Wolf

by Mo Hayder

  Honig holds out the knife and the pair of gloves. Ian the Geek stares at them.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your job.’

  ‘What?’

  Honig nods at the entrails. ‘Let’s have a look at the “deer’s” last meal, shall we? Shall we look at all the grass and leaves it’s eaten?’

  Ian the Geek swallows. His face is pale in the thin morning light. There’s a pause, then he takes the gloves. He pulls them on and squats next to the mess, his face averted from the smell. He doesn’t need the knife, the intestines are so rotten the white fascia splits apart at a touch.

  Honig watches without speaking, holding his nose, breathing loudly through his mouth. A white mass of maggots plops out. Ian the Geek turns his head away, but continues to unfold the intestines, letting other matter sluice out.

  ‘OK,’ Honig says tightly, straightening his back to stop himself feeling weak. ‘I think that’s what we needed to see.’

  Ian the Geek stares up at him, his pupils like pinpricks. It’s as if he can’t bring himself to look at what his hands are doing, like they’re separate entities. ‘What? What can you see?’

  ‘I’m not an expert – and it’s degraded. But I think I recognize tomato seeds. And that is definitely sweetcorn.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘No – because you’re a dick. The dog didn’t come back for these because there’s alcohol in them. That’s what the smell is – that’s why nothing, not a badger, not a fox will touch this mess.’

  ‘Alcohol?’ Ian the Geek echoes tremulously. ‘Alcohol? Sweetcorn?’

  ‘Yes, and a filling – swallowed.’

  Ian the Geek makes a noise in his throat. He straightens quickly and shakes his hands of the mess and walks quickly to the edge of the trees. He is pulling off the gloves and gulping in air when Honig comes up behind him and gives him a swift clout around the back of the head.

  Ian the Geek buckles. ‘Shit!’ he yells, his hands coming up to his ears. ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’

  In reply Honig grabs him by the back of his fleece and pushes him in the direction of the house. ‘Because you are an idiot,’ he hisses as they walk. ‘A fucking wanker.’

  But it’s not anger making him shout, and he knows it. It’s fear.

  Tobacco

  CAFFERY HAS GIVEN up real cigarettes and he should be repulsed by the smell of tobacco, or angry with Breanne, or tempted to start again himself, but he’s none of these. Instead he finds it sexy and brave that she smokes so unapologetically – as if she doesn’t give a toss what all the public health announcements say, isn’t scared of the scaremongering shots of tumours and cancer cadavers emblazoned across the front of every tobacco pouch.

  He keeps his eyes on her, seated at the Formica table in the pub kitchen, sipping tea and tapping ash into the ashtray. She narrowly misses being an archetypal pub landlady by virtue of her intelligence. Her thoughtfulness. In fact the whole family are weirdly placed. They’d look more at home as teachers in a house on the grounds of a nice prep school in the home counties. Her mother seems slightly vague but very educated – no make-up, a floral dress with a shapeless cardigan. Her father – the manic depressive – doesn’t seem manic and doesn’t seem depressed. Like his daughter, he’s whip thin and speaks with an educated voice, and if he seems anything at all it’s tired. In fact there’s an air of restrained exhaustion about the whole place, from the over-scrubbed floor tiles that have been worn through in places with constant cleaning, to the ancient gas cooker which is old enough to have an eye-level grill.

  But in all this weariness, what shines through is how close the family are – how much the parents love Breanne. Caffery wonders what they think about her bringing a man in here, first thing in the morning. She hasn’t even brushed her hair, and his own crumpled appearance, his unshaved face, must tell them a multitude of things. But they make no mention of it.

  ‘It’s definitely a signaller’s ring,’ Mr Drew says, squinting at the photograph. ‘Unmistakable. But 1981? I can remember a lot of things – a lot of faces, but I don’t remember the name Matilda.’

  Caffery stares down at the photos. What an idiotic fool’s errand he’s on, trying to find a single oyster in an ocean. The more the alcohol wears off, the worse it feels.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to go on?’

