by Mo Hayder
The hypothetical detective is going to have a short and utilitarian name. Gary or John or Bob. He’s going to be mid-forties – not so young that he is fast and careless, not so old that he is slow and uninspired. John Bancroft, he decides. It’s a name plucked out of nowhere, but the minute it comes to him Oliver begins to flesh out the armature.
Bancroft is thoughtful – sometimes too intense. He has a quick intelligence and a dogged approach, and quite often he will stay awake all night trying to figure his way through a conundrum. He will know what to do when he finds the Anchor-Ferrers. Oliver can see him arriving here – when? Ten days hence? He comes into the room and hesitates. He doesn’t yet know about the evidence on the camera system – that will come later. For now what he sees is Oliver’s dead body. He doesn’t come to it immediately. He takes his time, using his mind to project what has happened here. What the clues are.
Oliver gives the room careful consideration, tries to see it through Bancroft’s eyes. After a long time pondering, he notices Lucia has a pot of pens sitting on the windowsill which the men have overlooked, probably because they are mostly soft felt-tips which could do no harm to anyone. Oliver shuffles himself around and finds he can reach these by stretching only a small way. It makes the wound on his chest smart and pull, but he’s able to grab the mug and sit back down without too much pain.
He crouches over the mug, going through the pens one by one, testing them on the back of his hand. Most are old and dried out, but he manages to get two working. There is a small gap between the skirting board and the floorboards into which he finds he can slot the two pens – so a good place to hide them. The remaining pens he puts into the mug, which he returns to its place.
He rolls up his sleeve and makes a mark on his arm. The pen is blue and the mark could almost pass as a vein or a bruise. Then he writes his name, Oliver Anchor-Ferrers, along the inside of his arm and this time there’s no mistaking the letters for veins. He pictures someone finding his dead body – he pictures them reading the words on his arm. Stunned by the drama of this image, tears prick his eyes.
He has to push them away with his palm and concentrate to get his thoughts in order.
Beat the next beat, pig-heart. And the next …
Lucia’s rug, bright red and splashed in a geometric design of silver, is under his right foot. He looks at it for a long time, then he carefully lifts the corner of the rug and runs his fingers across it. He touches the dry felt-tip to his lip and tests it on the back of the rug with a single stroke. The line is fine and clear. He flips the rug over and studies the top – none of the ink comes through. Since history began, man has been finding new and ingenious methods of communicating. It is something lasers can do and it is, Oliver suspects, one of the strongest drives the human race possesses.
He begins painstakingly unpicking a section of the rug’s hem – a run of about five centimetres. Then, using the pen, he makes another mark. He folds the hem down, settles the rug on the floor and considers the way it lies on the boards. Not obvious; no one would think to examine it further unless they were searching the room forensically. The way the police might.
DI John Bancroft. If he was conducting a murder enquiry.
20 May I am Oliver George Anchor-Ferrers and I am of sound mind. I love my wife and my children. In the event of my death: two Caucasian men posing as police officers entered this house yesterday morning. No car visible.
1) ‘DI Honey’ (command?) 6’, 170 lb, age 30–40, pale skin, receding hairline, fair curly hair. Accent British? Public school?
2) ‘DS Molina’ 5’10”, 160 lb, 25–35 years, dark thick glasses (disguise?) Red hair (dyed?) Cut short almost certainly military. Distinctive body shape – long arms, wide shoulders. No gloves, fingerprints poss on bedstead (this room), banisters, kitchen on many surfaces.
Please contact the security company which installed my alarm, as they have a code for a hard-drive which will contain further evidence. I will not go into details here as I do not want to risk this being discovered by the men. The security company has the code to unlock the evidence.
I believe that these men have been trained in security. I believe that they are nothing to do with Minnet Kable, that that was a well-rehearsed ruse to alarm us. I believe they are being paid to be here by someone in my industry.
My Wolf missile system has been sold globally, to companies with bases in the UK, US, and Africa. One of these is responsible. I don’t yet know which one.
