself to lean back in the chair. Was there a faint half-smile there? Now he was talking to me again.

'I'm in his way, of course. If his plan is to get rid of the Archangels. Permanently. Not sure about this whole Lucifer theory.' He couldn't make any reference to Bruce Wayne's part in the story. Nothing had changed there. 'He needs to make it work – in his head if nowhere else.'

He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

'Don't. Don't. You must take it seriously. You know what he's capable of. You've seen it. He thinks you are part of the problem. He told you that. He wants to bring you to justice.'

Again, we couldn't talk about why. Nashton was perfectly happy treating Bruce and the Bat as interchangeable, but he – they – couldn't do that.

He smiled. 'I can handle myself.'

'I know you can, but even so. Don't underestimate him.'

He leaned forward to put a reassuring hand on my knee. 'I won't. Promise.'

Then he shared what he thought he had discovered about Mafia involvement in the construction industry: the control of the drivers through their union, so there was a conspiracy of silence about the consistency of the concrete. The drivers had to know: they saw where the concrete was being delivered, they would see the consistency of it. If he was right, this was huge. Did Nashton know all of this? Briefly I wondered how the Bat had found all of this out. I shut out Nashton's assessment of him – had he used violence to find out? Had it been through his friend, Carmine Falcone? Had Bruce called in a favour, after all? There was no way an outsider would be able to discover this. Or did his property division know? A secret no-one dared to disclose. Had other people died, in order to frighten the rest into silence?

Knocking back the remains of his whisky, he stood and started to reassemble the suit.

'Let him stay in touch with you. He wants you on his side, for some reason. String him along. Let's see where this goes.' As he fastened the Velcro. 'While he thinks he's toying with us, at least he isn't killing anyone else.'

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport

I wasn't sure I wanted to be toyed with. I only wanted to know whether or not James had been murdered before the building came down. And the nagging thought in my mind, that wouldn't go away: could Bruce Wayne have saved him if he had made more of an effort to discover why James had missed their meeting? But I couldn't mention any of that. Then the cowl was on, the gauntlets were on, and he was moving back into the bedroom. Almost without a backward glance, definitely without a word, he was off, out of the window and down the fire escape. The car was parked in the alleyway, blocking it for anything else. One day photos would start to appear on social media when the neighbours got wind of whose car that was. I couldn't worry about the drink-driving, but it would be a brave traffic cop who attempted to pull him over. I sighed, closing the shutters.

But he had said us – we were a team. He had forgiven me, which gave me a huge sense of relief. My gamble in talking to him through Bruce had paid off, although Bruce had found it difficult to handle. It warmed my heart to see the Bat was okay, or seemed to be (and if he was, presumably Bruce was), but his attitude towards Nashton worried me. Nashton didn't look like he worked out, or was much interested in fighting, but he had proved himself to be strong, lethal and without mercy. The Bat had strength and skill, but we would need our eyes open in order to see Nashton coming. And we didn't really know where the Mafia fitted in to all this, and when they might re-emerge. We couldn't be caught napping.

Quotation from:

King Lear by William Shakespeare