The Hollow Man by Oliver Harris Read Free Book Online

Who should I say called?”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    He was on his way out when she said: “Excuse me.” He turned. She’d let a little more anxiety reach her face.
    “Yes?”
    “Do you know Mr. Devereux?” she asked.
    “Why?”
    “Well, I’m a little concerned. I should have seen him. I haven’t seen him for a while, in fact.”
    Belsey considered his options.
    “When did you last see him?” he said.
    “A couple of days ago.”
    Belsey walked back in, closing the office door and pulling up a chair from the side.
    “I’m an old business partner,” he said. “Perhaps he mentioned me. Jack Steel.” He shook her hand.
    “Oh. Yes, maybe.”
    “You must be . . .”
    “Sophie.”
    “Sophie, I’m also concerned, to be honest. I got a call last week and he said . . . well, he sounded upset. He wanted to say good-bye. I didn’t really understand what he meant at the time.”
    “Good-bye?”
    “Farewell. Was he meant to be in today?”
    “He always is. At least once a day. I don’t know . . .” She trailed off.
    “What about the other offices—Paris, New York? Have they heard from him?”
    “No.”
    Belsey got up, walked to the desk at the back and sat down again. He slid the bin out from beneath Devereux’s desk and removed the foil wrap of a cigar, an empty shopping bag and a receipt from a local coffee shop.
    “When did you last see him?” he asked.
    “Friday.”
    Belsey opened the desk drawers. The girl made a noise.
    “I don’t know if you should—”
    “I know what I’m doing.”
    The drawers were filled with cardboard wallet files in an assortment of colours. He emptied the files onto the desk and searched for bank details. She watched him, slightly horrified.
    “How did he seem?” Belsey asked.
    “On Friday? Distracted, I guess.”
    Distraction: That was the danger. Do not become distracted. The paperwork didn’t give much away.
    “What do you think was distracting him?”
    “He said something about being down to his last million.” Belsey tried not to smile. “I think he was joking. I mean, I don’t know if he was joking. I didn’t think too much about it at the time.”
    He stood up, turned to the green curtains, pulled them aside. They were covering bare bricks. He let them fall.
    “Is the business going all right?” he said.
    “As far as I can tell.”
    “Hard times.”
    “What’s going on? Is he OK?”
    “Are you able to access the company accounts?” Belsey asked.
    “No.”
    “How much do you know about operational workings?”
    “Nothing. I mean, I pay in cheques. Mr. D handles all the big transactions personally. Mr. Devereux, that is.”
    “Mr. D?”
    “Mr. Devereux.”
    “Were you sleeping with him?”
    “Was I what?”
    “Sleeping with him. Having sex.”
    “No.”
    Belsey opened the lower desk drawer.
    “Those are his private papers,” she said.
    “We need to find out what’s going on.”
    Belsey took out a file and emptied it. It contained a desktop diary. Belsey flicked through it: a suicide’s diary could look distinct. There was a lot of scrawl over the previous month—names and times, sometimes three or four days blocked out—“NY,” “Madrid.” Then it thinned out. Then it became blank. No plans for summer, no plans for spring. Only one incongruous entry, tomorrow night: “Dinner.”
    “He was having dinner tomorrow.”
    “Oh, he was always meeting people.”
    “After that it looks like he was winding down.”
    “What do you mean?”
    She looked like she might start to cry. Belsey took the empty shopping bag from the bin and filled it with an assortment of papers while she blew her nose.
    “What should I do?” the girl asked.
    “Hold tight,” Belsey said. “If I know Alexei he’ll be lying low, waiting to surprise us all.”

8
    B elsey returned to Hampstead police station. He slid the “Good-bye” card into his drawer, then placed his new Zippo and the penknife on his desk and admired them. He pocketed the