Cody is reminded of the Alice in Wonderland story in which Alice comes across various items with labels on them that say things like ‘Drink me’.
He stares at the tiny key and wonders which rabbit hole it will take him down.
23
She worries that she may have missed them.
When she went home, she intended to stay there – to lick her wounds and live to fight another day. She intended to shower, slip on some clean, fresh pyjamas, and go to bed, filling her head with thoughts and memories of Matthew.
It didn’t work out that way. She fumed all the way home. It mounted in intensity until she was incandescent, and no sooner did she walk through her front door than she realised she would be going out again. She stayed at the house only long enough to change out of her damp jogging bottoms, then she got back in her car.
Which is where she is now. In her car. Back at the same spot on the street she occupied earlier. But now her mood has darkened. Her husband is dead, and somebody in this pub knows something about it. No more pussyfooting around with these dickheads.
It’s close to midnight. In the past half hour, nobody has gone in, but plenty have come out. There cannot be many customers remaining in there now. She can only hope that Freckles and Blinky didn’t choose to leave the pub during the time she went home.
She continues to watch.
Two more people come out – a lad and his girlfriend. She’s all over him, using him as a prop to keep her on her feet. Billy the bartender appears in the doorway, waves them off, and begins swinging the outer doors into place to lock up.
Shit.
But then Billy seems to hear a noise inside, and he turns. Two more figures appear. One of them claps Billy on the shoulder as he exits. The other still has a beer bottle in his hand.
It’s the gruesome twosome. The dregs of this shithole of a pub.
She waits until Billy has disappeared inside and the two young men have made their way to the end of the block, then she gets out of her car and crosses the street. She remains a good distance behind her quarry; hardly anyone else is out at this time of night, and so she’s in no danger of losing them.
When the pair turn up a side street, she picks up her pace. She jogs to the corner, then peers around it before continuing to follow. She is now only a few yards behind. Other than the three of them, the street seems deserted.
When Freckles and Blinky have to get into single file to squeeze past some cars that are parked across the pavement, Sara makes her move.
She increases her speed again, keeping her footfalls low and silent. As the men get past the cars and Freckles starts to move to the side of his friend again, Sara comes up close behind him.
The Belgian Takedown is one of its names. It involves reaching down and grabbing the ankles of your opponent, then yanking them towards you while simultaneously ramming your shoulder into the back of the opponent’s legs. The enemy has no choice but to go down hard, and with his ankles still in your grasp, you are in a prime position to aim repeated kicks into his groin, or to climb onto his back and take him out of action.
When Sara applies the manoeuvre to Freckles, his face hits the pavement with a resounding smack, and the bottle in his hand smashes, spraying beer and splinters of glass towards his comrade.
Sara decides to dispense with the groin-kicking for Freckles.
Blinky is not so fortunate.
When he turns to see what all the commotion is, his eyelids are working more furiously than ever, and his mouth drops open in surprise and confusion.
Sara steps towards him, snaps a powerful kick directly into his crown jewels.
She hears the sharp intake of breath as Blinky clutches at his privates and staggers backwards. Then she finishes him off with a spinning roundhouse kick that almost takes his head off. He flies into a hedge and bounces off it again, landing spreadeagled on his back, unconscious.
Sara whirls to see Freckles clambering to his feet, blood gushing from his flattened nose. The top of the broken beer bottle is still clutched in his hand, and it’s clear he intends to use it.
His drunken lunge is slow and awkward. Sara has no trouble sidestepping it, trapping his outstretched arm and then throwing him across her body and onto the ground. There’s a crunching noise as he hits, and Freckles cries out. Sara jumps on his back and twists his arm up behind him. She wrests the broken bottle from his hand, then holds the jagged edge to his neck.
‘Remember me?’ she asks.
‘I remember. The foreign bird.’
‘That’s me. Tell me about Metro.’
‘He’ll kill me.’
Sara presses the glass harder into his neck. ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t. I’m not fucking about here. Who’s Metro?’
‘He . . . He works for Joey Pearce.’
‘And who’s Joey Pearce?’
‘Everyone knows who Joey Pearce is.’
‘Pretend I don’t.’
‘He runs things round here. You don’t mess with him.’
‘And what does Metro do for him?’
‘He’s an enforcer.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He does all the dirty jobs. He . . . He collects payments. He steps in when there’s trouble. That kind of thing.’
‘Does he ever come into that stinking pub you were just in?’
‘Sometimes, yeah. Not very often, though.’
‘Where else might I find him?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
She jabs him with the bottle again. ‘Think!’
‘There’s a few places Pearce owns. Try the Texicana pool hall. Or Jaeger’s Gym. Or maybe Antarctica.’
‘Are you being funny?’
‘No! It’s a club in town. He often goes there.’
Sara looks around. Blinky is still flat out. Across the street, a light goes on in a window.
‘One more thing,’ she says. ‘The next time you’re tempted to treat a woman like the shit on your shoe, think about this moment. Some of us bite back, arsehole.’
She gets to her feet. Freckles groans but makes no attempt to move. She turns and walks back towards her car, tossing the broken bottle over a hedge at the end of the street.
