The Mayfly: The chilling thriller that will get under your skin

by James Hazel

  Ainsworth hesitated. Time to buck my ideas up a bit. ‘We don’t have a complete list of inmates yet, sir,’ he explained, handing the letter back to Ruck. ‘It could take days to find these people.’

  Ruck smiled curtly. ‘Read the letter more closely, Captain. They’re Nazis I’m after – not Jews. Doctors, actually.’

  ‘Doctors?’ Ainsworth couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘There aren’t any doctors here, Colonel Ruck. This place wasn’t designed to prolong human life. This is – was – an extermination camp. Tens of thousands of people were behind these walls, kept in worse conditions than poultry. Those that aren’t dead aren’t far off. There are no doctors here.’

  Ruck shrugged and lit a cigarette produced from a small packet hidden in his coat. One of the commandos by the car shuffled his feet impatiently.

  ‘Have you found a surgery here?’ Ruck asked.

  ‘A surgery? There’s no such thing. All we’ve seen are huge rooms where they crowded in hundreds of scared people and gassed them. Then they got the ones who weren’t gassed to drag the bodies to giant pits and throw them in. That’s what’s here. If you’re expecting a cosy waiting room with a fish tank and a copy of Punch on the coffee table, then you’re a long way from home, Colonel.’

  Ruck sniffed the air and for a moment Ainsworth was reminded of a predator sensing its prey. ‘Aside from those rooms, then. Something smaller. Instruments, perhaps. Saws, scalpels, masks. That sort of thing.’

  Ainsworth shook his head. ‘Only death and –’

  ‘Sir?’ Henderson interrupted. He coughed nervously. Ruck and Ainsworth turned to look at him. ‘What about the Hell Rooms?’

  3

  Charlie Priest was pan-frying sole.

  It hadn’t been a particularly successful enterprise, so far. The pan was too hot and the butter was foaming around the edges. The fish was crimping at the ends, shrivelling up before his eyes like paper curling in a flame.

  ‘Too much heat,’ he muttered.

  He chucked his failed experiment in the bin with the two previous attempts and threw the pan in the sink. It hissed angrily. Even the cookware was disgusted with his efforts.

  He wondered about another takeaway but was distracted by the sound of someone rapping on his door.

  There was a little security monitor in the hall; all the new penthouses had one. Someone could jab a knitting needle through a spyhole too easily if they wanted. Priest glanced at the monitor. Great. This evening’s getting better by the minute.

  He unbolted and opened the door.

  ‘Evening, Officer,’ he sighed.

  Priest’s visitor smiled. The sort of smile where the mouth twists upwards at the corners but all the other facial muscles remain completely motionless.

  ‘Mr Priest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The policeman was clutching a box. Just a regular cardboard box, nothing exciting. A bit bigger than a shoe box. He was around Priest’s age, maybe a few years older, with strands of greasy black hair protruding from underneath the custodian helmet. The Brunswick Star gleamed in the light cast out into the hallway from Priest’s penthouse.

  ‘Can I come in?’ the uniform asked.

  ‘Is there any food in that box? I’m starving.’

  ‘Perhaps if I could just come in, sir.’

  Priest shrugged and stood aside. Why not? The fake smile reappeared momentarily before Priest led him through to the kitchen. The policeman placed the box carefully on the side. His uniform was immaculate. Must be new to the job.

  ‘Nice place,’ he remarked, looking round, taking it all in.

  It was a showroom kitchen. Black granite surfaces on soft-coloured wooden units. Streaks of lime green across the back wall over the appliances, reflected on the tall bar stools. The smell of burnt fish lingered in the air.

  ‘The smell . . .?’ the officer asked.

  ‘Lemon sole.’

  ‘I see. Easy thing to burn.’

  ‘Not really. It’s actually quite hard to mess up.’

  A sympathetic but unconvincing smile.

  ‘So what can I help you with, Officer?’

  ‘Well, the Super sent me over. They’re clearing out the archives and came across a load of your old stuff. Actually, I’ve never heard of you but the Super says you were a big deal in the Met and I should deliver this back personally.’

