Wolf

by Mo Hayder

  The Police

  IT’S GETTING HOT outside and Honig can feel the sweat sticking to his shirt. This is craziness. Complete craziness. Even getting to the bottom of the driveway to make the phone call is turning into a thing of stress. Ironic how he and Ian the Geek are suddenly in the same situation they dramatized on the first day to scare the family.

  He scans the gardens, checking everything is as he remembers it. When he’s sure nothing’s changed he goes to the side door and, not taking his eyes off his surroundings, reaches in and takes the key from the inside. He’s already been around the house and checked every other door is locked – this is the last one. He slams it shut and locks it. Checks it. Rattles the door. It is sound.

  In the front porch Oliver is standing with Ian the Geek. He’s got the face of a prisoner on his first day of freedom. He turns and looks up at the windows, as if trying to see his wife or daughter up there. Then he takes a deep, deep breath. For a moment Honig wonders if he’s having another heart attack, his face is so blue. But the old man gives a weary sigh. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get it over and done with.’

  The car is waiting – just a few short steps from the door. Honig would defy anyone to ambush them now. Even someone as nuts as Minnet Kable. Nevertheless he keeps his eye on the treeline as he leads Anchor-Ferrers to the car. He opens the car door, puts his hand on the old guy’s head to make sure it clears the door trim as he ducks into the back seat. Just like the cops do to stop themselves being sued.

  He slams the door and goes round the rear of the car. He opens the boot and checks what Ian the Geek has put in there. He’s transferred the intestines from the bucket into three plastic measuring jugs, taped clingfilm over them, and placed them in the boot. The intestines are small – small enough to fit into three jugs. That probably means it’s a woman, which fits in with his image of what Kable would do. But who? And why and where and when? The field with the barbed wire is, weirdly and completely coincidentally, opposite the yellow house where the woman in the red jeans lives. The woman he and Ian the Geek picked out of a hat when they were deciding on the charade to scare the Anchor-Ferrers – mostly because she was kind of a show-stopper in her car and her tight red jeans. As far as they were aware at the time, she was fine. Wouldn’t it really be the bollocks if it turned out that, not only is Kable out there but, just like in the pastiche Havilland cooked up, the person he hit on was, in fact, the woman in the yellow house? What a total headfuck that would be. It would make him start believing in UFOs and the collapse of WTC Building 7 and all the other wack conspiracy theories.

  The jugs are jammed up against the wheel arches so they won’t fall over. At least Ian the Geek is using his head, Honig notes; he’s surrounded the jugs with towels. If they do fall over, there won’t be any spillage. At that moment Ian the Geek appears from the back door, carrying all the smartphones and headphones and recording equipment they need. He crosses the short distance from the door to the car and stands next to Honig. They both look at the jugs in the boot.

  ‘Have you got something to clean yourself up afterwards?’

  ‘Tissues,’ Ian the Geek says. ‘In my pocket.’

  ‘And fingerprints?’

  ‘I’ve got those gloves you gave me yesterday.’

  ‘Good. Make sure you bring everything back with you.’

  ‘That’s the one thing I did learn in the Legion: always cover your tracks.’

  At last, Honig thinks, the Geek is thinking like a professional. He hasn’t been asked, he’s suggested the wisest thing to do is take the entrails back to the barbed wire where he found them. As soon as Oliver makes the call they can take most of the money and disappear. Leave the cops to deal with whatever psycho is out in these woods.

  Bubblegum Mania, he thinks. Jesus, Bubblegum Mania. I’m coming home.

  He slams the boot and the two men climb into the car where Oliver is waiting. Ian the Geek fastens his belt in the passenger seat and Honig uses the central-locking button to secure all the doors. No one in the car says a word about this – about why they need the doors locked just for a drive down the hill.

  ‘The car smells.’ Honig has driven only a hundred yards or so, very slowly for fear the jugs in the boot will capsize, when Oliver Anchor-Ferrers sits up straight on the back seat. He turns his head, craning his face to find the source of his irritation. ‘It smells like hell in here. Smells like death. And drink. It smells like drink.’