24
So that’s another sleepless night.
Cody sometimes wonders how he manages to stay looking so young, given the countless hours of rejuvenating slumber that have been stolen from him. He knows he looks shattered this morning, though; his bathroom mirror was keen to point that out.
He spent most of the night staring at the key – not something he would ever have thought he would end up doing. A book, yes. A box-set of DVDs, possibly. But not a key.
It’s not even an especially interesting-looking key. It doesn’t sparkle or feel as though it possesses magical powers. It’s just a plain, ordinary key of less than impressive dimensions.
He has looked around his apartment for things that it might possibly open, and come up with nothing. He’s beginning to feel that the trade he made to obtain it was a very one-sided affair.
And yet . . .
This is the key to freedom. It says so, right there on the label. That’s special, right? Has to be. Most keys don’t even pretend to lay such bold claim to fundamental human rights.
So what does it set free? Cody wonders.
Me? Is this some kind of arty-farty symbol of my being released from the shackles of clowndom?
No. It has to be more grounded in reality than that. Waldo doesn’t work in the abstract. He likes people to see and touch his art. To feel it, however excruciating and mind-destroying it might be.
So the key opens something. Pandora’s box, perhaps – filled with the world’s evils awaiting their release by the idiot detective gullible enough to unlock them.
Cody is still thinking about these weighty matters when he arrives at Stanley Road police station in Kirkdale. But as he walks through the door, he sees the desk sergeant and two uniformed officers gathere
d around a monitor, laughing at something.
‘What’s the joke, lads?’ he asks.
The sergeant looks across at Cody, then nods for him to join them. ‘Take a look at this,’ he says.
Intrigued, Cody moves around to the front of the monitor. On the screen is a paused grainy video of a dark street scene.
‘You know those two scallies,’ says the sergeant, ‘Kieran Willis and Lee Hassell?’
‘Doesn’t everyone? What about them?’
‘Watch this.’
The sergeant mouse-clicks the video play button. For a few seconds nothing happens, but then a figure comes into view from the right, closely followed by another, swigging from a bottle.
‘Is that them?’ Cody asks.
‘Certainly is. Are you watching?’
A second later, a third figure enters. Smaller than the other two, and wearing a hooded cardigan with the hood up, it closes in like a shark on the person Cody now knows to be Lee Hassell. Cody watches as Hassell is suddenly pitched forward to face-plant the pavement.
‘Oh, shit!’ he says.
‘The best is yet to come,’ says the sergeant.
Cody’s eyes widen as he observes the close combat. He finds himself gasping as Willis is dispatched with the kicks. He swears as Hassell closes in, brandishing what looks like the top half of his bottle, but then almost cheers as the hooded figure throws him to the ground and disarms him.
And then, as the assailant seems to interrogate or threaten Hassell, Cody realises something.
He says, ‘Is that—?’
‘A woman. Yup.’ The sergeant is wearing a broad grin now. ‘Can you believe it? Lee Hassell and Kieran Willis getting their arses kicked by a girl!’
But that is no longer the only question on Cody’s mind. There is suddenly a clenching sensation in his stomach as he stares at this video. He leans forward to get a better look, but the figures are so small, the pictures so grainy. He can’t quite make out the woman’s face, but there’s something about her build and those stray locks of blonde hair escaping from the confines of her hood.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asks.
‘It’s on YouTube. It was caught on the CCTV camera of a business premises last night, and it’s already gone viral. Incredible, eh?’
‘Yeah, but I mean where exactly did it happen?’
‘In Bootle. Just around the corner from The Tar Barrel.’
The Tar Barrel. Just a few minutes’ walk from Matthew Prior’s office building. That can’t be sheer coincidence.
‘Has anyone looked into this?’
The sergeant stares at Cody as if he’s taking all the fun out of the moment. ‘We’ve asked some questions. We know it’s Hassell and Willis, but there’s no way they’re going to admit to having the crap kicked out of them by a woman. And just between us, Cody, I wouldn’t have thought catching their assailant would come high on our list of priorities. I know a lot of coppers who’d like to shake this woman’s hand.’
Cody nods.
But he knows where he’ll be going later.
25
Cody finds it difficult to concentrate. His wearied mind is being torn in two different directions. Waldo sits right up there, of course. Cody keeps seeing mental images of that grotesque clown mask, its grin filled with insanity and a thirst for blood. Cody keeps reaching into his jacket pocket to finger the key, as though that might help to divine its purpose. His eyes dart to his own desk drawer, and then across the room to the filing cabinets. Would it fit one of those, he wonders? How could I possibly go around checking all the locks in here without someone noticing?
And now there is the other issue. Sara Prior. That had to be her on the video. But why? What the hell has she got herself involved in?
He becomes aware that Blunt, at the front of the room, keeps glancing his way as she speaks.
She’s on to me, he thinks. She knows I’m not quite with it. Her patented Cody radar is working at full tilt right now.
