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

by James Hazel

  ‘Mummy’s right, sweetheart,’ Priest whispered, remembering the phrase from his own mother. Sarah must have remembered it, too.

  ‘Where’s your blue sky, Uncle Charlie?’ Tilly asked after a while.

  Priest pursed his lips and carried on colouring in. Where’s my blue sky? He watched as Tilly moved to a different part of the page.

  ‘I think it’s behind a few black clouds right now, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll find it tomorrow.’

  9

  It was getting dark already. He flicked a switch on at the wall. An hour of heating just to take the chill out of the air. Then he attended to locking the door, rattling the knob a few times to make sure it was fast. It didn’t look like his hand again but that didn’t bother him.

  The sensation, which the psychiatrist called derealisation, was familiar. The world dissolves into a foggy dreamland – a nirvana. Objects can lose their size and shape; people can morph into distorted human parodies or, worse, robots. It makes the onset of a migraine feel like a walk in the park, the psychiatrist had warned. Incurable, untreatable and unpredictable.

  Priest had only been to the psychiatrist once. That was enough.

  He had said a slightly sheepish apology to Sarah when she had finally emerged from the utility room. She had accepted it, kissed him and promised not to contact her accountant friend about a date if he wasn’t ready yet. Whatever that meant.

  Priest wasn’t sure what angered him the most – his propensity for upsetting Sarah or his sister’s limitless capacity to forgive him. He didn’t deserve it: her forgiveness, her endless love in spite of his faults. But since she had disconnected William from her life – unplugged and discarded him – she didn’t seem capable of being angry with Priest for long, even when he deserved it.

  On the way home, he had considered whether he had been rash to turn down Sarah’s offer to put him in contact with her friend. He had been on his own for five years, but he hadn’t lost his sexual appetite. Sarah’s choice of potential companion was probably going to be much better than his own. She had been adamant from the start that Dee was a bad choice. So what was the problem? Fear of failure? Hardly. He had enough experience of that when it came to women to be an expert at it.

  No, it’s more complicated than that. Fear of myself. Fear of the ghosts in my head.

  Priest’s parents had died in 2002. Their flight from Berlin had been delayed and they had needed to return to England urgently. They had ended up taking a private jet at the expense of a business acquaintance. The little plane had hit a storm over the Channel and never made it through. The wreckage was still at the bottom of the sea somewhere. Ever since, Priest had been trying – and failing – to fill the void his parents had left in Sarah’s life.

  William had been tried in 2010, a year after Tilly was born. Eight people were dead by his hand. Eight that they knew of, anyway. He was declared not culpable for his crimes due to insanity; the so-called ‘special verdict’. Since that day, William had languished in a secure psychiatric hospital, dead to Sarah – a vile stain on the family name. No wonder she had been so keen to rid herself of it. Tilly had never heard of her Uncle William and that was the way it would stay. Sarah had eradicated him from her life – shredding photographs, burning his unopened letters to her, throwing out presents he had bought her and things that reminded her of him. Purging him absolutely.

  She had expected Priest to do the same, and not unreasonably, either. But he could not. A malignant seed of doubt had been planted in his mind about his own disposition and the mental defect he shared with his brother, the brother that killed. Priest was haunted by the ghosts of doubt.

  No, I’m not ready for a date. Not until the ghosts have been exorcised.

  He took a can of sweetcorn from the kitchen cupboard and opened it. He thought about making something but decided it was too much hassle, so he ate straight from the can.

  He flicked the news on. There was something about Miles’s death so he turned up the volume and the Sky News presenter’s voice filled the room.

  Early this morning, the body of Miles Ellinder – son of the millionaire businessman Kenneth Ellinder and believed to be one of the heirs to the Ellinder Group of companies – was found dead in the basement of a warehouse in south London, thought to be owned by one of his father’s companies. Police have revealed relatively few details concerning Ellinder’s death, other than they are treating it as suspicious.

  Kenneth Ellinder, chairman of Ellinder International, released a statement a few hours ago saying that Miles was a much loved son and a well-respected entrepreneur in his own right, and asking that the public respect the family’s wish to grieve with dignity. Very little has been said regarding the circumstances of Ellinder’s death but there is speculation from sources close to the Ellinder family that Miles Ellinder was a much troubled man who hadn’t made a public appearance in over a year . . .

  Priest shut the sound off. He didn’t want to hear any more. He turned on the kettle and poured the boiling water over an Earl Grey teabag in a mug before going into his bedroom while it brewed. From under the bed, he retrieved a shoebox. He removed the lid and fished around in amongst the packaging. Eventually he pulled out the Glock and checked the cartridge was full. He cocked it and made sure the safety was on – made sure three times. He left the box out on the bed, retrieved the steaming mug of tea after discarding the teabag in the bin, and wandered through to the lounge. The room was moving. Not spinning, but gently tipping back and forth like a ship at sea. He sipped the tea. The burning sensation felt good – made everything seem real again, if only for a moment. He fed the Pterois and then felt a sudden urge to sit down.

