Your Deepest Fear

by David Jackson

  ‘I wrote this report purely to get it out of my system. It contains what I’d really like to say, namely the truth. But as you aren’t interested in being a seeker of truth, Sergeant Cody, here’s what we’ll do . . .’

  She inserts the end of the report into the shredder. With an angry whine it snatches the papers from her grasp and chews them up.

  ‘There,’ she says. ‘Happy now? And now if you don’t mind, I’d like you to get the fuck out of my office, because I have another report on you to write. One that will paint a glowing picture of your mental health, as demanded. Just remember that I tried to help you. When you have a meltdown on the job, and a murderer walks free because of it, or one of your colleagues is injured or killed, remember that I was offering you a chance to prevent it. Now get out and leave me alone.’

  Cody stands up. This is not how he expected things to go.

  ‘Look, I—’

  ‘Get out! ’

  He leaves. When he exits onto the street, he debates going back in. He hates the fact that his reputation has been so undeservedly sullied in Falstaff’s eyes. He wants to clear his name, to convince Falstaff that he hasn’t blackmailed her, that it was none of his doing.

  The knowledge that it would be counter-productive leaves a bitter taste.

  Waldo has saved Cody’s career.

  Three cheers for Waldo.

  69

  The conversation with Falstaff stays with him during the short trek back to his building.

  A part of him is ecstatic. After all, he gets to keep his job. He gets to continue doing the thing he loves most. He should be grateful to Waldo.

  But he is also fully aware that Waldo has done this for his own nefarious ends too. He wants – no, needs – Cody to remain a cop, and at some point he will return to cash in his chips.

  But that’s for the future. Weeks from now? Months? Years? Cody has no way of knowing, but the threat of it will always hang over his head.

  He unlocks his front door and enters the building. So much has occurred here in recent days. So much unpleasantness. And yet now the place seems curiously serene.

  He looks straight ahead towards the rear of the hallway. The basement door is there, skulking in the darkness beneath the stairs, waiting to reveal its secrets again.

  Cody decides not to venture down there again for a long time to come.

  On the way to the staircase, he collects the day’s mail from the table against the wall. The dental staff always leave it there for him at the end of their working day. It’s mostly junk, as usual.

  He doesn’t know what makes him do it, but he turns to look back towards the front door. There on the floor, pushed to one side when he entered, is a white padded envelope.

  He walks back and picks it up. It’s the same size as the envelopes containing the keys. As before, it bears the words, ‘To Nathan Cody.’

  He knows who it’s from.

  Waldo promised him two consolation prizes. The first will have been the intervention with Falstaff. This must be the second.

  Cody doesn’t open it immediately. He carries it with reverence all the way up to his flat, then places it down on the breakfast bar in the kitchen and stares at it for a full two minutes.

  He’s not sure he wants to open it.

  Waldo’s gifts tend to lead to other things, and right now he doesn’t have the energy for a follow-up.

  But the first consolation prize was good, right? Warped, but good. It restored his career. Perhaps this is also something desirable. Perhaps Waldo is trying to make amends for what he put him through.

  Yeah, right.

  He starts to open the envelope. Thinks to himself, If this is another damn key . . .

  But it’s not a key. It’s a small white box. The kind of box that might contain an item of jewellery. On the top face of the box it reads, ‘Thought you might want this back – W.’

  Cody takes a deep breath. Opens the box.

  At first, he’s not sure what he’s looking at.

  When he’s sure – when the horror before him crystallises – he leaps back off his chair and screams.

  Later, when he is able to think coherently about this, he will realise that it makes perfect sense. He will realise that the clue tying together the two men, Prior and Keenan, was there from the very beginning.

  The bloody fingerprints found at each scene did not belong to Keenan, Prior, Waldo, or anyone else.

  In fact, they were not fingerprints at all.

  Because what has been returned to Cody – what was presumably kept on ice for an occasion such as this – is one of his toes.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to all the various editors – Sophie, Margaret, Jennie and Jon – who have helped to hone and polish this book. You turn rocks into gems. To everyone else at Bonnier Zaffre: you do an incredible job, often behind the scenes, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it.

  Thanks also to Oli and the rest of the team at A M Heath. Your sterling (other currencies are available) efforts are incomparable, and I always know I can trust your advice.

  To Lisa and the girls: I couldn’t do this without your love and support – not to mention your understanding when my mind seems to be on a different planet (“Dad, I’ve already told you this”). Keep believing.

  To other family, friends and faithful readers: Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. It would be a lonely trek without you. Next time, bring chocolate.

  A message from David . . .

  If you enjoyed Your Deepest Fear, why not join the David Jackson Readers’ Club by visiting www.bit.ly/DavidJacksonClub?

  Dear Reader,

  In several respects, Your Deepest Fear was a difficult book to write. My original idea for a story in which a woman is forced to conduct her own investigation into the death of her husband in the face of overwhelming opposition was, I felt, a strong premise. However, I was also conscious of the army of fans who desperately wanted to hear more about Cody’s struggle against the nightmarish clowns from his past. Reconciling the two was quite a problem, but I hope I’ve managed to pull it off in this fourth book in the series.