  ‘I left CID ten years ago.’

  ‘Really? You obviously left an impression.’

  ‘Seemingly. Can’t say I recall missing anything from ten years ago.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what we got here.’

  The uniform reached over and flipped the lid of the box and brought out a long, metal object.

  ‘T-baton,’ Priest said. ‘American truncheon. Circa nineteen nineties by the looks of it. Never owned one.’

  ‘Really?’ The uniform glanced down at the baton, apparently surprised. He studied it again, as if it might reveal some hidden secret. He tested the weight in his hand, softly shaking his head.

  ‘You say the Super sent you?’ Priest queried.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Pritchard?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘DSI Pritchard?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Priest went down hard against the corner of the breakfast bar. His head took two impacts. One from the tip of the baton as it swung violently at him, catching the side of his temple – he’d anticipated the blow a fraction too late. The second was his head against the corner of the granite top. It was the second blow that turned the lights out.

  *

  Priest opened his eyes and for a moment there was nothing. Just the sound of blood rushing past his ears.

  Pritchard had retired three years previously. The uniform was real but the man wearing it hadn’t been. Priest should have guessed earlier. He’d been wearing a helmet. The nearest police station was three miles from here. Helmets were what beat officers wore – officers who travelled in cars wore peaked caps. There was no way this guy had walked three miles in a helmet carrying a compendium of Priest’s old stuff.

  Bloody idiot. Burning the fish was bad enough . . .

  At first Priest couldn’t detect anyone else in the room but he was sure the fake copper was still there, somewhere. He had been dumped in a chair. His wrists were tied to the chair arms with cable ties, as were his legs. The plastic cut into his skin. Some involuntary movement while he was unconscious had drawn deep lacerations across his ankles. There was duct tape wound around his chest, binding him to the chair. He could move his head a little but not much else.

  There was a wet tea cloth on his head, restricting his view. He could have been anywhere but the stench of burnt fish told him he was still in his own kitchen.

  He tested the restraints around his wrists and pain seared up his arm in response. He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. So far, the upper hand was with the man in blue. Priest figured he had a few minutes at the most to turn the tables. On an even footing, a confrontation would have had only one outcome. The fake copper was under six foot and didn’t look like he was carrying much underneath the uniform. Priest was six foot three and weighed fifteen and half stone, most of which was muscle. Knocking him out had been more luck than judgement, too.

  He sat, immobilised, for what seemed like an age, although he guessed it was only a few minutes. A few minutes in which Priest couldn’t think of anything but the buzzing in his head and the bastard smell of fish.

  The towel was suddenly whipped away and Priest’s kitchen came into view, spoilt by the figure of the grinning policeman.

  ‘Gotcha!’ the fake copper announced.

  Priest didn’t say anything, just stared at the intruder as neutrally as he could.

  ‘Why so upset, Priest? Should have seen it coming?’ The fake copper threw the towel aside and took a few steps back, folding his arms and grinning. ‘This uniform cost me two grand. So don’t feel too bad.’

  He was probably telling the truth about the price. Getti
ng hold of a replica that good wasn’t impossible, but it was very expensive. Priest started to wonder about his chances.

  The fake copper continued, ‘Ah, it was worth it. Guessed you wouldn’t open the door to any other type of visitor. The concierge downstairs was also very helpful.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Priest asked.

  ‘Just a chat. For now. Little chat. So you can get to know me a bit better.’

  ‘And you know me?’

