“Because there’s a method to what appears to be my madness, Jackson. This fella has money, and if you do your job right, more work might come from this quarter, know what I mean?”
Yeah, Jackson knew what he meant all right. Greedy bastard.
Outside the mansion—because that was what the damn place was—Sid stopped and cut the engine of his old-fashioned gold Merc. “Now then, be on your best behaviour.”
Jackson got out of the car, drew his long black leather jacket tighter around him, and walked towards the mansion, giving the surroundings a quick once-over. The place stood on grounds with no trees, a home in the middle of nowhere, an instant attraction for burglars. With no fencing around the property, no gated entrance, the owner was a bloody sitting duck. Anyone could park on the track and leg it up the drive or across the grass, break a window, and climb inside, providing they had the balls to do it knowing an alarm would undoubtedly go off. He sighed at the lack of care for security and, knowing that tonight someone planned to off the owner while he slept, Jackson made a mental note to have a word and explain why perimeter fencing ought to be put up—and high iron gates. Maybe even a booth with a security guard sitting in it.
“Fucking weather. Damn heat messes with my hairstyle, know what I mean?” Sid said, coming up beside him.
Jackson gave him a hard stare. “You taking the piss?”
Sid smiled. “Yeah, baldy. You ready then?”
“Yep. A house this big, got to belong to some old bastard, hasn’t it?”
Sid lifted his eyebrows. “Hmm, assuming much?”
Jackson shrugged. “Come on, let’s get this over and done with so I can carry on with my little life tomorrow.” He strode up the red stone steps that spanned the entire front of the building and lifted the brass knocker. He let it go, and it bounced off the backplate several times.
“Careful,” Sid said. “That might look like brass but—”
“What, are you telling me that’s gold?”
Sid tilted his head. “Could well be. Who knows what these snobs are prepared to spend their money on.”
“And who knows what the local thieves are prepared to do, coming up here and unscrewing the knocker and flogging it.”
“There is that.” Sid leant forward to stare through one of the opaque glass panes on the front door. “Ay up, someone’s coming.” He straightened and patted his tie, then tugged the hem of his jacket. “Look smart, Jackson.”
Jackson gazed down at himself and grinned.
Smart in jeans, a T-shirt, and an old leather coat? What the fuck is he on?
The door swung wide, and a thin, late- to middle-aged, greying man stood on the threshold, his hair slicked back, the movie-typical butler, a hackneyed suit to match. He stared at them through one watery eye. The other appeared as though it had been sewn shut at some point, the skin around it puckered and decorated with scars.
What the fuck happened to him?
“Yes? May I help you?” the man asked.
“Sid Mondon at your service, sir, with Jackson Hiscock. We’re here to see a Mr Randall Whiteling.”
“Ah, yes.” The butler blinked, the skin of his manky eye twitching. “Do you have some identification, please?”
Jackson reached into his back pocket for his wallet. If Randall Whiteling thought this butler here would be able to stop someone with wicked intent from coming into the house, he had another think coming. One shove to his chest and he’d land on his fleshless arse. Jackson flashed open his wallet and produced his fake PI card. Sid showed his passport.
“That’s lovely,” the butler said. “Very good. If you would please follow me.”
They entered. Jackson narrowed his eyes at Sid to silently tell him he wasn’t happy with this setup. Sid usually let Jackson meet with the client before he agreed to do the job, but this time it seemed the vast amount of money had ensured he hadn’t stuck to their normal agreement.
“It’ll be fine,” Sid mouthed.
They followed the suited spindle-figure across a foyer. Ahead, a red-carpeted central staircase was bracketed by verandas either side at the top. Several closed doors up there led to God only knew what parts of the mansion—a couple of corridors with more doors, Jackson suspected—and between each door hung portraits of austere-looking men who appeared to have corks stuck up their arses. That was all well and good if they enjoyed that kind of thing, but going by their expressions, they didn’t.
Jackson returned his attention to where they were going, their footsteps ringing out on the harlequin-tiled floor. The butler stopped outside a set of double doors and rapped smartly. He pressed his ear to the wood then nodded, lifting one hand to point an oddly gnarled finger at the ceiling. Jackson glanced at Sid beside him. Sid shrugged and stared at the butler’s back.
“He doesn’t appear to have heard my knock, sirs,” the man said. “Please wait here while I go in and see if he’s ready.” He pushed the door open just enough so he could slide through the gap and disappear inside.
“I swear to fucking God, Sid, if I have to spend the night playing cards with some old duffer, I’m going to bloody—”
The doors yawned open, and the butler stood to one side. “Please, do come in.”
Jackson trailed Sid into the room and did a quick study. Large area, most probably a drawing room at some point in the past, now a modern lounge that stretched on for around fifty metres. Black leather sofas were dotted about, creating several somewhat private spaces should people wish to sit in huddles with like-minded friends when they came here. It reminded Jackson of a hotel reception. A cinema-sized TV hung on the wall, and he could well