He reads it through, wondering what else to add. Then, unexpectedly he recalls a sentence that is dear to him. Something he read years ago as a student and which could seem childlike and simplistic, yet to him is more profound than anything he can express.
It is a quote by Martin Luther King.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.
He writes it down carefully. Stops and reads it through. Then he adds in a rush:
God forgive me for everything, I think I have killed us all.
The Rose Room
LUCIA SITS UP and rubs her head, a little groggy. On the other side of the door there are noises. Noises she can’t quite decipher. A dragging and the sound of something fraying. For a moment she thinks she can hear Mum crying, pleading. Then the place is quiet again. A strange sound comes: the creaking of wood. But it’s not floorboards, it’s something else. She stares at the chink of light under the door, trying to make sense of it.
The noise goes on for about ten minutes – then abruptly the light in the hallway is switched off. A few moments pass before she hears footsteps. The door to her room swings open. The hallway is dark behind him, but she can tell in the soft light coming from the window behind her that it’s ‘Honey’ standing there.
He snaps on the light and comes into the room. A few paces behind him comes Molina. They both wear stony expressions.
‘What?’ she says, looking from face to face. ‘What is it?’
Honey holds out his hand to her. He’s smiling at her. A broad, glittering smile, as if he’s standing on a beach at sunset advertising a holiday resort. ‘Care to dance?’ he murmurs.
She doesn’t answer.
‘Oh, come on.’ He flicks his hands at her impatiently. ‘Don’t be a cunt. Get up. Get off the floor. You look pathetic down there. And come with me. Or else you’re going to have to learn all about the mandibular lift. You don’t want to know about that.’
She glances at Molina, hoping for help, some reassurance. But there’s none. He just stands there, his arms folded, blankness in his eyes. This makes her panic even more.
Honey crosses swiftly to the radiator where she is shackled. She swivels round and raises her hand to fend him off, but he’s quicker and stronger than she expects and she’s no match for him. Before she knows what’s happening he has uncuffed her and in a move that shocks Lucia with how expert and unforced his control is, he steps behind her and cups his hands under the hinge of her jaw. Her hands fly to his, but before she can struggle a band of pain shoots through her, so liquid and pure it makes her want to vomit. Her hands flail, turning like windmills in the air, and there’s nothing she can do to resist. Effortlessly he lifts her to her feet.
She stops struggling and concentrates on not falling to the floor. Sets her feet as firm as they can be. Tries to calm her breathing.
‘OK.’ Honey gives her a shake. ‘Now we’re clear who’s in control. OK?’
‘OK,’ she murmurs.
‘Louder.’ He gives her another shake. ‘Say it louder.’
‘OK, OK – I said OK.’
‘Good. Now move.’
He puts his knee in the back of her leg and pushes her out of the room on to the landing. Behind them Molina switches off the light and the hall is in such darkness that, although she knows this landing well, she hesitates, afraid to step forward for fear of bumping into something. She is urged on by Honey and finds herself being forced into a chair. A torch comes on – the beam dances across the floor. The wood of
the chair is cool against her bare arms as the men quickly and skilfully fasten her there.
‘What’s happening? What are you doing?’
Neither man answers. She bites her lip and lets them finish what they are doing. Then, without a word, they leave her. They head down the staircase, training the torch on their feet to guide their way.
Silence.
She sits and concentrates on breathing, soothing herself. Nothing will go wrong – she will not be hurt. The curtains are drawn and she can’t see a thing, but she knows she is on the right-hand side of the galleried landing. When they first moved here Mum and Dad had the panels that had been tacked on to the gallery in the fifties stripped away to reveal the original turned and fluted rails. It meant that anyone sitting up on the gallery could look down and see what was happening in the hallway below. Usually it was her and Kiran, who, as nine- and ten-year-olds, would stand shyly in their pyjamas, twisting their bare feet around the railings, staring down in wonder at the grown-up world going on below. During one of those cocktail parties Mum glanced up and saw both of them peering down. She shook her head sharply at them and they slunk back into the shadows.