  ‘It’s the rubbish,’ Honig says, keeping his hands resting lightly on the wheel. ‘We’ve got to empty the bin bags. All that dog food that got thrown around. It’s all in the boot.’

  Oliver doesn’t immediately accept this answer, Honig can tell just from monitoring his face in the rear-view mirror. The old guy stays canted forward in his seat, his head at an angle, his eyes moving back and forward, as if he’s trying to work out what’s going on. In the back window behind him The Turrets dwindles to a fairy castle on a Disneyland postcard.

  The Chrysler goes smoothly through the electronic gates. It’s such a predatory car, Honig feels he should put sunglasses on just to drive it. He wishes again he could stop and take a snap of his situation, a photo of him in the car, in his moment of danger, just so he has something to take home to Silver Spring. Next to him Ian the Geek is checking for messages on his phone. All night they’ve been discussing how Havilland could have let them go on with their charade if Minnet Kable was actually out of prison. They’re expecting some news by now.

  ‘Nothing,’ the Geek mouths. ‘Zilch.’

  ‘What?’

  Ian the Geek frowns, shakes his head looking at the screen. ‘No emails either.’

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, Honig thinks. Fucking Havilland can’t be bothered to get info this important to them? So they’re stuck out here in the boonies with some serial killer planning God knows what, and their own shagging company isn’t backing them up?

  He’s still raging about this when they get to the place he and Ian the Geek stopped yesterday. He parks up and Ian the Geek gets out, goes to the boot. While he’s fumbling around back there Honig unbuckles his belt and turns to look over the seatback at Oliver.

  ‘Hey, look at me. Keep your eyes on me. You don’t need to know what’s going on back there. OK?’

  Oliver nods. His eyes flicker but he doesn’t try to look back. It’s clear he’s not happy about this; he’s a man who has long been in control of his life, and learning that he can’t control everything must be the hardest lesson. Behind him, Ian the Geek is removing the jugs from the boot. He takes one at a time, leaves the first a short distance inside the trees then comes back for the next – getting them out of Oliver’s view before he transfers them further into the woods to the barbed wire. When he’s done, he throws Honig a short salute through the rear window and disappears into the woods.

  Honig sighs and turns to stare out of the windscreen at the tarmac, all the cow parsley hanging over the lane in the sun. It’s nine twenty-five. The literary agent’s offices open in five minutes. He toys with the filling in his pocket. Turning it over and over. When they’re all out of here he’s going to post the damned thing to the cops with an anonymous note. Somewhere out in those woods there is a body. Christ only knows what state it’s in. Again he wonders how Havilland can be so lax as not to send a message. Incredible.

  He begins to assemble the recording equipment, trying to remember what Ian the Geek told him about where to put the USB line. He gets the mic attached and is about to test-run it when a car approaches from the north, coming slowly down the winding lane. Honig lowers the phone and watches. It’s a marked car, driven by two uniformed cops.

  He is instinctive. He drops the recording equipment in his lap and at the same time reaches a hand back and grabs Oliver around the ankle in a pincer-like grip. ‘Don’t even think about moving,’ he says between gritted teeth. ‘If my colleague and I fail, there’ll be someone else behind us. We will keep coming until you do what we want. Get it?’


  The cop car slows fractionally as they pass. There’s a second or two where the man in the passenger seat turns his head to monitor the occupants of the Chrysler. Then the car continues on its way until it disappears in the distance.

  Honig lets out his breath. He releases Oliver’s leg and continues hastily assembling the equipment. The cops aren’t looking for them, but something about their attitude tells Honig they’re not just passing through. They’re casing the area. Maybe they already know there’s a fucking psycho on the loose. Could it be the rest of the disembowelled body has been found?

  The net is tightening. There isn’t much longer.

  Calling London

  ‘I DON’T KNOW WHY you didn’t leave this place.’

  It is nine thirty-five. Oliver has tried calling his literary agent in London but the phones haven’t yet been switched through to the office and are still being picked up by the answering service. So now he is sitting in the back seat, waiting to call again. Honey is in the driver’s seat, facing forward, his shiny monk’s pate pressed back into his headrest. Oliver can see his eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. And a faint line of sweat on his brow. You can’t act sweat, thinks Oliver. The guy is absolutely terrified. Perhaps the tables are turning.

