Your Deepest Fear

by David Jackson

  Falstaff appears to struggle to find her next question. She looks as though she would prefer to emit something like ‘Fucking hell!’ Instead, she says, ‘How did you get him to stop?’

  ‘I didn’t. Jeff did.’

  ‘How?’

  Cody swallows hard. ‘He, uhm, he gave up. He told them we were police officers. He started telling them everything about the operation.’

  ‘Is that what they were waiting to hear? A confession?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Jeff’s words meant nothing to Waldo. He should have stayed silent. He should have kept it to himself. He . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He shouldn’t have distracted Waldo. That’s all he was achieving, only he didn’t realise. He was bringing himself to Waldo’s attention. I tried telling him. I yelled at him to keep quiet. But it was too late. I could see that it was too late to stop Waldo.’

  ‘Stop him doing what?’

  ‘From leaving me. I wanted him to stay where he was, to leave Jeff out of this. But he was already on his way. There was nothing I could do to prevent it happening.’

  ‘What? What couldn’t you stop?’

  ‘I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .’

  It’s as clear as day. He sees the steady, irrevocable movement of Waldo towards his new prey. He sees how Waldo slips his hand into his overalls and pulls out a massive knife, its crescent blade glinting in the fluorescent light. He sees the instant of realisation on Jeff’s face – the moment he apprehends the enormity of his mistake. And then he sees what happens next. It could be happening here and now, in this room, because it is so fresh and raw in Cody’s mind.

  And then all of Cody’s promises to himself go to shit, because he can prevent the tears no longer. Much though he didn’t want it, he has been given an opportunity to open up, to let out some of his pain. He knows he should spurn the offer, but instead he finds himself taking it, grasping it with both hands, despite what it might mean for his career. His words are strangled by his cries, and he doesn’t know if he is making any sense, but he knows that mere words could never do justice to the event, to the sheer visceral imagery of a living human being having his face sliced from his skull.

  9

  It’s like when the stranger walks into a bar in one of those old western movies. Cody feels the eyes on him, the rhythmic tapping of his shoes the only sound as he approaches his desk in the incident room. If there were a piano player here, even he would fall silent.

  Webley in particular carries an expression filled with questions. She will hold on to them, then come to him later to let them spill out.

  At the front of the room, Blunt stands imperiously and observes like an interrupted schoolteacher, waiting for Cody to find his seat. As she resumes speaking, Cody knows he ought to listen, but he quickly finds himself zoning out. He is still shaken by his session with Falstaff. She got to him, in a way he never believed she would. He dropped his guard, allowed her inside. He did that once with Webley. Told her everything. About the clowns, about their effects on him. Back then it felt good, it felt like a release. But this, this feels like the thin end of a wedge between him and the police force. Falstaff has his career in her hands, for God’s sake. What was he thinking? And how much further will she hammer in that wedge during their next encounter?

  He becomes aware of movement. Blunt stepping out of the limelight and a man taking her place. Cody recognises him as Dev Chandra, the crime scene manager.

  ‘I’d just like to give you a brief update on the CSI findings so far,’ says Chandra. ‘The first thing I’d like to mention is the fingerprint found at the top of the stairs, on the bannister post. Although it’s only a partial print, it’s very well defined. It’s possible to see a thin scar running diagonally across it. Unfortunately, the print doesn’t throw up a match on any of our databases.’

  ‘That’s the print that was formed from blood, right?’ Blunt asks.

  ‘Yes. We’ve run a comparison, and it’s definitely Mathew Prior’s blood. What’s odd, though, is that there are no other matching prints anywhere else in the house.’

  ‘Not even in the bedroom?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Odd indeed. Do you have an explanation?’

  Chandra smiles, as though he’s been hoping for that question. ‘Gloves.’

  Blunt shakes her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We’ve searched every inch of that house. Almost all of the fingerprints belong to Prior. There are also some left by Prior’s wife. There are a few others we haven’t identified yet, but the likelihood is that they belong to previous occupants of the property, tradesmen and so on, rather than the intruders.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because there are no alien prints where we’d hope to find them. Take the drawers, for example. They were all pulled open to see what was inside, and yet the only prints on those drawers belong to Prior. Same goes for things like the CDs and books. They were all picked up and inspected by the intruders, but again the only prints those items hold are Prior’s. We even examined each one of the nails driven into Prior’s body. Not a single fingerprint on any of them. The killers had to have been wearing gloves.’

  ‘Okay, so explain the print on the bannister.’

  ‘Someone got careless. When they’d finished with Prior, they left the bedroom, and one of the attackers took off their gloves. There would certainly have been blood on the outside of the killer’s gloves; probably on their clothes too. All it took was for him – or her – to touch a spot of that blood before coming into contact with the bannister . . .’

  Blunt frowns. ‘But no match.’

  ‘Not yet. But find me some suspects and that could quickly change.’

