Black Widow (50 page)

Parlabane doubted chance had played any part in Jager crossing paths with the new IT tech who had recently transferred to a post at her hospital. In fact, he was sure that whatever was wrong with her computer that day had been Elphinstone's doing.

He had, as she claimed, seduced her, but for more brutally cynical purposes than Jager could have possibly imagined. And having secured a wedding ring on her finger, he had set about creating plausible reasons for her to kill him, culminating in his leaking of the sex tape and a single act of violence that was deliberately intended to leave a mark.

The theft of her money would have played in as a factor too, though Parlabane reckoned that was a secondary consideration. The primary motive was that Finnegan was demanding a bigger share of the final payout, presumably due to being the one who was fronting the insurance premiums, and Elphinstone was trying to offset that.

Finnegan wouldn't only have been providing money, though. Given what McLeod told him, Snobby Sam had connections that would have proven vital to the creation of a new legal identity for the recently departed, including official documents – forged or fraudulently acquired – such as a birth certificate, national insurance number and passport. Now Elphinstone was in the wind, lying low God knows where under a new name.

Years in the planning, years more in the execution, and it had been going perfectly for them until only a few moments ago.

When you put in the hours, when you make the long-term commitment, you've got to feel you're entitled to your rewards. Elphinstone had quested several months in the virtual realms of Sacred Reign, pretending to be at work while he waited for his marriage to reach a plausible point of crisis. The guy had spent arguably more waking hours in Calastria than he had in the real world, building up his character to demi-god status. There was no way he was going to simply abandon that and start again: not when he had several more months to kill while he awaited the murder conviction and consequent jackpot. And certainly not when there was nobody in the online universe who knew his real-world name anyway.

Parlabane texted Buzzkill, asking whether it was possible to trace an individual player's IP address. The response pinged back a few seconds later.

The game servers log all IPs, but they have security measures in place to prevent unauthorised access to that information.

It took him a moment to detect that Buzzkill was being sarcastic. Unauthorised access was where Buzzkill lived.

His phone vibrated again a few moments later, the next message showing a string of digits and dots: an IP number.

Parlabane sent his reply, thanking the hacker for coming through once again and mentally adding another favour to the Faustian tab.

Then Buzzkill texted a fourth time.

I can do better than that. Geolocation came up trumps. Would you like his current address?

He allowed himself a smile.

They must have known they were playing a long game: one that would take a few years to pay out, but for that magnitude of return, it would be worth it in the end. The big catch was that the scheme involved Peter becoming married to someone else. It had to be tough: being apart, grabbing those stolen weekends for secret liaisons; tougher still that part of the deal required Peter to be fucking another woman. That was why he had taken solace in the photographs and videos of his true love that he kept on his laptop. But very soon, they must have told themselves, they would be reunited: together at last, with a rich future to look forward to.

Parlabane intended to be there to share the moment.

The last of the dragon-riders had crashed to earth under a barrage of flame-damage unleashed by his fire-sword, hailed by cheers from the warriors manning the ramparts. This latest attempt to storm his citadel had ended in a rout, a fragile alliance of rival guilds no match for the small but powerful force he commanded. News of the failed sortie would travel far and fast. The same players who had attacked him would soon be queuing up to join his ranks. His name was one of the most-quoted in the realm of Calastria and on the Sacred Reign message boards. He was Necronimous, the wizard who had become a demi-god. But it was nothing compared to the miraculous transformation he had effected in the real world.

As the noise of battle faded, he could hear the sound of a car pulling up outside, slightly muffled by his headphones. He glanced out of the window and his heart soared as he saw her leaning into the front seat of a gold Mercedes, paying the cab driver. She was here. At last she was here.

‘
Bon jeu, tous le monde
,' he said into the headset mic, signing off for a while. He had always logged on to a French Sacred Reign server since the creation of his character and had spoken only French in-game. The subscription and payment details were in his new name, a persona he had been building up online for years longer than Necronimous, one that had credentials in the real world too. This place was rented in that name, the utilities were billed to it and the new graphics card he had ordered this morning would bear it on the address label too.

He spoke French like a native. It had always been a big deal with his family: they had a private tutor, and when they came here on holiday, there was a no-English rule. His father often talked about how throughout Britain in centuries past, French was the language of the high-born, stressing that only the peasants spoke the local tongue.

Peter had enjoyed those holidays, the freedom of disappearing off to the village, away from the stultifying atmosphere of a house that always seemed oppressive despite its sprawl. That was because any building containing his parents was oppressive. They were bloodless, joyless wretches, trapped by inheritance and expectation, lacking the imagination or
joi de vivre
to live what could otherwise so easily have been remarkable lives. Bad enough that they contrived to be so miserable despite their privilege, but why were they so bloody determined that he should end up that way too?

The only thing he didn't enjoy about those French summers was the absence of his computer, insisted upon by his father. Every year he paid a driver to haul a van full of riding gear, bikes, fishing tackle and even two canoes, so it wasn't as if it was a logistical issue. The bastard just hated how much pleasure Peter derived from it.

Games had always been his refuge and his retreat in a home full of tension, conflict and obligation, a cold regime governed by the most immutable paradigms. Games were a place of freedom, of exploration, of imagination. That was still true today, but they were no longer the thing he cared about most.

It was at the age of fifteen that he had discovered a different source of comfort, a new realm full of pleasure and excitement: a refuge and retreat full of human warmth and companionship.

A real world of love.

And Jesus, what a pale shadow of it he had been forced to endure in order to pull this off: living a lie for the best part of a year. There was only one woman on this earth he would go through that for, and it was hell being away from her. She was here now, though, and his body was already tingling with the anticipation of her embrace.

