Tricia stared at him with glazed eyes, but said nothing.
“I know a lot about him. The people I work for are very clever. They can acquire information about anyone. They found out about your little holiday home here. Imagine that. And they found out all about Adam. He was in the army. For most of his adult life, in fact. You probably know that. But did you know he was a captain in the SAS? I’ll wager he didn’t tell you. He keeps his secrets, does Captain Black. More lemonade?”
“Please let me go,” she mumbled.
“He was awarded the Military Cross. You get that for bravery. I’ll bet Adam was a handful in the battlefield.”
Lincoln leaned in closer, the stool creaking.
“And that’s what I think we share, the captain and I. What do you think that is, Tricia? What is it you think we share?”
“Please…”
“We like to kill,” he whispered. “We both have a real taste for it.”
Tricia shed quiet desperate tears.
Lincoln frowned. “No need to cry, Tricia. It’ll be over soon. I promise.”
39
The child refused to talk. This didn’t annoy Lampton in the slightest. He watched her on one of the monitors in his room. She was sitting up in her bed. He had given her a doll and had told her it was called Lucy Smiles. She held it now, close to her, and that gave Lampton pleasure. Gradually, she would grow to trust him. He was a master in the art of manipulation.
He didn’t know her name. If he’d asked, Falconer would have told him. But names weren’t important. If anyone told him her name it would have to be her.
He smiled. She was special.
Bath time soon. He could hardly wait. He would be gentle. He would treat her like a tiny porcelain doll, with great delicacy and care. Never rough. Not to begin with. The hurting came later, which he never intended. It just happened. Lampton put it down to a natural progression towards a final conclusion.
The telephone on his desk bleeped. It was Norman Sands. He hated Sands. Obsequious bean counter. All he cared about was money. Lampton found him disgusting. A vile creature. He didn’t care about the children. It was all cash. He didn’t see the children as human beings but assets to be sold for profit. Lampton had much more noble aspirations.
He loved his little ones.
He picked up.
“Lampton.”
“Yes.”
“There’s an auction tomorrow night. Numbers 3, 5, 6 and 10. You understand?”
Lampton found talking to the man brought a bad taste to his mouth.
“Of course.”
“We’ve got twelve bidders. From every corner. Repeat clients. So we want them looking immaculate. Get them dressed, get them doing what kids do. Just make sure they’re perfect. Mr Falconer will be down to look in later. Auction begins at seven. We want them animated, Lampton. No hiding under covers, or cowering behind cushions. You understand?”
“I understand completely. There will be no fuck-ups, Sands. There never are. Mr Falconer knows I don’t let him down.”
“Tell that to him if your measles problem doesn’t go away.”
He hung up. Lampton replaced the phone back gently. He wasn’t a man to give way to rages. Unless he was pushed. Or when he succumbed to one of his episodes, when a little one needed teaching a lesson, and he forgot himself.
He watched numbers 3, 5, 6 and 10 on his monitors. They were listless, as indeed they all were. The four being sold were all about six years old, as far as he could tell. He would gee them up. They had to be natural. Smiling. Or at the very least no frowns or surliness. Tomorrow night, at seven, the hidden cameras would beam their smiles to all sorts of people. Lampton didn’t know how much money changed hands, nor did he care.
But he’d been told the younger they were, the greater the price. He could understand that.
Sands joined Falconer in the dining room. Falconer was eating alone, which he preferred. He sat at the head of a long broad dining table, crafted from Venetian grey marble, around which were placed sixteen matching high-backed chairs. It had arrived only the day before. Bought in specially for the Japanese billionaire and his entourage. No expense had been spared. The cost: $75,000. Pocket change to a man like Boyd Falconer. A chef specialising in Japanese cuisine would be hired for the evening, at $3,000. He’d arranged for Japanese stencils to be hung on the white walls, ten in all, each original, each costing $50,000. And so it went on. Sands knew what everything cost. It was his job to know. Over $1,000,000 had been lavished on the room. A day’s earning, he estimated.
But the worst, at least in Sands’ view, was the samurai armour, fastened around a mannequin, placed in one corner, complete with sword and helmet. Made from black iron lacquered plates, gold-plated chain mail and blue silk. In Sands’ view, it was crass and clumsy, and could offend. The cost was offensive too, at over $450,000. He’d hinted as much, and was told in no uncertain manner by Falconer to shut the fuck up.
Falconer was eating a plate of steamed vegetables and a baked potato. He sipped from a stem glass of still mineral water, bottles of which were imported from Switzerland. On a far wall opposite was a large screen. With a flick of a remote, it could retract into a specially adapted housing, and a wooden panel would slide down, rendering it undetectable.
Falconer was gazing at it, which he did most mealtimes. There were screens in almost every room in his ranch. On the screen were numbers, names, places, flow charts. Sands was meticulous. Falconer was more so. He knew everything about each of the items. Where they came from: age; name; cost of procurement. Also, source – the name or names of those who supplied the item initially. Then the names of each individual involved in the often-complex chain of handovers