  Laboriously, he hauled a red leather armchair away from the plasma TV so he could sit looking through the lounge doorway to the kitchen. He sat down heavily. The room was spinning quickly now. He placed the gun on his knee. After an hour, he tumbled into a dreamless sleep.

  *

  Priest awoke to the sound of a mobile phone. He didn’t recognise the ringtone at first but, after a few moments, he realised it was his. He found the phone lying on the floor in front of him. He picked it up and answered.

  ‘Priest?’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘Okoro.’

  ‘Sleep well?’

  Priest rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘No.’

  ‘Too bad. Will you be in the office later?’

  ‘Perhaps. What time is it?’ Priest got up and the gun clattered to the floor. He braced himself but the safety was still on. He breathed out heavily.

  ‘Nine thirty,’ Okoro was saying. ‘Will you be in the office later or not?’

  ‘I refer you to my previous answer.’

  ‘Two people here to see you. They look important.’

  ‘Fine – I’ll get a shower. I’ll be an hour.’

  ‘I’ll tell them you’ll be twenty minutes.’

  *

  Priest vaguely registered the two people in reception. An old man and a woman in her early forties. He groaned inwardly. The man had already risen to greet him as he entered the reception area. They were dressed smartly, which meant they were probably from the bank.

  He did his best to pretend he hadn’t seen the old man get up. Maureen cast him a disapproving look as he skipped by. He managed to look as though he hadn’t seen that either. He made a bad job of both deceptions and carried on up the stairs towards his office.

  ‘Charlie –’ Maureen called after him.

  ‘Good morning!’ Priest called back down. His office door slammed shut behind him.

  He unlocked the computer and scanned his inbox. A hundred and seven unread messages. A new record. He started forwarding them to Solly. That seemed a little unfair, given that Priest knew Solly would act on each email so his inbox wasn’t clogged up. He would then run the anti-virus software eight times followed by a full defragmentation, and then take the RAM out and clean it with an antiseptic wipe. But needs must.

  He dialled Ge
orgie’s number and asked her to come through. She appeared at his doorway almost instantly. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders; he thought he preferred it tied back.

  ‘There’s a guy called Ryan Boatman,’ he began, before she could even say hello. He gave the address. ‘Find out all you can.’

  ‘OK. Is this connected with Ellinder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What sort of stuff do you need?’

  He thought about it before saying, eventually, ‘You know. Just stuff.’

  She looked puzzled for a moment. Priest burrowed his head in some papers on his desk in order to deter her from asking any more questions. She had disappeared when he next looked up.

  The phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. Waited a few rings and then picked it up.

  ‘Hi, Maureen.’

  ‘There are two people here to see you.’

  ‘I know.’

  He hung up and immediately picked up the phone again – dialled a number he read from his iPhone. It rang for ages until a surly voice spoke.

  ‘Charlie fucking Priest.’

  ‘Giles. I need a favour,’ said Priest matter-of-factly.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘You need a favour from me?’ Giles sounded both suspicious and slightly drunk.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuck off, Priest.’

  ‘Giles, be reasonable.’

  ‘Reasonable? The last time I did you a favour you hung me out to dry and I ended up doing three months in a Russian prison,’ Giles retorted through gritted teeth.

  ‘It was a holding cell in a Russian police station, Giles, and it was a few days, tops.’

  ‘It stank of vodka.’

  ‘In which case it was hardly a taxing few days. So, what d’ya say?’

  There was silence for a while. Priest couldn’t work out whether the humming noise was a bad line or the whirring of the cogs in Giles’s head.

  ‘All right,’ Giles said at last.

  ‘Good. A man called Miles Ellinder was apparently murdered last night in London. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘I heard a rumour. Sounds like some freaky shit is going on. So what?’

  ‘I need whatever documents you can lay your hands on. Witness statements, post-mortem reports, file notes. Anything and everything.’

  ‘What? You know I can’t get that, even for you, Priest.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘So’s my job.’

  Giles was part of SO15 – the Met’s Counter Terrorism Command. When Priest had first met Giles twenty years ago, he was a small-time smack dealer. Amazing to think that he was now one of the few good people that stood between London and ISIS. They had history, Priest and Giles, and Priest was pretty sure Giles was in arrears in terms of favours.

  ‘Just see what you can do for me, OK?’

  ‘Priest!’ Giles sounded irritated. ‘Give me one reason why –’

  ‘Because I can still tell the Russians the truth,’ Priest interjected.

  There was a short pause on the other end of the line before Giles relented. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Click.

  An email popped up from Maureen. The heading read ‘People in reception for you!’ He didn’t read the rest. The bank can wait. Everybody can fucking wait. He found some painkillers in the desk drawer and took three. Probably made by Ellinder’s company. He felt worse than he had yesterday and he hadn’t even had a cup of tea yet, but he was focused and surprisingly energised for a man who’d had less than eight hours sleep in the last forty-eight. He wasn’t sure what it was but something was overriding the crippling ache that was developing at the back of his head. Whatever it was, it was time to stop sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

  The phone rang again. This time it was Solly. He sounded panicked, but then Solly always sounded panicked.

  ‘Priest. All these emails!’

  ‘I know, Solly, I’m sorry.’ Priest was as patient as he could be.

