I Dare You: A gripping thriller that will keep you guessing (A Kate Blakemore Crime Thriller Book 1)

by Murray Bailey

  “Yes.”

  He asked for the full address and this time she gave it. “What’s this about, officer?”

  “You know Pan Sikorski, Petr?” Mr Peter Sikorski.

  “Yes. Peter. He is—was engaged to my friend.”

  “Was? You know that he is dead.”

  “What?” She was thrown. What is this policeman talking about? Peter dead? How could I know? Then she realized the confusion. “I meant was engaged,” she explained. “They are not together anymore.”

  “Ah, now I understand.”

  “You say he’s dead?”

  “You did not know?”

  “No, I didn’t know. How could I have known?”

  “You do not sound sad your friend is a victim.”

  She sat down on the window ledge and shook her head at her reflection in the window. “Look, I’m sorry, I’m confused. It’s late, and I’ve had a hard day. Yes, I’m saddened, but he wasn’t a close friend. Dead you say? How did he—”

  Inspector Cerny ignored the question. “You were not friends? Why your address was on open page in his address book then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I have no idea.” But in that instance she did have an idea. In the reflection she could see the photograph of the soldiers—Boomer and Mirrorman—on the table. Now she wondered about the handwriting on the envelope. It wasn’t Sarah’s but it could be Peter’s.

  “Slečna Blakemorova?” Miss Blakemore. He used the usual Czech female version of a name.

  “Yes?”

  He waited as if hoping she would say something unprompted.

  Should she mention the photograph? She decided it was better to wait. She didn’t know for sure Peter had sent it. She would speak to Sarah first, and getting the Czech police involved seemed a complication too far.

  Eventually he said, “You say he was to be married. You have her contact?”

  “Yes, she’s still in the Czech Republic.” She picked up her mobile phone and reeled off Sarah’s address and phone number. As she finished she had a horrible sick feeling in her stomach. “You don’t think she’s involved do you?”

  “Thank you, Slečna Blakemorova. I will talk to police in England.” He thanked her again and clicked off.

  Kate stood by the window with the receiver still pressed to her ear, staring at her reflection. Then the realization struck her: Inspector Cerny had called Peter the victim.

  Peter wasn’t just dead. He’d been murdered!

  EIGHTEEN

  Voicemail.

  “Hi, Sarah. It’s me again. I heard the awful news about Peter. Are you OK? I know you’re not together anymore but it must still be a shock.” Kate paused. What else should she say? She decided to keep the call brief. “Hey, just give me a call. I’m here if you need to talk to anyone. Take care.”

  When she disconnected, Kate needed to speak to someone. She rang Andrew.

  “Great news, Katie!” he said without introduction. “I can’t talk long I need to be up early in the morning. I’m flying to Bologna.”

  Kate was a little thrown. “What? Oh, the Italian lead—the company interested in your software?”

  “Yes. I’m just packing. What do they wear in Italy? Should I wear a suit?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” And then she blurted it. “Peter’s dead.”

  There was a hollow silence before Andrew spoke. “Sarah’s Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God, that’s terrible. Is Sarah OK? How’s she coping?”

  Kate explained that she’d tried but hadn’t managed to get through to Sarah.

  “Maybe it’s a problem with her phone.”

  “Maybe. I also had a phone call from the Czech police.” Kate relayed the earlier conversation with Inspector Cerny.

  Andrew choked. “You gave him your address?”

  “He already knew it.”

  “Are you sure? It sounded like he just knew you were in Windsor. You don’t know who he was. Grief, he could have been anybody!”

  Kate was silent.

  Andrew said, “Sorry. I’ve worried you haven’t I?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Look. He had your number, knew your name and knew you were in Windsor. Thinking about it, if he knew that much he could have tracked you down.”

  “I guess.”

  “Tell you what—report the call to the police just so they know.”

  Kate made a noise reflecting her opinion of the police. “After my experience a year ago, I would predict their assistance will amount to a big zero.”

  “I almost forgot!” Andrew suddenly sounded more upbeat. “I’ve found something on the data card.”

  “Opened the file?”

  “No. No. Found something else. I didn’t think to look before. There was a hidden file, not password protected. There were just three words: The Laughing Train. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Yes,” Kate said. “I know what The Laughing Train is.”

  NINETEEN

  The Laughing Train.

  It was a joke, a humorous reference. Close to the old station in Windsor there was a bar-restaurant that used to be called Ha Ha. Between the bar and a single platform stood a steam train, majestic in green, black and gold—a major tourist attraction on the route from the coach park, beyond the station, up to the castle.

  Joe found it hilarious that people, particularly Japanese tourists, wanted their photograph taken next to Queen Victoria’s personal locomotive. Hilarious because it was a replica—a faux-loco and a crypto-tram, as Joe called it.

  Kate didn’t know how this would help, but she felt a sense of optimism and was sure everything would be explained once Andrew opened the file.