  ‘Someone like you – you could have got away from all of it, could have escaped. Why keep coming back to the place it all happened? If it was me, I’d have sold up and got myself to the furthest part of the planet.’

  It takes Oliver a moment to understand what he means. ‘Are you talking about Kable?’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you? Thinking about what he got up to in these woods?’

  Oliver leans forward and massages the place on his ankle where Honey dug in his fingers. A police car has just passed. A genuine police car, which is likely to have something to do with the men’s anxiety. The car hasn’t turned up towards the house, but that doesn’t mean something out there isn’t on the move. Oliver isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or more scared. If the police are involved, how desperate will the two men get?

  ‘I said – doesn’t it bother you?’

  Oliver looks up. Honey is staring at him in the mirror. His eyes are small and intense.

  ‘I don’t think about it because it’s hardly likely to happen again. Not here, anyway. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, whatever you tried to trick us into thinking.’

  Honey gives a shiver at that comment. He puts a finger into his collar and loosens it to get some air in there. He leans forward and casts a wary glance out of the window, as if to check they are on their own.

  ‘Gives me the fucking creeps,’ he says, staring into the trees. ‘Thought of what he did to those kids. Choosing them – then waiting for them in a cave like that … then bam! Next second they’re both dead. It’s some kind of sickness, isn’t it?’

  He waits for an answer from Oliver, but gets none. Honey sighs and checks his watch. He shifts in the seat, pulls his phone from his pocket and dials the agent again. It connects and begins to ring as he holds it over his head for Oliver to take. Oliver looks at it in silence for a moment. His head is whirring. Connecting dots. He takes the phone. Holds it to his ear.

  ‘Good morning. Bright and Fullman. How can I help you?’

  ‘Oliver Anchor-Ferrers here. I need to leave a message. Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead, Oliver.’

  ‘Gauntlet Systems. That’s G-A-U-N—’

  He doesn’t get any further. Honey swivels in the seat and grabs the phone from his hand, killing the call instantly.

  ‘ What the fuck are you talking about?’ He throws the phone down and leans over the back seat, pushing his face at Oliver. ‘What was that shit about?’

  ‘You’re from Gauntlet.’

  ‘Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, you are living a fantasy.’

  ‘I’m not. You are from Gauntlet. Pietr Havilland sent you.’

  Honey launches his entire body through the gap and pins Oliver by the throat.

  ‘Fucking shut it,’ he hisses, shaking him hard. ‘Just fucking shut your mouth.’

  Oliver’s head clunks against the seat-belt mooring, he claws pitifully at Honey’s hands – feeling the tug and ache of the scar on his chest. Dimly he can hear Honey’s feet scrabbling and banging against the handbrake, trying to get purchase. ‘You have no fucking idea what you’re up against. None.’

  Knock knock knock …

  Oliver is pressed too far up against the door to see where the noise is coming from, but it’s enough to make Honey freeze. There’s a long pause where he is so motionless that Oliver has time to see close up the pale eyelashes, the large pores in the side of his nose, the fine red veins in his eyes. Honey’s breath comes in and out with a punch of stale coffee and fear.

  Then abruptly Honey releases him. He heaves himself back into the driver’s seat, muttering under his breath, straightening his shirt. Oliver pushes himself upright with difficulty. It is Molina at the window, knocking on the glass. He is holding a pair of Matilda’s pink and yellow rubber gloves and there is an expression of astonished puzzlement on his face to see the two men in the car in this tussle.

  ‘Jesus.’ Irritably Honey reaches over and unlocks the door. He pushes it open so quickly that Molina jumps back just in time to avoid being hit.

  ‘What the hell…’ he begins, but Honey is already gunning the engine.

  ‘Just get the fuck in. There are cops all over the place.’