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘A few more.’

  ‘Can you space them out, at least? Maybe I can deal with them one at a time.’

  ‘Of course I can, Solly.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  Priest replaced the receiver and sent the whole lot in one go. He waited for the phone to ring again but it didn’t. Good. That will keep Solly busy for the rest of the day.

  He rang Georgie.

  ‘Hello?’ She answered the phone within half a ring.

  ‘Georgie,’ he said casually. ‘The chap who was killed yesterday – Miles Ellinder – did I mention he was impaled?’

  ‘As in – you know – stuck on a pole?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded strangely excited. ‘You want me to check out the significance of that?’

  ‘I think so. I think that’s why I’m ringing.’

  ‘Sure!’

  Click.

  Priest looked at the phone for a few moments before putting it back down. She was enthusiastic. That was probably a good thing.

  Okoro was suddenly seated opposite him. Priest jumped. He hadn’t seen or heard him come in.

  ‘Did you . . .?’

  ‘Knock? Yes. I’ve been knocking since you got here, Priest. In the end, I got fed up with it and just walked right in.’

  ‘Sorry. Little distracted,’ Priest conceded.

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘Is there a tea going, or –’

  ‘The people in reception.’

  ‘The bank, I assume. Okoro, we don’t have an overdraft facility. We have cash reserves of over a million pounds and we own the building outright. What’s the big problem?’

  ‘It’s not the bank.’

  ‘PI insurance?’

  ‘Miles Ellinder’s father and sister.’

  Priest rubbed his chin. It reminded him that he hadn’t shaved in a few days, which in turn reminded him he had probably looked terrible yesterday and he doubted there would be much improvement today.

  Miles Ellinder’s father and sister. Here to see me. A seriously unexpected turn of events. Shit. Did I feed the fish before I came out?

  ‘Say something,’ Okoro invited.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So far I’ve managed to explain that, since you weren’t expecting them, you’ve been busy rescheduling meetings so you can see them this morning, but they’re not going to wait much longer. I strongly suspect this is the longest Kenneth Ellinder has waited for anyone in his life.’

  ‘Yes. That’s probably got something to do with all that money he has.’

  ‘Probably.’ Okoro stretched out. ‘I’m going to get up now. Then, I’m going to lead them in here and shut the door. That gives you about half a minute to make yourself look vaguely like a man who wasn’t one of the last people to see Ellinder’s son alive.’

  10

  Up close, Kenneth Ellinder had more of the university professor look about him than a bank manager. From the wispy strands of thin, silver hair falling down past his shoulders to the tweed jacket complete with elbow patches – he just needed a pair of round glasses to complete the ensemble.

  The tall and elegant woman accompanying Ellinder met Priest’s gaze briefly before taking a seat, uninvited, in front of him. She hadn’t so much entered the room as acquired it, such was the regal manner with which she presented herself. The family resemblance to Miles Ellinder was not immediately apparent. She had rich, auburn hair that fell around an ascetic face which conveyed the displeasure of a woman who had been kept waiting far too long. She was evidently her father’s daughter.

  Georgie sat to Priest’s left, legs crossed. Priest didn’t want to seem heavy-handed so Georgie sat in while Okoro retired to his office.

  ‘Thank you for eventually seeing us, Mr Priest,’ the old man said. ‘This is my daughter, Jessica.’

  She didn’t smile – she didn’t look capable of it, although she was un
deniably attractive underneath the sour expression.

  Priest cleared his throat uncomfortably. He started to offer some words of condolence but they stuck in his throat.

  ‘You are very welcome,’ he said instead. ‘This is my associate, Miss Someday. I hope you don’t mind her sitting in with us.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Georgie smiled but didn’t receive anything by way of a response.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, if I may,’ said Ellinder. ‘It appears an unfortunate incident has befallen my son, Mr Priest. You’re no doubt aware.’

  Priest nodded, slowly. An unfortunate incident. Kenneth Ellinder had the gift of understatement.

  ‘I’m very sorry for what has happened. It is truly shocking. You must be going through hell.’ For a moment, Priest thought someone else was in the room but then he realised the words were his.

  ‘In hell, Mr Priest, at least there is the consolation of knowing you’re not the only damned soul to suffer,’ said Ellinder.

  ‘Yes, I . . . Yes.’ It was a difficult line to follow, so Priest didn’t try. He realised that Kenneth and Jessica Ellinder would have been told the grotesque nature of Miles’s death, but did they know he knew? I’ll assume not for now.

  ‘It makes one very uneasy, to have one’s dirty laundry aired in such a public way,’ continued Ellinder. He looked at Priest expectantly, although what he was expecting was not clear.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that in this room, Mr Ellinder,’ said Priest softly.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘We understand that the police came to visit you yesterday, Mr Priest.’

  Priest let Jessica Ellinder’s words swirl around in his head for a few moments, judging the tone and sensing the danger lurking there. She had an extraordinary rasp to her voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Priest confirmed.

  ‘In connection with my brother’s murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A business card of yours was found in the inside pocket of Miles’s coat.’

  ‘No, I was told it was found in his clothes, which were dumped in the corner of the warehouse.’