Each room was locked. Hidden video cameras monitored those inside.
At one end of the corridor was a room occupied by the individual responsible for those confined in the locked rooms. Stanley Lampton. He kept check. If need be, he was empowered to administer penalties, in case of disobedience. Sometimes he had to make an example of one, to create the desired subservience in the group. Though he was not allowed to maim or disfigure, or draw blood. Occasionally, if Falconer felt magnanimous, he granted him one as a gift, to do with as he pleased.
The man who lived in that room was feared by those in the dungeon. Like the sub-level he inhabited, he also had a nickname – the Dungeon Master. Lampton was a man with a past. He’d spent a good portion of his adult life in the state penitentiary for child molestation. Lampton had been an early starter. He’d raped his first minor when he was sixteen, and had never looked back. Those who had suffered at his hands would describe him as a monster. Lampton had many victims in many states.
Which was exactly the type of man Falconer needed to keep order in the dungeon. A man who enjoyed his work.
It was Lampton who had called the doctor about the measles, and it was Lampton who ensured a strict quarantine was in place.
“This had better be under fucking control,” said Falconer. He and Sands were in Lampton’s room at the end of the hall. It was large, of regular dimensions, and scrupulously clean. It was devoid of anything personal. No pictures on the wall, no needless furniture, no ornaments or memorabilia. No family photographs – Stanley Lampton’s family had disowned him years ago. Lampton sat directly opposite the two men on a small leather swivel chair. He was spindle thin, his back rigid, his pale, long-fingered hands resting on his lap, like two monstrous albino spiders. He liked to dress in blue hospital scrubs, the type a surgeon might wear.
He regarded the two before him with dark eyes set deep in a skull face. Sharp cheekbones, narrow jaw. Lank black hair sat like a flat rag on his scalp, trailing over his ears. Sands was reminded of a moving cadaver when he had a conversation with Lampton. He liked to keep the meetings short. The man creeped him out.
“I couldn’t do anything about the measles,” replied Lampton, his voice soft, reasonable, respectful. “She’ll be fine. She’s in isolation. The doctor’s seen her.”
“I repeat…” said Falconer, “it had better be under fucking control. Do you know how much the doctor costs, just for one visit? Humour me, Lampton.”
“I imagine it’s expensive.”
“Imagine all you want. Let me tell you. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Do you know why it’s so expensive?”
Lampton remained expressionless.
“Because,” continued Falconer, “I have to buy the doctor’s silence. Every time someone here gets a cut or an infection, or a fucking summer cold, I pay a thousand times more than the going rate. Thus, for reasons of economy, I depend on you to keep these episodes to an absolute minimum.”
“I understand completely.”
“You’d better. She needs to be ready in three weeks. Make sure she is.”
“She’ll be ready,” said Lampton. “Count on it.”
23
Black had a lead. He’d spotted something in the video, and it was enough to plan. He would set off early in the morning.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He finished the bottle. It was 9pm. Thoughts drifted in and out of his head. The images he’d witnessed recurred, rearing up, uninvited, casting grotesque shadows in his mind. He thought of his own dead daughter. Black fought back a wave of nausea.
He needed space to breathe. He needed perspective. He decided he’d venture downstairs, to the hotel bar for a nightcap, some friendly faces. Anything to chase away the shadows.
The bar was like any hotel bar anywhere. The Royal Oak was not the largest hotel in Thurso, but the bar was big enough to attract a crowd. Several booths, rectangular wooden tables with short stools and chairs. Tall bay windows with darkened glass looked on to the street outside. The walls had been reduced back to rough bare brick and stone – a popular feature in trendy pubs, apparently. Black had never cottoned on to the idea. In a corner, a real fire smoked and crackled beneath a copper-coloured hood. Quaint. Olde Worlde.
Black sat on a high stool at the bar and ordered a Glenfiddich. Double. The gantry was built on to a frosted mirror, holding rows of obscure whiskies. Black studied his reflection. The face looking back was tanned, chiselled, handsome in a hard-bitten way, dark hair cut short, dark eyes. Eyes which had witnessed death in all its forms. And outrages. He had witnessed friends tortured in Iraq, arms and legs blown off in makeshift roadside bombs built from scrap in basements; witnessed executions by terrorists, some as young as twelve. Beheadings. Mutilations. Black had seen all aspects of evil. But nothing compared to the video of the little girl. His soul felt numb. His insides felt hollow.
He took a large gulp of his whisky.
A group of four young men sat round a table in a corner. They were necking down shorts, ordering them up as soon as they were finished. Their conversation was loud, and within half an hour, took on an edge of menace. The atmosphere got uncomfortable. People began to leave.
The man sitting on the stool next to Black shook his head, smiling,