  The fake copper smiled. ‘You’re Charles Priest but everyone calls you Charlie. Divorced. No children. Forty-three years old. Cambridge first. Joined the Met in ninety-four, did two years on the beat. Fast-tracked through CID to DS in ninety-seven and then DI in two thousand and one. In two thousand and four you left the Force under a cloud and retrained to become a lawyer. You worked in the commercial litigation department of an international firm before setting up your own practice in the City specialising in fraud investigation. Now you earn half a million a year and rank pretty highly in the Legal 500 as one of the most respected solicitor-advocates in the UK. Your parents are dead but you have one sister, Sarah Boatman, thirty-nine years old, a co-owner of a PR agency, and one brother, William Priest, forty-six years old, currently residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure in a secure psychiatric hospital outside the city having been declared criminally insane five years ago. You suffer from dissociative disorder, which means you constantly feel detached from reality, occasionally experiencing fits in which you descend into a state of complete dissociation, much like an out-of-body experience. Shall I go on?’

  Priest sniffed. He’d earned more than half a million last year but the rest was accurate enough.

  ‘You’ve clearly been reading my Facebook profile.’

  The intruder’s pallid skin and dilated pupils suggested there was more to his charm than just a natural swagger, but Priest had seen something in his eyes other than coke. Something that troubled him more than the cable ties around his wrists and legs. Something dead.

  The fake copper started digging through a pile of papers on the work surface. They weren’t much – bills, lists, receipts. An instruction manual for the expensive coffee machine his sister Sarah had bought for him last Christmas that he still hadn’t got around to using. But his stuff, nonetheless.

  ‘Priest and Co,’ the fake copper muttered. He was examining a business card. ‘Course he would have sent it to you.’ He pocketed the card and turned back to Priest.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what all of this is about?’ Priest was surprised by how calm he sounded, despite the anger swelling in his chest.

  ‘You’ve come into possession of something of mine,’ the man said slowly. ‘Something very important to me.’

  ‘Your dermatologist’s address? You should sue the bastard.’

  ‘No, Mr Priest. Something infinitely more valuable.’

  Priest did the best impression of a guy shrugging while strapped to a chair that he could.

  When he didn’t say anything, the fake copper carried on. ‘Well, then, let me help you a little. I’m looking for a flash drive. A data stick. I want it back. Then I’m going to burn your house down, Mr Priest. Whether you give me the drive voluntarily or not determines whether you’ll still be strapped to that chair when I strike the match.’

  Priest said nothing but kept on watching. Watched the guy walk over to the box on the kitchen table. Watched him rummage around inside. Watched him take out a drill.

  ‘You’re here to put up some shelves?’ Priest quipped.

  The intruder’s smile didn’t materialise this time.

  ‘I have all night, Mr Priest. And you’re not going anywhere. Know how many holes I can drill in you before you pass out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither do I. Perhaps we can find out together.’

  The fake copper took a drill piece out of the box and screwed it in. Pulled the trigger a few times, watching the barrel whirl. A rising sense of panic washed over Priest. I wasted those few precious minutes. He swallowed but his throat was still dry. He started jolting his arms, trying to find some movement, but he was helpless.

  The intruder took the drill and pressed the flat of the barrel to Priest’s ear. Priest kept his mouth shut, tried to control the overflow of oxygen he was taking in through his nose. It didn’t seem real – nothing ever did. But it felt real, this time. He needed to avoid hyperventilating. At least while he was conscious, he had half a chance of talking his way out of this. Although that prospect seemed to be fading by the second.

  Fake Copper pulled the trigger. Priest threw his head sideways and grimaced as the barrel burnt the side of his face. He heard the maniac laugh. The fucker’s enjoying this! Priest was running short of ideas so he decided to stall.

  ‘OK. OK. The data is through there.’ He nodded towards the dimly lit lounge.

  The visitor pulled back reluctantly. ‘Where?’

  ‘I downloaded the data on to the computer in the corner of the room and destroyed the flash drive.’

  ‘Why?’

  Good question. ‘I just did.’

  Priest’s visitor looked at him. Rubbed his hand across the drill. Leant in close. Priest could smell stale smoke and alcohol.

  ‘If you’re lying, I’ll take your fucking eyes out first.’

  4

  Priest figured it would take the fake copper at least three minutes to work out that he was bluffing. In Priest’s world, second chances were like gold dust. Just ask my ex-wife. This one wasn’t going to be squandered.