‘Moving on to forensics,’ says Blunt, ‘we’ve had some progress there. The DNA in the hair follicles matches that in the saliva found on the bottle of water, so it was the same person. Unfortunately, it hasn’t matched anything in our databases, so we still don’t know who that person is. Moving swiftly back to positives, the wax used on the hair has been identified as a product called Head Art, manufactured by Head Action Limited. I’ve sent round a list of outlets for you to check. We’ve also got something on the red woollen fibres. It’s almost certain they came from a man’s sweater that was being sold in branches of Marston’s up until about a year ago. Again, you’ve been sent a list of shops.’
She pauses and surveys her audience. ‘That’s pretty good going, folks. We know a hell of a lot about at least one of the killers. We know what they wore, what they did with their hair, where they shopped, what their fingerprints look like, and even the structure of their DNA. Hell, if we were a bit further into the future we could probably clone the killer right here. Unfortunately, we can’t do that. What I’m trying to say, people, is that all of this wonderful evidence we’ve got is bloody useless to us unless you can haul in someone we can test for a match. Cody, what did you get from speaking to the people where Matthew Prior worked?’
Cody forces his mind back on track. Under the watchful glare of Blunt, he delivers a brief summary of the interviews with Lewis Fulton and Ann Staples.
‘So,’ says Blunt, ‘there was friction between Prior and his boss? Enough to provide a motive for murder?’
‘Well, friction of a kind, yes. If Ann Staples is to be believed, then Fulton seems to be a bit of a dick and a bully. There are probably several people who would like to kill Fulton, but I still haven’t heard anything that would put Matthew Prior in anyone’s sights. He seems to have been the most inoffensive man on the planet.’
‘Maybe, but he certainly got in somebody’s bad books.’ Blunt looks pensive for a second. ‘Judging from Prior’s house, the killers were searching for something, and they were pretty desperate to find it. Maybe the only thing Prior got wrong in their eyes was not giving up what they were after. That could work in terms of what we’ve heard about Prior’s personality. Maybe he died because of the strength of his integrity and not because of a flaw.’
Cody nods. ‘Could be. It would be a great help to know what this Holy Grail was, though, and whether it was actually found by the killers.’
Blunt casts her gaze to the back of the room. ‘Grace, any light you can shed on this, given that Prior’s computer is the only item we’re certain was taken?’
As always, Grace Meade gets to her feet before responding. ‘As I mentioned, there isn’t a lot we can do without the laptop itself. I’m still talking to HCU about accessing Prior’s internet records from his service provider, but that could take a while. Even if we eventually get them, they might not tell us very much.’
Blunt sighs and drops her attention back on Cody. ‘What about Sara Prior? You spoke to her again, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Cody replies. Images of the recently viewed video flash into his mind. ‘I, er, I didn’t find anything to suggest she’s involved.’
Blunt stares at him. ‘Did you ask her about why she didn’t mention her army background?’
Those images. Sara sneaking up in the night like a ninja assassin. Disarming and disabling two young, fit men. That karate kick. That judo throw . . .
‘Yes. She just didn’t think it was relevant, and I have to agree with her. Most ex-army personnel don’t go around murdering people when they return to normal life. In fact, you could argue that they’re the very people who are more likely to stay away from violence because they’re so aware of its effects.’
‘Sara’s husband dumped her. That could be a good motive.’
‘He didn’t dump her. They were temporarily separated because Matthew had anxiety issues. And even if he had dumped her and she was mad about it, how would she go about finding people willing to nail her husband to the floor and
trash his house? I don’t think people like that advertise in the Yellow Pages.’
‘And what about the message?’
‘The message?’
‘Yes, Cody. The recorded message on the phone. You were supposed to ask her about that, too.’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. She said she doesn’t know what it means.’
‘And you believe her?’
‘Well . . . yes.’
Blunt continues to pierce him with her stare. ‘I’m afraid I don’t share your faith. First of all, we don’t know enough about this woman to say categorically that she isn’t acquainted with people who would be willing to kill on her behalf. They don’t have to come from Rent-a-Murderer. They could be friends of hers – army buddies. Secondly, Matthew Prior recorded that phone message because he knew it would mean something to his wife. I don’t believe she’s so thick that she can’t figure it out. Do you?’
‘I . . . She’s not thick.’
‘No. She may even be downright devious and manipulative. Possibly even homicidal. I don’t want us to get complacent about this woman. She’s not getting the all-clear just yet.’
Cody nods. A part of him wants to argue. Another part of him sees Sara Prior bent over a man she has pinned to the ground, the jagged edge of a bottle pressed into his jugular.
26
Metro Mackenzie pounds the bag with blows that could knock out a mule. He’s been here for an hour, sparring, skipping, weight training. It’s how he likes to start his day. Makes him feel ready for anything. And anyone.
Metro’s real name is Samuel, but nobody calls him that. He hasn’t been called it in so long he doesn’t even respond when he hears it now.
He got the nickname ‘Metro’ as a teenager when he was into graffiti. He was quite the artist in his day. His canvases of choice were in the railway sidings and depots of the Merseyside underground system. The biggest prizes were the trains themselves. Get your work on one of those, and it would be carried right across the network for everyone to see and remember.
Your Deepest Fear Page 11