  Striking such a balance is always difficult when one is writing a series. Readers who have been there from the beginning feel invested in the characters and want to know more about their lives and experiences. On the other hand, there will be readers new to the series who simply want a page-turning tale that doesn’t rely on lots of backstory. Satisfying these newcomers often involves a certain amount of summary of previous events that hopefully doesn’t feel too repetitive to those who have already read about them. Whichever camp you’re in, do let me know whether you think I’ve succeeded!

  If you’d like to receive advance notice of new books before they appear, you might be interested in joining my Readers’ Club. Don’t worry – it doesn’t commit you to anything, there’s no catch, and I won’t pass your details on to any third parties. It simply means you’ll receive occasional updates from me about my books, including offers, publication news, and even the occasional treat! For example, sign up now and you’ll be able to download an exclusive short story, completely free of charge. I won’t bombard you with emails, but if you ever get fed up of me, you can unsubscribe at any time. To register, all you have to do is visit www.bit.ly/DavidJacksonClub.

  Other ways of reaching out to me are via the contact page on my website, www.davidjacksonbooks.com, or on Twitter, where I exist as @Author_Dave. One way or another, I hope to hear from you soon, and that you continue to read and enjoy my books.

  Thank you for your support.

  Very best wishes,

  David

  If you enjoyed Your Deepest Fear, read on for an extract from David Jackson’s bestselling novel

  You can’t choose your family. Or can you?

  ‘A fast-paced and darkly disturbing thriller’

  Clare Mackintosh

  AVAILABLE NOW

  1

  ‘What are you
up to?’

  The words startle him. But then Malcolm Benson finds the mental echo of the chuckle he failed to contain. He turns from his place at the sink, the amusement still written on his face.

  Harriet is at the table, mug of tea cradled in her small hands. It’s her favourite mug – the one with Snoopy on it. He made certain to give her that one on this special morning. She has her eyebrows arched in that endearing way of hers. One of the features that first attracted him to her thirty years ago.

  He flicks soap foam from his Marigolds, then touches a finger to the side of his nose.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ he says.

  Her suspicions confirmed, Harriet lowers her mug to the raffia coaster.

  ‘You’re planning something.’

  ‘I’m always planning,’ he says. ‘You know that. Planning and plotting.’

  Her eyes shine at him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait.’ He faces the sink again. Dips his gloved hands into the suds. He knows she will be staring at the back of his head, trying to read his mind.

  ‘It’s not my birthday for another month,’ she says casually.

  He remains silent.

  ‘Is that it? Something to do with my birthday?’

  He looks at her over his shoulder. In her fifties, and yet still full of such child-like innocence and wonderment.

  ‘It is a present. But not for your birthday. It couldn’t wait that long.’

  ‘Malcolm, you’re teasing me now. Tell me. Please!’

  He had been hoping to draw things out a little longer, but it wouldn’t be fair on her. Besides, he’s as excited as she is to bring it into the open. He has kept it to himself for far too long.

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Wait there.’

  He peels off his gloves and removes his apron. As he heads towards the kitchen door, he sees how Harriet claps her hands in anticipation.

  He smiles as he walks all the way up to the tiny box room that is his study, and all the way back down again. This is a huge moment for both of them. The culmination of an immense amount of effort and patience.

  He pauses before re-entering the kitchen. ‘Close your eyes. No sneaky-peekies.’

  ‘Okay,’ she answers. ‘I’m not looking. Promise.’

  He walks through the door, his gift held out before him. Harriet has her hands tightly clasped over her eyes. There is a discernible tremor in her fingers.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘You can look now.’

  She parts her fingers. Slides them slowly down her cheeks. Her face registers puzzlement and then disbelief at the sight of the large, leather-bound book.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s the album.’

  He nods. He knows she’s about to blub, and already a tear is forming in his own eye.

  She lifts her gaze to lock with his. ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You’ve found one?’

  He smiles.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ she says. ‘Oh my Lord. Show me, show me, show me!’

  She leans across to drag one of the chairs around so that it’s right next to hers. Malcolm sits down and places the album on the table between them.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ he asks.

  ‘Malcolm, you know how much I’ve wanted it. Open the book.’

  He locates the silk tab inserted into the centre of the album. Opens the book at that position.

  The reflected glow from the page lights up Harriet’s face. Her hand jumps to her mouth. Tears spring from her eyes and run down the back of her hand.

  ‘I hope those are tears of joy,’ Malcolm says.

  It’s all she can do to nod her head as she continues to marvel at the contents of this treasure chest. This is better than any birthday.

  She reaches out and turns the page. Emits a gasp. Malcolm studies her as she gets caught up in the dream. Watches her cry and smile and laugh as she turns page after page. He wishes he could do this for her every day.

  The questions start to come then. Harriet wants as much information as she can get, down to the last detail. Malcolm is sometimes stretched to answer, but he does his best.

