chair. His mouth had gone dry, and his heart was hammering in his chest. He staggered through the darkness to the light switch, snapped it on, then leaned against the wall, gasping in breaths, shaking his head to clear away the terrifying music.
Within a few minutes his breathing had returned to normal. Gathering up his duffel and slinging it over a shoulder, he stepped out of the door and into the hall—reaching inside to switch off the lights again—and then, locking the door, pocketed the key and made his way back down the elegant corridor to his own rooms, careful as he did so to keep his mind as blank and as empty as possible.
10
The Grounds and Infrastructure Maintenance Center was a hangarlike outbuilding in the eastern shadow of the mansion, sitting amid a minicampus of other, smaller structures. Although its facade was cleverly designed to imitate that of Dark Gables, its huge sliding doors and flat roof betrayed its true nature.
Jeremy Logan stepped through an employees’ entrance and found himself in a cavernous space. To the far right was a veritable battalion of landscaping and earthmoving equipment: commercial mowers, chippers, Kubota tractors, Ditch Witch trenchers, and half a dozen more esoteric pieces of gear were lined up, gleaming and ready for use. Behind them were two repair bays with a large attached parts section. In the bays, Logan could make out mechanics in jumpsuits performing operations on disassembled machinery. In the middle of the maintenance center were severallong, massive industrial shelves, stretching from the concrete floor to the ceiling and containing pallets full of every imaginable item necessary to keep the complex running, from light switches to PVC pipe to circuit boards to plumbing fixtures to office accessories, all carefully labeled. Next came an extensive machine shop. Finally, stretching along the left-hand wall of the maintenance center, was a small cluster of cubicles, staffed with workers typing at workstations or speaking into telephones. Logan walked up to the closest worker and asked directions to the office of Ian Albright. He was pointed toward a set of exposed metal steps set into the nearest wall.
Albright’s office was small but functional. One wall was entirely of glass and looked out over his maintenance domain. Albright himself was middle-aged and roundish, with a drinker’s red nose and a cheery disposition. “Have a seat, then,” he said with a laugh, perching himself on the edge of a desk covered with work orders, invoices, and memos. “Dr. Olafson said to expect you.” Albright spoke in a working-class London accent that Logan found refreshing after the somewhat stifling academic atmosphere inside the main house.
“Thanks,” he said as he sat down. “I have to confess, Mr. Albright—”
“Ian, if you please.”
“I have to confess, Ian, I’m not exactly sure what your job description is. One person referred to you as the ‘infrastructure supervisor.’ Another as the ‘site manager.’ ”
Albright threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a lot of rubbish, that. I’m just a glorified super—with a whacking great council house to look after.” And he indicated the Lux headquarters with a westward wave of his hand and another laugh.
The man’s laughter was infectious and Logan found himself smiling. He was suddenly reluctant to change the mood. “Actually, I’m here to talk to you about a former resident of that particular council house.”
“Oh? And who might that be?”
“Willard Strachey.”
Immediately, the smile fell away from Albright’s face. “Oh,” he said again, in a distinctly subdued tone of voice. “Terrible bit of business.”
“Yes, it was.”
“He was a good one. Not like some, mind you, who treat me and my mates like groundskeepers and won’t give us the time of day. He was always polite, Dr. Strachey was. Always had a kind word.”
“I’ve been asked by the board to look into the
Within a few minutes his breathing had returned to normal. Gathering up his duffel and slinging it over a shoulder, he stepped out of the door and into the hall—reaching inside to switch off the lights again—and then, locking the door, pocketed the key and made his way back down the elegant corridor to his own rooms, careful as he did so to keep his mind as blank and as empty as possible.
10
The Grounds and Infrastructure Maintenance Center was a hangarlike outbuilding in the eastern shadow of the mansion, sitting amid a minicampus of other, smaller structures. Although its facade was cleverly designed to imitate that of Dark Gables, its huge sliding doors and flat roof betrayed its true nature.
Jeremy Logan stepped through an employees’ entrance and found himself in a cavernous space. To the far right was a veritable battalion of landscaping and earthmoving equipment: commercial mowers, chippers, Kubota tractors, Ditch Witch trenchers, and half a dozen more esoteric pieces of gear were lined up, gleaming and ready for use. Behind them were two repair bays with a large attached parts section. In the bays, Logan could make out mechanics in jumpsuits performing operations on disassembled machinery. In the middle of the maintenance center were severallong, massive industrial shelves, stretching from the concrete floor to the ceiling and containing pallets full of every imaginable item necessary to keep the complex running, from light switches to PVC pipe to circuit boards to plumbing fixtures to office accessories, all carefully labeled. Next came an extensive machine shop. Finally, stretching along the left-hand wall of the maintenance center, was a small cluster of cubicles, staffed with workers typing at workstations or speaking into telephones. Logan walked up to the closest worker and asked directions to the office of Ian Albright. He was pointed toward a set of exposed metal steps set into the nearest wall.
Albright’s office was small but functional. One wall was entirely of glass and looked out over his maintenance domain. Albright himself was middle-aged and roundish, with a drinker’s red nose and a cheery disposition. “Have a seat, then,” he said with a laugh, perching himself on the edge of a desk covered with work orders, invoices, and memos. “Dr. Olafson said to expect you.” Albright spoke in a working-class London accent that Logan found refreshing after the somewhat stifling academic atmosphere inside the main house.
“Thanks,” he said as he sat down. “I have to confess, Mr. Albright—”
“Ian, if you please.”
“I have to confess, Ian, I’m not exactly sure what your job description is. One person referred to you as the ‘infrastructure supervisor.’ Another as the ‘site manager.’ ”
Albright threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a lot of rubbish, that. I’m just a glorified super—with a whacking great council house to look after.” And he indicated the Lux headquarters with a westward wave of his hand and another laugh.
The man’s laughter was infectious and Logan found himself smiling. He was suddenly reluctant to change the mood. “Actually, I’m here to talk to you about a former resident of that particular council house.”
“Oh? And who might that be?”
“Willard Strachey.”
Immediately, the smile fell away from Albright’s face. “Oh,” he said again, in a distinctly subdued tone of voice. “Terrible bit of business.”
“Yes, it was.”
“He was a good one. Not like some, mind you, who treat me and my mates like groundskeepers and won’t give us the time of day. He was always polite, Dr. Strachey was. Always had a kind word.”
“I’ve been asked by the board to look into the
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