The Hollow Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

Time Management . Well, you found one secret to time management , Belsey thought. He smelt Devereux’s sheets. He smelt the clothes in the cupboard and detected cigar smoke and a heavy aftershave he didn’t recognise. There were no photos anywhere. Perhaps he had taken them with him. There were security cameras in the front hall and study but he couldn’t find the control panel or hard drive. A floor-length mirror filled the centre of the right-hand bedroom wall. Belsey spent some time admiring the polished glass, the bedroom reflected in it, trying on Devereux’s clothes: double-cuff shirts; wide, unfashionable ties.
    He went back to the kitchen, emptied the bin onto the floor and sifted through the rubbish with his foot: junk mail and catalogues. No food packaging. No tissues. No DNA. He looked for a passport in the bedroom and study, found an old fax machine, a bottle of Bell’s whisky and a box of Cuban cigars, but no documents. There was a framed photograph of St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace on the study wall and a model of an ocean liner in a glass case beside the window.
    For the past year I have felt as if the sun has gone out . . .
    Belsey returned to the living room, lay down on the carpet and let the darkness enclose him. He turned on the TV and poured himself a cognac from a decanter on top of a cabinet. So this is wealth, he thought. And, after another glass: This is the most exciting thing I have ever done. The phone rang. It felt like an electric shock. There were phones all around him ringing, a digital trill from the study and kitchen and, fainter, from rooms beyond. Belsey walked to the study and stared at the phone on the desk and the suicide note on the billiards table. He listened closely, as if the significance of the call might be discerned from its ring. It rang for over a minute, then stopped.

7
    B elsey woke on the living-room floor in a drab light. Above him, the crystals of a chandelier hung like tears too expensive to fall. The clock on Devereux’s home entertainment system said 6:15 a.m. He knew where he was. He rolled beneath the coffee table and covered his face with his arm but sleep had gone.
    Devereux’s shower sprayed water at different heights, with a touch-screen panel so you could program yourself a hydro massage. The shower cabinet was big enough for three or four. That would be a party, Belsey thought. It would be nice to bring someone back here, add some female company to the mix. He spent ten minutes washing, used a variety of exotic creams, then wrapped himself in a thick bathrobe bearing the gold monogram A.D .
    He checked his face in the mirror. Even in the soft glow of the fluorescent mirror lights it wasn’t a pretty sight. But he was passable. His right ear looked raw and there was faint bruising on the side of his face. There would be a scar on the right side of his jaw where the cut was deepest. A souvenir. The rest was superficial.
    His own clothes stank so he went to Devereux’s bedroom and laid some suits on the quilted down. Devereux favoured pale greys, blazers, ties with flags and yachts, shirts in yellow and pink with Savile Row tags. They struck Belsey as the clothes of an international figure, a man who did business not work. He chose an outfit: Armani suit with a touch of silver to its grey, a pink Ralph Lauren shirt and a tie with gold-and-navy stripes. It looked awful and he loved it. The suit hung just past his wrists, loose at the waistband, but it went well with the snakeskin shoes. Devereux’s wallet remained beside the bed. Belsey put it in his pocket for the weight.
    He checked the road from the front window and when he was sure no one was passing he stepped out, skipping down the front steps. He walked to the north end of The Bishops Avenue, where its grandeur dissipated into the suburbs. East Finchley. The tanning salons and charity shops were waking up. The cafes had started to open. He tried the first one he got to.
    “Could I have a