Fortress

40

Lederer’s place looked more like a country club than a home. A vast golf course occupied the grounds on one side of the drive for as far as Tom could see. On the other side was a lake with several brightly coloured pedalo-type boats tethered to a landing.

‘Pirates is one of Skip’s favourite games. He is just so much fun.’

Behind a line of trees he could see a Ferris wheel: full size.

‘Yep, that’s our Skip. Basically he’s just one big kid.’

‘With an oversized brain, though, right?’

Beth laughed yet again. How long could she keep this up? Was it really natural?

‘You got it.’ She brought the truck to a halt outside the main door of the mansion and parked next to a silver and blue Bugatti Veyron, covered with road dust, a deep scrape down its left flank: a million dollars’ worth of car and it looked as though it had been driven along a wall.

‘Looks like it could do with a bit of TLC.’

‘He’s got a new one on order. Let me show you to where you can freshen up. And when you’re ready I’ll find him for you.’

She led him through a hallway made almost entirely of dark grey marble with a fountain in the middle, which produced a fan of blue-tinted water. It reminded him faintly of a crematorium, albeit a very expensively designed one.

‘Why blue?’

She looked thrown for about a second, then said, ‘Skip’s favourite colour.’

She opened a black polished door and waved him in. ‘You can freshen up in here — if you’d like.’

‘Jesus.’

The bedroom looked about big enough for tennis. One wall was all glass, looking out onto the golf course; another was all TV, playing a film of dolphins frolicking in an expanse of turquoise sea. A gleaming, piano-black wardrobe, when he opened it, turned out to be a fridge with a temperature-controlled wine section and a cocktail cabinet. What a pity they’d put him in the hotel.

Another black door led to an equally vast wet room.

Beth hovered in the doorway. She seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘Want me to fix you anything?’

Tom grabbed a glass and helped himself to some iced water. ‘This is fine. I’ll just be ten minutes.’ He found a remote and switched channels from the dolphins to CNN. The top story in the UK was still the hostel explosion. The bomber’s ID had been confirmed: Nurul al-Awati, from Coventry, recently returned from Syria. A montage of reactions followed: a mixed group of women crying; crowds of chanting shaven-headed men; a train ablaze outside Birmingham; police behind shields being pounded with bottles and bricks.

Then he remembered Woolf’s text. Call — urgent.

He texted back, Can’t — later, then deleted both messages.