  ‘I know what he looked like. He was white. Tall. Blond or sandy hair.’

  ‘Sounds like you-know-who.’ Mr Drew raises his eyebrows at Breanne. ‘Doesn’t it?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He means my ex,’ she explains to Caffery. ‘The one who was with me that night. But his wife’s name is Carmen. Anyway, he didn’t join the regiment until the late eighties. And, Dad, a hundred guys are tall and blond.’

  ‘Was he English?’

  ‘Yes,’ Caffery says. ‘He had some obsession with space junk.’

  ‘Space junk?’

  ‘Asteroids, exploded fragments from space ships.’

  Breanne’s father, who has held the photo out for Caffery to take, pauses where he stands, suddenly motionless.

  ‘Asteroids?’

  ‘Yes, or at least, I think so. Or do I mean meteorites?’

  Mr Drew makes a noise in his throat. He turns and raises his eyebrows at his wife, as if to say Well, who would have thought?

  But she’s not with him. She shrugs, opens her hands. ‘What? Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know what you’re thinking.’

  He shakes his head, incredulous. ‘You honestly don’t remember?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You must remember. He used to come in with a bunch of the officers. He’d sit apart from them – over there, at the bar and I was the only one he talked to, we used to talk about cosmic rays and neutrinos and nerd stuff. He’d drink wine. I remember that because in those days no one drank wine in pubs. And yes. It would have been the eighties. Early eighties. Breanne?’ He appeals to his daughter. ‘You remember the space guy? Don’t you? The light guy? He’d spent some time in America, I think. He was obsessed with the things littering space.’

  ‘Dad – I was a kid. And anyway, you know me.’ She clunks the side of her head with a finger. ‘Memory of a goldfish. Nice castle. Oooh, look at that – what a lovely castle … Oh, nice castle!’

  ‘I don’t get you two – how can you not remember?’

  ‘Because we’re not elephants or computers.’

  Mr Drew lets his breath out in a long sigh. He goes into the office that opens out on to the kitchen and begins searching for something, opening drawers, sifting through the piles of junk. He pulls down some box files and sorts through the paperwork and oddments in there until he finds what he’s after.

  ‘I knew it!’ He turns and gives the other three a victorious smile. ‘I just knew it.’

  When he comes back into the kitchen he’s holding a tattered beer mat. Caffery and the two women both lean over to study it. It is an old Tanglefoot beer mat, something Caffery hasn’t seen in years, but the design on it has been obliterated by a biro sketch. The drawing, which has been initialled, shows the Earth, with the continents and oceans depicted carefully. A halo of specks orbits the Earth, from which emanates a series of light rays.

  ‘Yes. Fascinating chap. He used to sit at the bar and sometimes all he’d do was stare at the patterns the sunlight made on the floor. He loved everything to do with light – was always talking about how it changed everything, how powerful it was.’

  ‘A name?’

  ‘No, sorry. Not a clue. Just remember his face.’

  Caffery frowns at the picture. The three initials are illegible – nothing more than a scribble. That could be an O or a Q or a C. The second one could be an N or A, and the last one anything – a G, an E, an F or even an X.

  He looks up at Mr Drew. ‘Do you remember what he was doing for the Signals?’

  ‘No. But I’d be willing to bet it was something to do with space, with the stars.’

  ‘Y
ou don’t know if he was in the Masons, do you?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue. All I remember is how much he loved light. I remember envying him that love – wherever you were in the world, there would always be light to look at.’

  ‘You sure you don’t remember a name?’

  Mr Drew scratches his temple, shakes his head. ‘No, I’d be lying if I said I knew. He was tall, that’s all I can remember. And he came back – I’m sure he did. In fact, I think that was when he drew this. It was years later, after Breanne had her accident. I remember thinking I should say something about it, so that if she came downstairs he wouldn’t stare at her.’

  ‘What was he like when he came back?’

  ‘He had a woman with him and kids – can’t remember how many. But I assumed it was his wife and family.’