  When Harriet reaches the last page, she goes back to the first. Gently touches a finger to the photograph affixed there. Malcolm knew she would love that one best of all.

  And then a cloud of doubt seems to cross her features.

  ‘This isn’t just more teasing, is it, Malcolm? I mean, this is definite?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You can see how busy I’ve been. Look at the photographs. It’s all set.’

  ‘All set? When? Soon?’

  Malcolm strokes his chin. ‘Well, that’s the difficult part. These things take time. It’s a question of logistics, you see.’

  Her face drops. ‘Oh.’

  ‘So I thought . . . I thought tonight. Would that be soon enough for you?’

  Huge eyes now. Eyes brimming with ecstatic incredulity.

  ‘Malcolm!’ She throws her arms around him, pulls him into her warmth. ‘Malcolm, you are an amazing man. I love you.’

  She releases him finally. ‘It won’t be dangerous, will it? I mean, you’re sure you can do it?’

  He takes her hands in his. ‘It won’t be easy. I’m not as young as I used to be. But yes, I can do it.’

  She hugs him again. Returns her gaze to the album. And then something occurs to her, and she glances up at the ceiling.

  ‘Can we tell her? Can we tell Daisy?’

  ‘I don’t see why not, do you?’

  *

  Daisy hears them coming upstairs, so she puts down her pencil and sits up straight. She knows how much they like it when she sits to attention.

  She has been writing a story about a mouse. She has never been good at writing stories, and doesn’t know much about mice, so it has been quite a challenge. She hopes they like what she has done. Later, she will do some more fractions, and then some reading. She has a very busy day ahead.

  The door eventually opens, and as the adults enter she stiffens her posture even more.

  She notices how much they are smiling this morning. In fact, this is probably the happiest she has ever seen them. She wonders what that might mean.

  ‘Hello, Daisy,’ says Malcolm.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she replies.

  Malcolm and Harriet sit opposite her at the small worktable. They are still smiling.

  ‘We’ve got some news for you,’ says Malcolm. ‘Something we’re very excited about.’

  Daisy doesn’t reply. She’s not sure how she is meant to answer. She sits and waits patiently.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what it is?’ asks Harriet.

  Daisy nods, although she’s not sure she does want to know.

  Harriet looks at Malcolm and nods for him to break the news. Malcolm leans forward across the table. Gets so close that Daisy can see the blackheads on his nose.

  ‘You’re going to get . . .’ he breaks off, leaving a huge gap of expectation, then – ‘a little sister!’

  Harriet flutters in her chair. Gives a little clap of delight.

  Daisy, though, is still not sure how to react. She expects they want her to be as euphoric as they are, but somehow she cannot find it within her. Seeing their eyes on her, she opens her mouth, but no words emerge.

  ‘What do you think about that?’ says Malcolm. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Just think of all the things you can share together.’

  ‘You can show her your toys,’ Harriet says. ‘And you can read to her, and explain how everything works. Best of all, you won’t be on your own anymore. You’ll never be lonely again. How fantastic is that?’

  Not wanting to cause an upset, Daisy frantically searches her mind for something meaningful to utter.

  ‘What’s her name?’ she blurts out.

  Malcolm looks at Harriet. Harriet looks at Malcolm. ‘Good question,’ they say to each other.

  ‘Her name’s Poppy,’ says Harriet. ‘A flower name, like yours. And
she’s blonde like you, too. And only six years old. She’s adorable, and I’m sure you’re going to love her.’ She turns to Malcolm again. ‘Isn’t she, Daddy?’

  They get lost in each other’s eyes again, giving Daisy a chance to formulate her next query.

  ‘When? When is she coming?’

  ‘Another excellent question,’ says Malcolm. ‘Hang on to your hat, Daisy – it’s pretty fast! How does tonight sound to you?’

  Something lurches inside Daisy, and she has to fight not to show it. ‘Tonight?’

  She realises too late that there is a tone of negativity in her voice. She sees how Malcolm’s lips quiver slightly as they struggle to hold on to their smile.

  ‘Yes, Daisy. Tonight. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy,’ she answers quickly. ‘I mean . . . I was just wondering where she’s going to sleep.’

  Malcolm looks across at the bed. He frowns, as though the problem had not occurred to him until now.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to share that bed for a short while. We’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Details, details,’ says Harriet. ‘We don’t worry about things like that in this house. It’ll all be fine. It’ll be more than fine. It will be the best thing ever!’

  It seems to Daisy that Harriet could explode with joy. She could suddenly burst apart at the seams and splash onto the walls and ceiling.

  She closes off the thought. Stares down at her story in an effort to distract herself.

  ‘So,’ says Malcolm. ‘That’s our amazing news. I knew you’d be pleased, Daisy.’

  Daisy doesn’t know the word ‘sarcasm’, but the tenor of Malcolm’s voice tells her she is not reacting the way he wants her to.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she tells them. ‘I’m a big girl. I’ll look after Poppy.’

  It’s the most positive she can be, and the most truthful. It seems to do the trick.