  Molina leaps into the seat, the door still swinging open as Honey slams the car into gear and swerves into the centre of the road. Both passengers are thrown to one side with the force of his fury. The car turns in the direction of The Turrets, Oliver sees, his face pressed painfully against the glass by the motion. It seems they are going home.

  Beat the next beat, he tells his pig-heart. It’s not over yet.

  The Rose Room

  A CAR SCREECHES TO a halt on the gravel at the front of the house and in the little box room Lucia props herself up from where she has been lying. She lifts her face to the window and listens carefully. There is the sound of car doors slamming, an angry, half-whispered conversation, the bang of the front door. Shuffling sounds that tell her Dad has been brought back to her bedroom at the other end of the landing.

  Lucia stays absolutely still, trying to decode what’s going on. The men clatter back down the stairs and she can hear the muffled noise of their conversation coming from the kitchen. She can’t hear words but she can pick up on their anxiety.

  After a while she moves herself to a sitting position and rubs her ankle where it’s tethered to the radiator. Her troll boots sit about a foot away, placed neatly together. Last night ‘Molina’ brought back the boot she left on the stairs during the struggle on the first day. She thanked him. She considered maybe smiling, even reaching a hand out to him in gratitude, but the door behind him was open and she didn’t want a gesture like that making its way on to the video recordings. Especially now things are starting to happen.

  Lucia is almost 100 per cent certain Honig’s plan is falling apart, it’s unstitching by the second. She’s been watching him like a hawk, tracking his movements, and she knows he’s a fake, that his bravado is a masquerade. He’s probably never even been in a pub brawl, let alone been an international assassin the way he wants the family to believe. It was watching him doing that puzzle when Mum was hanging upside down that gave him away. From where she was sitting she could see he was filling in the squares on the Sudoku puzzle with nonsense. He might know some of the rules – like the best way to torture a parent is to torture the child, which is a truism so old even Shakespeare used it – but the truth about Honig is that while he acts cool he’s actually a baby inside. And now he’s out of control.

  Sure enough, when, five minutes later, the door opens and Honig is standing there with a sandwich and a plastic bottle of water, she can see it written in his face. He’s anxious. Really anxious.

  ‘Breakfast,’ he says curtly. When s
he doesn’t immediately take the food he pushes it at her. ‘Eat.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ She looks past his hands and up into his face curiously. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Just take the food.’

  She lets a smile curl her mouth slowly. ‘I know. I know what’s happening. I know more than you could ever guess.’

  ‘Shut up and take the food.’

  ‘I know you’re here because of Dad’s work. And I know you’re not the person you pretend to be.’

  ‘Take the fucking food.’

  He throws the water bottle and the sandwich at her. They land on her thighs and roll on to the floor. As Honig leaves the room she is still smiling.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmurs to his retreating back. ‘So sorry it’s all going wrong for you.’

  Columbus HQ

  AS CAFFERY PULLS up outside Columbus Systems’ headquarters – forty acres of landscaped grass, fountains and glittering windows on the outskirts of Slough – his phone is ringing. Blocked number. The way most calls from police officers come in, so he puts on the handbrake, switches off the engine and answers it. It’s Paluzzi. ‘Did you get the pdf?’

  It takes Caffery a moment to remember. The attacks on the Donkey Pitch. Minnet Kable. ‘I did. Thank you for that.’

  ‘There was no particular reason you were asking about that place, was there? No other reason?’

  ‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘Like I said – just curiosity. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to pass something by you. We’ve got a missing person popped up in Litton, just down the road. It’s not connected with your curiosity, is it?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not.’ Caffery flips a jot pad out of his glove compartment and takes a pen from his pocket. He crunches the phone between his chin and his shoulder. ‘Give me the outline anyway.’

  ‘Lady by the name of Ginny Van Der Bolt. She’s forty, white, works as a cleaner, divorced, children have left home, but the daughter’s called the local station because Mum hasn’t picked up the phone in a couple of days. It’s a bit of an odd one. Apparently she’s been known to do this before, has a habit of taking off without saying anything – especially if there’s been a bit of family discord – so we’re not exactly tying ourselves in knots over it. They’ve been in the house; handbag and car are missing, but passport’s there.’