  When she got up, Kate sent Sarah an email:

  I’ve tried calling. Perhaps your phone isn’t working. Are you OK? Let me know. Kate

  She had heard nothing from either Andrew or Sarah by the time she left for work, nor during the day. When she arrived home, Kate spotted an envelope poking out of the letterbox. Sometimes mail got stuck if it wasn’t rigid enough to push through. She eased it out and saw her name scrawled on the front. Something from Andrew. She opened the envelope.

  It said:

  Dropped off on way to Heathrow. Software can’t crack it. But did manage to find something that wasn’t encrypted. Does First Words mean anything to you? I tried “Let there be light”, but that didn’t work!

  Inside the envelope he had included a card reader with a USB connection. She rushed upstairs to her PC, ignoring Tolkien’s plea for attention.

  First wordswas easy. She switched on and plugged in the USB stick. When the window opened she clicked on the file. The password box popped up and she typed:I dare you

  Ping.

  Password correct, said a pop-up.

  But nothing else happened.

  Kate tabbed through the open windows. There was no document open.

  She texted Andrew.

  Have pword! But nothing opened. Have searched. Nothing.

  Seconds later her phone rang. “Buon giorno from Italia!” Andrew said.

  “That’s good morning. It’s evening.”

  “Hey, I only know a handful of Italian words, don’t be so fussy. Anyway, stop the chit-chat. You cracked the code then?”

  “Yes, it said I got the password correct, but no file opened.”

  “It could be hidden. Do Ctrl-Alt-Delete and you’ll get the Task Manager.” He waited.

  “Done.”

  He asked what files were listed and she reeled them off. Nothing was a document program.

  “OK,” he said, “Now close everything except Windows Explorer, double-click on the file and then close Explorer and call up Task Manager and tell me what you see.”

  Kate did as instructed and told him that only the password program was running.

  “OK, now type in the password and check Task Manager.”

  She complied. “Still only the password program.”

 
“That’s odd,” he said, “I would expect that to at least close down once you have the password. Let’s take a look at the processes that are running.” He instructed her to click on the Processes tab and she talked him through the list of Image Names on the left hand side.

  “Sorry, signorina, I haven’t a clue. Look, when I get back I’ll come over and run a diagnostic on it. But you might have to accept that there is no file. It could just be a joke, a fault, or perhaps the file was never created.” He signed off with: “Ciao!”

  Kate sighed and put her head in her hands for a moment.

  Then a thought struck her. She double-clicked on the file again and the password window popped into the centre of her screen. No! She said to herself. Someone doesn’t go to the extent of hiding a file in a desk calendar with encryption and password protection if there is nothing to see.

  She glared at the screen, willing it to say something. It didn’t and her eyes started to feel uncomfortable, constantly staring. She left the password window on the screen and went down to the kitchen, made a ham sandwich and poured a glass of Pinot Grigio. As she picked up the glass she wondered if the wine selection was subliminal. Andrew in Italy attempting Italian, ergo Italian wine.

  She went back to staring at the screen, looking for inspiration.

  What are you telling me, Joe?

  It was a typical window: grey box with blue header. The writing was in black, the box for the password was white. The writing said, “Enter Password”. The header was typical too. On the right were the Minimize, Restore Down and Close icons. On the left was an icon that looked like crossed keys, presumably representing the password software. The software name was Runtime—bold white letters.

  Subliminal? Could it be?

  She texted Andrew.

  Is it possible that the password has to be entered at a specific time?

  Possible. Ax, was the immediate reply.

  Runtime.

  Joe had been careful to hide the card. The password was one that only Kate would know, so it made sense that if time were important, it would be something that would be relevant to her.

  The home telephone rang. She drummed her fingers and considered not answering. She didn’t. It stopped ringing and Kate picked up, dialled 1471. It was a Reading number. Unlikely to be someone she knew? If it was Darcy, she’d ring the mobile.

  Kate went back to thinking about times.

  The Laughing Train.

  Could it be that easy?

  The phone rang and she snatched it up. It felt like her eureka moment was linked to the phone call—as though it would be Joe on the phone. Of course, it wasn’t.

  A man’s voice, official-sounding, asked her to confirm her name. After the previous experience with the Czech policeman, she refused.

  “I would like to speak to Kate Blakemore. Is that who I’m speaking to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything all right, Miss?” he asked, and she realized she must have sounded distracted. Her mind was on Runtime.

  “Sorry who is this?” She tried to focus.

  “Detective Inspector Mather from Thames Valley,” he said. “It’s about Peter Sikorski. I understand you spoke to the Prague police. I would like to come round and take a statement, Miss Blakemore.”

  “Yes, fine,” she said. “When?”

  “Is tomorrow afternoon all right?”

  She was about to confirm when a thought crossed her mind. No-neck had not only seemed incompetent, he had made her feel uncomfortable. “Will it just be you, Detective?”

  “Oh no, Miss. Don’t worry, there will be a female detective accompanying me.”

  “Fine,” she said, and agreed a time. She couldn’t wait to get off the phone. She had to go.

  She had to go to The Laughing Train.