  He couldn’t lean forward, but he could bend his neck. Enough to crane over to where his lighter was nestled in the top pocket of his shirt. He scrunched his stomach muscles and hunched his back until he heard something crack, which gave him enough leverage to get his tongue around the metal end of the lighter and extract it from his pocket into his mouth. When he had a good hold, he lifted his head. He wrenched his right wrist round so his hand was palm up. The cable tie worked like a cheese cutter, searing into the soft flesh around his wrist. He bit down hard on the lighter to control the pain. Then he steadied himself and spat.

  For a moment, the red Clipper seemed to hang in the air, as if caught in an invisible spider’s web. The trajectory looked all wrong. Gravity seemed too strong. It was going to fall short. Priest blinked and in that split second the scene changed again.

  His fingers closed around the plastic cylinder, but his grip was tenuous. He held his breath. He manoeuvred the Clipper, manipulated it between forefinger and thumb. Finally, it sat bolt upright in his hand. He breathed out heavily. Twenty-five seconds gone, maybe thirty. He flicked the control switch to the plus sign and snapped down on the spark wheel. It ground against the stone, igniting the gas. The flame danced uncertainly, then settled. More finger manipulation and he was able to push the lighter slowly across his palm towards his wrist before nudging the top down with his first finger and then easing the flame slowly across his hand.

  The burning sensation was instant. His arm tensed up. Pain shot through his body, signals flashed to his brain telling him to drop the lighter. It was excruciating, but he held on.

  At last the flame met the plastic. Priest bit down hard on his lip, only letting the occasional gasp escape. His arm was going crazy. At first, the plastic didn’t seem to be responding. The flame just wrapped around it, burning the skin on either side. A tremor started in his upper arm, sweeping down to his wrist. He realised he could only withstand so much. He spat and cursed; his body was taking over, the urge to pull away was irresistible. There was a faint smell of meat cooking slowly on a barbecue.

  He thought he might have to abandon his plan for escape, but just as he decided he couldn’t stand it any longer, he saw the chemical change happening in the composition of the plastic. It was softening; slowly, agonisingly. His eyes were streaming; it felt as if his body were melting along with the plastic.

  He could bear it no longer. His shirt sleeve was starting to smoulder. If it caught fire, he stood
little chance of extinguishing himself. Now I know what my lemon sole felt like . . .

  At last the binding snapped and the plastic tie fell to the floor. The broken ends glowed, a little trail of smoke drifted upwards. He didn’t dare look at the damage done to his wrist. It felt as though there was a knife wedged through it.

  The lighter had also fallen on the floor, but it didn’t matter. With his free hand he was able to reach a small drawer in the kitchen table and pull out a letter knife. It was his late father’s – a straight blade with his father’s initials, FP, carved into the curved, bone handle.

  He slipped the knife in between his wrist and the cable tie, making short work of cutting himself loose. Same for his legs, then the duct tape round his chest. When he was finished, he stumbled off the chair, gasping and wheezing, and then bent double over the kitchen table. Two minutes had passed, maybe less. Not bad, Houdini. Although you’ll probably never play the piano again. He had time to spare. His eyes narrowed. The room was spinning. It occurred to him that he must also be concussed. He didn’t feel there, in the room. Nothing new about that, though. Fifteen seconds. He would allow himself fifteen seconds of slow, controlled breathing before he made his next move.

  Fifteen seconds later he was moving.

  The box was still on the table, as was the T-baton. Priest picked up the weapon. Pain shot down his arm as his hand curled around the grip but he clung on. He briefly considered the letter knife, or something bigger from the kitchen drawer. No. Knives caused mess and rarely disabled a determined opponent quickly. The T-baton could end it with one well-aimed blow.

  He held it by the side handle, so the butt covered his forearm and the main shaft extended outwards. It was more accurate this way and the base acted as a shield. Held by the butt, it was just like any other blunt weapon. This way, it was an extension of his own arm.

  He stood still for a moment, listening. No tap of a keyboard or click of a mouse. Nor the whirr of the old fan. Was the intruder still in the flat?