Now the vague shapes of the railings emerge out of the gloom. There is a camera mounted in the ceiling above the top of the stairs, completely invisible to the uninitiated. It has infrared capability and will be able to see her at this angle. The chair is in the ideal place. That and the camera in Kiran’s room suit her vision of the way this will unfold perfectly.
There is noise from the kitchen downstairs, plates and cups clanking as if food is being prepared. The light from under the door seeps a small way into the entrance hall; she can see from here the edge of the tattered old rug. She breathes slowly, conscious of every sound and atom of air around her. She can smell polish where Ginny has been cleaning. Now she can smell the coffee aroma wafting up from the kitchen. She can hear things too – the men talking, but something else. That odd creak of wood she heard earlier – except now it’s not as sharp, it’s slow and lazy. And breathing. A controlled, raspy, in-and-out breath.
Gradually, gradually, her senses coalesce and make sense of what else is in the hallway with her. The men, she sees, have exceeded her wildest expectations in terms of shock and intimidation, because, about fifteen feet away something is hanging level with the gallery, directly above the entrance hall where the cocktail parties used to happen. It is large and heavy enough to make the beam creak gently.
This is where the breathing is coming from.
Clues
OLIVER HEARS THE sounds out on the landing. Shakily he strains towards the door, tugging at the handcuff. He would tear his own leg off if he could – would do anything to know what was happening.
‘Please!’ he calls helplessly. ‘Please? No!’
His voice is pitiful and small and the words choke him. He stops and sinks back to his haunches, trembling all over. He takes deep, gulping breaths to calm himself. His ribs ache. Keep beating, he reminds pig-heart. Keep beating.
The landing becomes quiet again and at last, when at last his pulse has subsided and he has stopped sweating, he snatches up the pen. He flicks the cap off and continues writing on the rug, more urgently now: 9 a.m., he scrawls. I believe, from what I can hear, that either my daughter or my wife has just been attacked. I don’t know the outcome. The house is silent.
He swallows hard, glancing up at the door, then feverishly back at the words, using all his willpower to focus on what is important – what he can do. Details. If he is going to die, John Bancroft, his imaginary detective, will want details. Oliver has written everything he can think of, combing his mind for clues: the words the men use, the slang, their clothes, what they cooked, whether they showered last night. He has monitored their actions and their accents. Even tried to smell them to see if he could pick up distinctive whiffs – cooking, as a clue to what they eat, or a scent of suntan lotion to reveal that they have come from somewhere overseas.
Earlier he thought the one who calls himself Molina seemed familiar. Now he’s not sure. And if he is familiar, does that mean Oliver’s met him in the course of his work? If so where? He can’t think. ‘Molina’ – the name sounds Spanish, though his accent is British. The one who calls himself Honey seems almost twice the height.
The taller one – Honey – is the boss. The names Honey/Molina – not nec. arbitrary. Some subconscious bearing on their real ID? Choosing false names = employing some level of reason. Names start with same letter as real IDs? Names of first pets? School? Street they grew up in? Meaning in a different language: Molina = Mill/Moulin, Honey = Miel/Honig/Miele.
Honey’s teeth – slight brown/white striations – does this mean he grew up in an area with high fluoride concentration? Accent English/query antipodean? Or has spent time with Americans/Australians. Not sure yet if partic vernacular/verb combinations/argot.
Molina – glasses – geek look. A disguise, or glasses are necessary – not sure.
He pauses. Throws a glance at the door. All is silent.
Well-researched attack – knew our arrival time and understand well our connection to Minnet Kable. Use of handcuffs – appear to be US manufacture. Implementation inconsistent. Alternates between wrist and ankle. I am secured to the radiator, and so is my daughter.
He pauses, then, his spirits sinking even lower, writes: Was tied … before the noises I have just heard.