As he made his way eagerly towards the front door, he briefly wondered where Diana was now. Held in a cell, no doubt, on remand, waiting for the trial.

As was he.

Did he feel bad about what he had done to her? About what would happen to her?

There were times when he had enjoyed Diana's company. They had shared some good times, no question. You couldn't go through all they had together without feeling something. But he had learned from the best when it came to compartmentalising. Throughout his life he had seen how his father could be charming and open with people, warm and close as old friends, and then treat them like objects as soon as circumstance required it.

When a family has had money for centuries, it is because it passes down the principles that ensure they keep hold of it. Didn't people notice how that other Diana, the ‘queen of hearts' and our national patron saint, left precisely nothing to a single charity? You stay rich by keeping your money, and by understanding at all times that other people are quite simply worth less than you.

Other people are
worth less
.

His father had drummed that into him from an early age. Other people's value is to be measured in terms of what they can give you, what they can be used for. That doesn't mean you can't be civil to them, but you never lose sight of the difference in your social standing.

So yes, it was a pity for Diana. It was nothing personal: merely collateral damage. He didn't wish her any ill, but if he was asked to do it again to someone else, then he wouldn't hesitate. Peter and his future wife were building a life together: a life they had worked for, a life they deserved, and it was finally within their grasp.

He opened the door as she was making her way up the path. The moment she saw him she dropped her case and ran to his embrace.

‘Oh God, Peter. I've missed you so much.'

He pressed against her, kissing her deeply.

‘Courtney.'

As Parlabane pulled out of Orly and hit the hire car's accelerator, he tried not to think how long it had been since he lay down in a bed and slept properly. He had managed to doze briefly on the two flights it took him to reach Paris from Edinburgh, but cumulatively he must only have had his eyes closed for forty minutes. Sleep wasn't an option right now, but nor was it a necessity. He was running on caffeine and adrenaline; nothing kept him buzzing quite like the scent of an exclusive.

The sat-nav guided him towards his destination through gathering darkness and swirling rain. It took a couple of hours, following the GPS coordinates Buzzkill had supplied. They were a precise fix on the IP address from where Peter Elphinstone had been logging into his Sacred Reign account, most recently that same afternoon while Parlabane was booking flights and doing some last-minute shopping.

It was after eleven when he got there, having to place great faith in Buzzkill's numbers as the route led him down ever narrowing roads beyond the last village. The rain had let up at least, though there was a cold wind whipping past as he opened the car door and travelled the last forty or fifty yards on foot so as to keep the car out of sight.

It was an isolated cottage, set back from the single-track road. Parlabane approached cautiously, using the glow of his phone for light, though not engaging the full torch app. The grounds were unkempt and the exterior somewhat ramshackle: not quite where he pictured a tech geek holing up, though an icon on his phone reported that the house was rocking a strong Wi-Fi signal. This was definitely the place. Parlabane guessed it was either a fixer-upper or merely a temporary bolthole. Either way, Peter's accommodation budget was intended to jack up dramatically in the near future.

Parlabane could see a glow from behind closed curtains through a window on the left towards the rear. He could hear music: the only time he was ever grateful to be listening to James Blunt, as it would cover the sound of his approach.

He proceeded on soft feet, walking over grass to avoid the gravel path. There was a Citroën C3 parked on a narrow driveway to the right of the house: uneven flagstones overgrown with grass and weeds. He crouched next to it and attached a GPS tracker out of sight inside the wheel arch. Stuff that was once the preserve of the security services, you could now pick up in Halfords.

It would be easy enough to get photographic proof in the morning, stay out of sight and take the shot from distance with a telephoto lens, but ideally Parlabane wanted face-to-face confirmation. He wanted to look the guy in the eye and witness the moment he realised his plan had crashed and burned. One of the potential consequences was that he might go on the run and try to disappear: hence the tracker.

Another potential consequence was that Peter might turn violent, as Lucy had specifically warned could happen when he felt cornered. That was why Parlabane hadn't yet ruled out the telephoto option. For now he was simply getting the lie of the land, and would decide on his play once he knew what he was dealing with.

As he got closer to the house he observed that there was a sheet of paper taped to the front door. He held up his phone and read it by the glow from its screen. His French wasn't great, but clearly they were expecting a delivery the next morning and didn't want woken up to answer the door. It stated that the back door was unlocked and to leave the parcel in the kitchen. Couriers needed a signature before they were allowed to follow such instructions, and the note was signed off: ‘
Merci, Courtney Jean Lang
.'

Merci indeed, thought Parlabane.

He ventured around to the rear of the building, circling right to stay away from the window where the light and music were coming from. The back door was a sturdy old thing, heavy and weathered and easily a hundred years old. Parlabane reckoned the lock mechanism would have taken him no time to pick, but either way the biggest challenge was opening it quietly and hoping it didn't squeak or shudder. He put a firm shoulder to it and twisted the handle, nudging it forward in a smooth and controlled movement.

He stepped inside, leaving it slightly ajar. The kitchen was in semi-darkness, light spilling through the partially open doorway to the hall. It was a large and airy room, dominated by a heavy wooden table in the centre. Parlabane noticed a couple of unopened letters lying on it, the envelopes bearing the automated print of utility bills. He held his phone close and read the addressee: Courtney Jean Lang.

The music still played from somewhere along the hall, but he could hear human sounds becoming louder beneath it: rhythmic male grunting and the moans and shrieks of a woman in the growing throes of orgasm. It ceased shortly thereafter, and was replaced by the quieter, muffled sounds of the afterglow: billing and cooing, giggling.