  ‘Matilda? The wife?’

  ‘I didn’t ask her name. She was in the beer garden with the children. I exchanged a few words with him. He said …’ Mr Drew trails off, his eyes drifting up to the left as he chases the memory. There is a long silence, then he snatches up the beer mat, flips it over. ‘There – that’s it!’

  ‘What?’

  He puts the mat between his thumb and forefinger and displays it proudly, moving it so all three people can see it plainly. The words Columbus Systems, Oxford followed by a phone number have been painstakingly written out in the same biro.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We got talking. He said he left the army when he got married – he was working for a private company. I was in one of those periods where I thought I might be able to get out of the pub, do more the sort of job I was trained for, and this is the company he suggested. I never followed it up though.’

  ‘Columbus Systems?’

  ‘I’m sure he told me they were a navigations company.’ He smiles at Caffery. ‘Maybe they still exist.’

  A Change of Plan

  IN THE KITCHEN Ian the Geek stands at the sink feverishly washing his hands, pouring great streams of washing-up liquid over his ape-like arms, lathering the red hair on them as if his life depends on it. Honig shoots him contemptuous looks as he paces the kitchen. He is agitated beyond belief. Every now and then he stops to look out of the window at the long driveway.

  Ian the Geek is a dick, he thinks bitterly. Human remains – the stupid cunt picked up human remains. There’s a corpse somewhere out there and whoever created the corpse has chosen to do with his or her intestines exactly what Minnet Kable did fifteen years ago.

  ‘It’s him,’ he says. ‘Minnet fucking Kable.’

  Ian the Geek shakes his head vehemently. ‘He can’t be. It’s impossible. Too much – too much of a coincidence. We’re trained not to trust coincidences.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m starting to think our training is shit. Life is made up of coincidences, mate. That’s how come there’s a name for it: co-in-ci-dence. They don’t make up words for things that don’t happen.’ He stops at the window and peers out at the grey mist and the trees. You can’t even see the bottom of the driveway. The Turrets could be the giant’s castle in Jack and the Beanstalk, they’re so cut off from the rest of the world, poking their heads up above the clouds like this.

  ‘How far away was it?’

  ‘How far away was what?’

  ‘The cave.’ Honig turns and stares at Ian the Geek. ‘The place he killed those kids. You do know this area, don’t you? That is why you were hired.’

  Ian the Geek nods weakly. His mouth is trembling. ‘It was at the end of the valley. About a mile in that direction.’

  Honig checks his watch. It is half past eight. Offices in London will be opening soon. Havilland placed a lot of conditions on this job, but ultimately there is one chief objective – to get Oliver’s book spiked. The payment schedule is weighted accordingly: the bulk of the money – 30 per cent – is payable on Oliver instructing his literary agent to pull the manuscript of Luciente: A Life in the Light. If they cut the job short and get out now they’ll lose out on the extra bonuses for the videos of the family’s suffering that Havilland enjoys so much. But sometimes you have to take what you can and get out alive. Already his heart is halfway back to Maryland and the shopping mall.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  Honig glances up. Ian the Geek has stopped washing. He is standing with his hands in the sink, soap suds up his arms. ‘You’ve never killed anyone. Have you?’

  Honig stares at him and Ian the Geek stares back. His eyes are like saucers, beads of perspiration on his forehead. Ian the Geek sees the answer in Honig’s eyes and shakes his head dejectedly. ‘Jesus. I’d hoped you’d at least hurt someone. So, all that mouthing off you do is just acting …?’

  Honig snatches up a tea-towel and throws it at him. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Get dried up. We’ve got two hours to get our act together.’

  ‘Why? What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re changing the rules to suit the situation. We’re going to cut the operation short. It’s time we got out of here.’

  Heart Attack

  AT NINE, WHEN Oliver is expecting a tray to come in with cereal, coffee and his medication on it, instead the two men come into the room together. No tray. In spite of himself, he begins to tremble uncontrollably. This is it. Now he will be taken out into the hallway and hanging there will be his daughter. He keeps his gaze lowered. He is beyond humility.

