Blood Hunt

“Okay,” Reeve said as the doors slid closed.

Reeve guessed the security man would be watching the elevator lights. At the second story from the top, the elevator opened and they got out. Allerdyce’s office door was locked by a keypad. He pushed in four digits and opened it.

Reeve got to work. There were no security cameras up here-the senior partners obviously didn’t like to be spied on. Reeve placed one bug inside the telephone apparatus and taped another to the underside of the desk. The phone rang suddenly, causing him to jump. He answered it. It was the front desk.

“Good evening,” Reeve said, drawing out each word, like he’d had a few.

“Mr. Allerdyce there?” the man asked, pleasant but suspicious, too.

“Would you like to speak to him? Jeffrey, there’s a man here wants to speak to you.”

Allerdyce took the phone. “Yes?” he said. He listened, Reeve listening right beside him. “No, it’s just an old friend. We’ve been drinking, couldn’t sleep. I’m showing him around.” A pause to listen. “Yes, I know you have to check. It’s what I pay you for. No trouble, good night.”

Reeve took the receiver and put it back in its cradle.

“Nice one, Jeffrey,” he said.

“These security men,” Allerdyce said, yawning. “I pay them too much. They sit on their asses all night and call it working.”

“We’re finished in here,” Reeve said. Then he saw the headed letter paper on the desk. “No, wait-sit down, Mr. Allerdyce. I want you to write something. Will you do that?” He lifted a pen and handed it to Allerdyce, then placed a sheet of the elegant paper in front of him. “Just write what I tell you: ”I invited Mr. Gordon Reeve to my home and took him on a tour of my business premises. I did these things of my own free will and under no restraint or coercion.“ That’s all, just sign it and date it.”

Reeve plucked the paper from him and folded it in four. It wasn’t much-he wasn’t even sure it qualified as insurance-but if the cops ever did come asking, at least he could make things a bit sticky for Allerdyce…

They took the elevator down a couple of floors to where Alfred Dulwater shared an office. The door was locked, but Allerdyce had a key for it.

“Do you have keys to all the offices?” Reeve asked.

“Of course.”

“Do you ever come here at night and rifle everyone’s drawers?”

“Not everyone’s.”

“Jesus, no wonder you’re a PI.”

Reeve opened his bag, took out the shoe box and tool kit, and got to work again. Another bug in the telephone, another under Dulwater’s desk, and one for good measure under his colleague’s desk. There was nothing in the room about either James or Gordon Reeve, nothing about Kosigin or CWC, which was what he’d expected. Like Allerdyce had said, Dulwater reported directly to him. As little in writing as possible.

They started downstairs again. Reeve had another idea. He told Allerdyce what to do, and then pressed the button for the lobby. The two of them marched up to the front desk. The guard there stood up and straightened his clothes; he was obviously in awe of Allerdyce. Allerdyce went to say something, but yawned mightily instead.

“Late night?” the guard said with a smile. Reeve shrugged blearily.

“Donald,” Allerdyce said, “I’d like the video of tonight.”

“The recording, sir?”

“Alan here has never seen himself on TV.”

The guard looked to “Alan.” Reeve shrugged again and beamed at him. Allerdyce was holding out his hand. “If you please, Donald?”

The guard unlocked a door behind him, which led to a windowless room with nothing but screens and banks of video recorders. The man ejected a tape, put in a fresh one, and came back out, locking the door after him.

“Thank you, Donald,” Allerdyce said.

Reeve dropped the cassette into his bag. “Thanks, Donald,” he echoed.

As they walked back towards the elevator, he heard the guard mutter: “The name’s Duane…”

Outside, Duhart was waiting for them.

“Any trouble?” Reeve asked.

“No. You?”

Reeve shook his head. “I just hope those bugs are working.”

Duhart smiled and held up a cassette player. He punched the Play button.

“Good evening.” It was Reeve’s own voice, tinny but clear.

“Mr. Allerdyce there?”

“Would you like to speak to him? Jeffrey…”

Reeve smiled an honest smile at Duhart, who began laughing.

“I can’t believe we just did it,” he said at last, wiping tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe we just bugged the buggers!”

Reeve shook the shoe box. “There are a few left.” He turned to the backseat. “Let’s take Mr. Allerdyce home…”

They were aware, of course, that the Alliance building was swept top to bottom for bugs quite regularly. They were aware because Mr. Allerdyce told them so in answer to a question. The last debugging had been a week ago. The building would be swept again, of course, if Allerdyce discovered he’d paid this middle-of-the-night visit to his offices-but that would depend on the guard mentioning the visit. Allerdyce himself wouldn’t remember a damned thing about it, wouldn’t even know he’d left his own house. And the night-duty guard, Duane, might not mention the incident to anyone. It wasn’t like it was going to be public knowledge around Alliance that Jeffrey Allerdyce had been drugged and used in this way.

No, Allerdyce wouldn’t want anyone to know about that.

Reeve didn’t want either of the guards at Allerdyce’s home to see Duhart, but at the same time they couldn’t leave the car outside for too long. A private police patrol cruised the vicinity once an hour, so Allerdyce said, so they took the car in through the gates and up the gravel drive. Duhart came with them into the house, and Reeve warned him not to go into one particular room downstairs, not to say anything, and not to leave his fingerprints. Duhart made the sign of zipping his lips.

They took Allerdyce upstairs to his bedroom.

“Mr. Allerdyce,” Reeve said, “I think you must be exhausted. Get undressed and put your pajamas back on. Go to bed. Sleep well.”

They closed the bedroom door after them and went to the office, which Reeve unlocked. Inside, they bugged the telephone, the underside of the desk, the underside of the photocopier, and the leg of the sofa.

Downstairs, they bugged the other telephones but none of the rooms-they’d run out of bugs. They got back into the car and started down the driveway.

“What the hell is that?” Duhart gasped.

It was a dog, its mouth, front and back legs taped, jerking across the lawn towards the driveway.

Reeve pushed the button on the remote and the gates swung silently inwards. After they’d driven out, he used the remote to close the gates, then rolled down his window and tossed the thing high over the stone wall.

He hoped it would miss the dog.

PART SEVEN. CONFESSIONAL

EIGHTEEN