  TWENTY

  Amir pulled into the square and parked. His van had a satellite TV and electrical company logo—Satcom—on the side and a ladder on the roof. The block of flats formed three-sides of the square with the girl’s flat directly behind him. He got out and pulled a short ladder from the roof, left it propped at the rear and crossed to the opposite side of the square. As he approached, he noted the door to number eight was mainly frosted glass. There were two locks and a cat flap. Next to number eight’s door was its twin. Number nine. No cat flap. He looked up and noted three floors. No open windows, but it was unclear which belonged to number eight.

  Casually, he strolled around the rear. Along the side, cars were parked in a bay marked “residents only” with a warning from the management company that non-residents would be clamped. Beyond this was a row of garages all painted blue with padlocks in addition to locked door handles. All identical. A few cars were parked along the fence that bordered the short backyards of the properties. Again he glanced up at the building. It was possible that the flats were one floor each, but there was a symmetry that implied vertical.

  A car pulled into the garaged area and Amir casually moved to a parked vehicle and examined a tyre. When the coast was clear he stepped onto the wheel and levered himself up, gaining a good view over the fence. The yards were wider than would be appropriate for a vertical arrangement of flats. There was definitely a ground floor flat, which meant he was no clearer about which windows belonged to the girl. He would have to watch before he broke in.

  Two men in blue uniforms stood by his van. Police? How could they know? He had been assured the plates of the vehicle were clean, the documents in order. If they weren’t, the supplier was going to pay with his life.

  Amir walked away from the parked cars and headed for the main road as though just passing by. From St Leonard’s Road, an arterial road that ran into the centre, he could no longer see the square or his van. He leaned against the wall of an Indian restaurant and, though not a smoker, lit a cigarette.

  After finishing most of it, Amir decided to casually make his way back and identify the degree of threat. He put his hand on the gun in his pocket, wondering if things could really have deteriorated so quickly. His mind processed the options, considering who could have given him away. Rounding the bend to the square, he saw the uniformed men. They were no longer by the van, but almost at the other end, close to the target property. However, they showed no interest in the building but were studying each of the cars.

  Amir walked around the side of the block as before, this time taking a closer look at the men.

  Traffic wardens, just fucking wardens.

  He took no chances, waited until the two men left, then returned to the van. There was a yellow and black plastic wallet stuck to his windscreen. He peeled it off, climbed in and flung the parking ticket on the floor.

  Through the rear-view mirror he could clearly see the door marked “8”. He took out his phone and pretended to be on a call, sat and watched.

  At four thirty the light was fading and a fine drizzle had peppered the windscreen. It was a miserable, damp country, Amir decided, but, during his intensive surveillance, the rain went unnoticed. A handful of people had come and gone. A pilot and a couple of air stewardesses were the only people below geriatric age. He saw no movement in any of the windows above the door he watched. A light came on in one of the rooms and he figured this was on a timer. Then moments later a blonde girl on a mobile phone rounded the bend. He tracked her as she headed across the road. She put the phone in her purse. Amir judged her facial expression to be disappointment. Not bad-looking—fit body, possibly worked out. He smiled as she stopped at the door to number eight. This was the girl.

  When she opened the door Amir saw an immediate flight of stairs. He also noted she’d used two keys.

  Stepping out of the van, he busied himself with the ladder as though preparing to work. He saw the girl appear at the first-floor window. Another light went on and she drew the curtains. Seconds later a light went on upstairs. Second floor. So the flats were structured with one on the ground floor and two above, each set on two floors.

  The curtains upstairs didn’t close
, which, he judged, meant she was at the rear of the property. To confirm this he walked swiftly around the back and glanced up. The blonde girl sat, side on to a window, looking at a computer. As he watched, she picked up her phone and began texting. After a while she got up and left the room.

  He returned to the van and put on an engineer’s jacket and picked up a steel case. It looked like it might contain equipment appropriate for his cover, but the tools were for a different task. With confidence now, he walked to the door of number eight and rang the buzzer.

  No response.

  After a couple of minutes, he pressed the doorbell once more—this time for longer.

  Noise inside. The stairs light went on and he saw the girl trot down the stairs.

  “Sorry if you’ve been waiting.” She was flustered but had a disarming smile. “I was upstairs and wasn’t sure the doorbell was sounding. What can I do for you?”

  Amir raised his case. “ComSat engineer. I’m here to connect the satellite TV. The landlord ordered it.” This last comment was a gamble, but Amir guessed her to be a tenant. Something about the flats, the pilot, the air stewardesses, all said: rented.

  Her face showed confusion but no suspicion. “Oh? I thought there was something in the deeds that prohibited a satellite dish.” Then she shook her head. “Actually, it’s not convenient now. I’m just off out. Could you schedule something tomorrow?”

  He placed his hand on the door and pulled a face that he hoped was friendly, unthreatening. “Sure. Of course. I was just passing. Wondered if I could get the job done early. I’ll have the office call you to arrange a proper appointment.” He took a step backwards.

  The girl grabbed a coat by the door and stepped after him. Something crossed her face before Amir smiled, said good evening and turned. He heard her close the door and insert the deadlock key. As he reached the van he looked in the side mirror. She was already hurrying towards the main road. There was still no sign of suspicion.

  She had locked her front door.

  Or so she thought.