39
After searching as much of the grounds as was lit by the floodlights, and finding no sign of Whitehead, Marty went back upstairs. It was time to break Whitehead’s commandment, and look for the old man in forbidden territory. The door to the room at the end of the top corridor, beyond Carys’ and Whitehead’s bedrooms, was closed. Heart in mouth, Marty approached, and tapped on it.
“Sir?”
At first there was no sound from within. Then came Whitehead’s voice; vague, as if woken from sleep: “Who is it?”
“Strauss, sir.”
“Come in.”
Marty pushed the door gently and it swung open.
When he had imagined the interior of this room it had always been a treasure house. But the truth was quite the reverse. The room was Spartan: its white walls and its spare furnishings a chilly spectacle. It did boast one treasure. An altarpiece stood against one of the bare walls, its richness quite out of place in such an austere setting. Its central panel was a crucifixion of sublime sadism; all gold and blood.
Its owner sat, dressed in an opulent dressing gown, at the far end of the room, behind a large table. He looked at Marty with neither welcome nor accusation on his face, his body slumped in the chair like a sack.
“Don’t stand in the doorway, man. Come in.”
Marty closed the door behind him.
“I know what you told me, sir, about never coming up here. But I was afraid something had happened to you.”
“I’m alive,” Whitehead said, spreading his hands. “All’s well.”
“The dogs-”
“-are dead. I know. Sit.”
He gestured to the empty chair opposite him across the table.
“Shouldn’t I call the police?”
“There’s no need.”
“They could still be on the premises.”
Whitehead shook his head. “They’ve gone. Sit down, Martin. Pour yourself a glass of wine. You look as if you’ve been running hard.”
Marty pulled out the chair that had been neatly placed under the table and sat down. The unadorned bulb that burned in the middle of the room threw an unflattering light on everything. Heavy shadows, ghastly highlights: a ghost show.
“Put down the gun. You won’t be needing it.”
He lay the weapon down on the table beside the plate, on which there were still several wafer-thin slices of meat. Beyond the plate, a bowl of strawberries, partially devoured, and a glass of water. The frugality of the meal matched the environment: the meat, sliced to the point of transparency, rare and moist; the casual arrangement of cups and strawberry bowl. An arbitrary precision invested everything, an eerie sense of chance beauty. Between Marty and Whitehead a mote of dust turned in the air, fluctuating between the light bulb and table, its -direction influenced by the merest exhalation.
“Try the meat, Martin.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s superb. My guest brought it.”
“You know who they are, then.”
“Yes, of course. Now eat.”
Reluctantly Marty cut a piece of the slice in front of him, and tasted it. The texture dissolved on the tongue, delicate and appetizing.
“Finish it off,” Whitehead said.
Marty did as the old man had invited: the night’s exertions had given him an appetite. A glass of red wine was poured for him; he drank it down.
“Your head’s full of questions, no doubt,” Whitehead said. “Please ask away. I’ll do my best to answer.”
“Who are they?” he asked.
“Friends.”
“They broke in like assassins.”
“Is it not possible that friends, with time, can become assassins?” Marty hadn’t been prepared for that particular paradox. “One of them sat where you’re sitting now.”
“How can I be, your bodyguard if I don’t know your friends from your enemies?”
Whitehead paused, and looked hard at Marty.
“Do you care?” he asked after a beat.
“You’ve been good to me,” Marty replied, insulted by the inquiry. “What kind of coldhearted bastard do you take me for?”
“My God . . .” Whitehead shook his head. “Marty . . .”
“Explain to me. I want to help.”
“Explain what?”
“How you can invite a man who wants to kill you to eat dinner with you.
Whitehead watched the dust mote turning between them. He either thought the question beneath contempt, or had no answer for it.