  But instead of dragging him out and taping his eyes open, the men sit down. When they don’t speak he dares to raise his eyes to them. They are both leaning forward, elbows on their knees, watching him. Their expressions alarm him more than if they’d hauled him outside, because something is different. The tall one, Honey, seems fidgety, a light sheen of sweat on him. They look like they’re here to announce a death.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  There’s a long silence where his pulse hammers in his temples. It’s Honey who eventually speaks. ‘You had a mild heart attack, didn’t you? About a year ago.’

  ‘Yes.’ His jaw is trembling. ‘So?’

  ‘You owe your life to that heart attack. Without it you’d never have known there was something wrong, you’d never have known you needed an operation, and you’d have been on a one-way ticket to the biggie. It was your body’s way of warning you, giving you a chance. Now you’re being given another warning, another chance.’ He waves his hand, indicating himself and the ape-like Molina: ‘My associate and I are like that heart attack: a gentle warning. We’re here to teach you how to have a quiet life. That’s all. By the end of this you will be the quintessential expert on silence.’

  ‘Silence?’

  ‘Your book.’

  Oliver lets out his breath. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘The book. I thought so. How did you know? It’s been a secret. Just me and my agent.’

  ‘Ah yes, your agent: Messrs Bright and Fullman. Now in receipt of your book and trying to find a publisher for it. A phone call to tell them you’ve changed your mind – that’s all we’re asking.’

  Oliver looks at Honig’s pale eyes. ‘So there’s something in the book that someone doesn’t want published? Who?’

  Honey shakes his head. ‘You’re never going to know.’

  Oliver looks from his face to Molina’s then back again. Once more he wonders what’s different – what’s making them nervous. Have the authorities been tipped off? Perhaps the doctor has been trying to call to check on him and has raised the alarm. Or Ginny, the cleaner. Or Kiran?

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘You said before that you don’t keep promises.’

  ‘Consider this: you call your agent, have the manuscript spiked … then I lapse into my bad habit, break my promise and dispose of you and the ladies. Your bodies turn up floating in the docks. I expect Messrs Bright and Fullman will get wind of that, don’t you? And when they do, they’re going to mention it to the law. And then all the names in that manuscript of yours will find themselves under a fairly powerful microscope. If, on the other hand, you tell your agent that y
ou’re pulling the book for personal reasons and life goes on as normal…’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t see anyone’s alarm bells ringing in that scenario.’

  ‘So I call my agent, pull the book. You leave. What’s to stop me retracting that when you’re gone?’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Even you’re not that stupid. After what you’ve gone through? As for our employer … well, you’ve had a taste of his persuasion. He might not be quite as subtle next time round.’

  Honey’s right, it doesn’t matter if the authorities are out there, it doesn’t matter if the police are on their way. People in the arms industry are the most tenacious, the most single-minded on the planet. These two men are dispensable; even if this operation were to end with their arrest, there would be someone else equally nasty, equally determined, lining up to take their place. Oliver’s best hope is to identify them. And soon. Time is running out.

  ‘If I found out who your employer was, it would change everything. I could come after you. If I did it through the right channels, I could finish the company.’

  Honig inclines his head in gracious assent. ‘Indeed you could. And as I said earlier, that is never going to happen. You will never know who we work for.’

  Oliver puts a finger to his temple. His head is aching. ‘If I pull the book, you’ll let us go?’

  ‘That’s generally how a warning works.’

  ‘My family, me – we’ll never hear from you again?’

  Honig inclines his head – like a waiter in a top hotel where nothing is too much trouble, nothing unachievable for the right clientele. ‘Of course. But tick tock tick tock.’ He holds up his wrist to show Oliver his watch. ‘We haven’t got for ever, you know.’

  Oliver closes his mouth in a straight line. There’s no choice. He glances at the guitar clock on the purple wall.

  ‘My agent’s office opens at nine thirty,’ he says. ‘Is the phone working yet?’