He isn’t sure John Bancroft will know what to pull out of this information. Even he isn’t sure what any of it means. These men are either more subtle, or far more irrational, than anything he’s ever known.
Sudden footsteps on the stairs. Not one of the men, but both. He hurriedly flicks down the carpet and smooths it flat. He licks his finger, hurriedly rubs the writing off his arm and pulls his sleeve down. Then he presses the pen back into the slot under the skirting board and lolls back against the bed. The door opens and the men are there. They click on the light. They are dressed in clean clothes. More proof they’ve come prepared for the long haul.
‘You can have anything you want. Anything. I don’t care what it is, I’ll do it.’
Honey crouches next to Oliver so he can peer up into his face. ‘You know something, Oliver? I love this part. Just love it. I can do it a million times and never get tired.’
‘What’s happened to my wife? My daughter?’
Honey doesn’t answer.
‘This is pretence,’ Oliver says. ‘A veneer. Drop it – get it over with. And then you and I, we’re on the same level and we can negotiate. You get what you need from the situation and I get what I need. Whatever it is, we can come to an arrangement. Make this short and sweet for all of us. Reach our objectives – together.’
Still Honey is silent.
‘Who are you working for? You’re English. Is it a British company? Please, I beg of you.’
Honey laughs. ‘You’re not unusual, Mr Anchor-Ferrers. Nearly everyone begs. In the end.’
‘Are you telling me this is the end? For me?’
‘No, no no. No no no. Not the end. This is the beginning.’
‘Please, no. Please, don’t put my wife through anything else. Please, I’ll do anything, anything at all – anything you want, I’ll do.’
‘Yes,’ Honey says. ‘You will do everything we want. Stand up.’
Oliver hesitates. He is completely powerless – failed by his old man’s body. He struggles to his feet, struggling to keep his balance with one ankle still chained. The blood in his body draws itself to the ground and there is pain in his chest. Twenty-four hours ago this would have terrified him. Now it hardly registers. He allows Honey to unsnap the cuff and when Molina gets behind him and pushes him towards the door he doesn’t resist.
They lead him on to the landing. The house is pitchdark. The big tapestry curtains are drawn, but that isn’t enough to create this blackness, and Oliver thinks the men must have taped the windows somehow. The way everyone learned to in the Second World War. There is a fai
nt smell of cigarette smoke and antiseptic.
He is pushed into a chair where he is fastened, using, he thinks, zip-ties, though it is far too dark to see for sure. He makes fervid mental notes of the details in case he has a chance to add more to his essay on the rug. Yes – they are using zip-ties. It could be relevant.
‘Where’s my wife and my daughter?’
The men lock his ankles together. They place something over his head. It is rough against his ears and he thinks it is a box of some sort, closed on four sides with the front and bottom open. He can smell fresh wood, or MDF, can feel it scraping his skin. There comes the unmistakable sound of tape being ripped from a roll and then the box is secured over the top and down to his shoulders so he cannot move his head to left or right. A pause, then a torch is shone into his eyes. He flinches, making the chair jump back a fraction, and feels strong arms securing it in place. He can smell something astringent – like a household cleaner on someone’s hands. In his head he goes back to the notes he’s made on the rug:
Honey – relevance of? Childhood pet – a dog, a Labrador maybe, Golden retriever? Molina? Molina? Somewhere he visited as a child?
Again comes the torch. He tries to turn away but cannot, so he breathes, deeply, from the diaphragm, trying to keep his pulse steady. Someone – he can’t see which man – places fingers over his eyelids. For a split second it flashes on Oliver that whichever man it is will sink his nails in and gouge out his eyes.
Instead he gently opens the lids. The torch isn’t shining at his eyes any more, but it uplights Honey’s face ghoulishly as he peers at Oliver. A caricature of fascination, he carefully places tape on the upturned lids and secures them by the lashes to Oliver’s brows. The air stings his exposed eyeballs.
Then, without a word, the men step away. They go down the stairs and move quickly across the hall floor. Then the light goes out. The kitchen door opens and closes.