  ‘All right. Well, that’s something. What else?’

  ‘Plenty. Fibres of wool, dyed maroon. Possibly from a sweater or similar. We went through Prior’s clothes and found no such garment. However, there were plenty of them around and on his corpse. We need to do more analysis, but we’re hoping that’ll tell us where the item might have been bought.’

  ‘Good. What else?’

  ‘Human hairs. Dark brown and recently cut short. There’s evidence of a wax grooming product on them. Again, we’re analysing it to see if we can work out the precise brand. We’re also doing DNA tests on the hairs, as well as the bottle.’

  ‘Bottle?’

  Chandra smiles again. ‘The intruders were extremely thorough. They even checked the contents of Prior’s fridge. In doing so, they pulled out a six-pack of bottled water and tossed it on the floor. However, it looks like one of the attackers got thirsty. The plastic wrapping holding the bottles together had been ripped open, and some of the fragments left on the floor. One of the bottles was missing. We found it in the wastepaper basket in Prior’s study.’

  ‘How do you know it’s the same bottle, and not one that Prior put there earlier?’

  ‘Batch numbers on the bottles. Plus, the bottle has no fingerprints on it. What it probably will have on it, however, is traces of saliva from whoever drank its contents.’

  Blunt nods appreciatively. ‘Excellent work, Dev. Please let the CSIs know how much we rely on them.’

  As Chandra returns to his seat, Blunt addresses the room. ‘You heard what Dev said. We’ve got hairs, a fingerprint, clothing fibres and DNA. Lots of evidence to make a match on suspects, but first you’ve got to round some up and bring them in! It would be nice if we had a motive. Clearly, the attackers were looking for something. Are we any closer to working out what it was?’

  Footlong is the first to respond. ‘The only thing we know that’s definitely missing is Prior’s laptop, but that was in plain sight. They didn’t have to rip the house apart to find that.’

  Blunt casts her eyes to the back of the room. ‘Grace, you’re the computer whiz. Any way we can find out what might have been on Prior’s laptop?’

  Grace Meade, the intelligence analyst, raises herself tentat
ively from her chair. ‘It’s a difficult one. We can probably get some data from Prior’s internet service provider, and we might be able to look at whatever Prior may have backed up to the cloud, but it’s not going to be a complete picture. It’s also possible that the intruders may have taken the computer as a last resort, simply because they couldn’t find what they were looking for in the house. There might be nothing of value on it whatsoever.’

  Blunt sighs and turns her focus on Cody. ‘You’ve spoken to the wife. Did she give you anything we can use?’

  ‘Not a lot. According to her, Prior was just a humble, introverted civil servant, interested only in books, music and computer games. She did hint at something happening to him that wrecked their marriage, but she claims she has no idea what it was.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I think so. She seemed genuine enough. Full of surprises, though.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Her bravery, for one thing. I’ve never seen a wife cope so well with the violent loss of a spouse. But it’s not just that. She went into that house alone, knowing full that there may have been a gang of violent criminals inside. She scaled the back wall, went inside, picked up a knife and searched the property room by room. I have to say I’m incredibly impressed by Sara Prior.’

  Cody catches a sidelong glance from Webley, and wonders what it means.

  ‘There is another explanation, of course,’ says Blunt. ‘Which is that she’s handling her loss so well because it’s something she wanted – maybe even planned. Perhaps she knew all along that her husband’s killers had long gone before she went into his house.’

  Cody shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s more likely that she was running on adrenaline. It’s like the old story of a mother lifting a car to rescue her trapped child. My feeling is that she really loved her husband and wanted to do everything in her power to protect him.’

  ‘If I may . . .’

  This from Chandra again. Blunt looks across to him. ‘Dev?’

  ‘I didn’t mention it earlier, but it’s in my written report. I realise most of you won’t have had a chance to look at it yet . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘With regard to Sara Prior, we needed her fingerprints to work out which of those in the house were hers and which belonged to the killers.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘That’s standard, of course. It’s also normal operating procedure to check all prints against those stored on our computer systems.’

  Silence now. Everyone realises what’s coming next.

  ‘In Sara Prior’s case we got a match.’

  Cody’s stomach lurches. A match? She’s a criminal?

  ‘She’s known to us?’ says Blunt.

  ‘Not us, exactly,’ Chandra answers. ‘She cropped up on an international search. Specifically, the Danish military.’

  ‘She’s in the forces?’

  ‘Used to be. And not just in support. She was infantry. She has done tours of duty in Kosovo and Helmand. If anyone knows about killing, it’s Sara Prior.’

  10

  ‘Well, that explains it,’ says Cody.

  Blunt locks her eyes on him. ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Why she didn’t hesitate in going into that house. She knows how to handle herself.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it. Alternatively, it tells us that the person closest to our murder victim has ample experience and training in how to eliminate people.’

  Cody opens his mouth to object, but Blunt hasn’t finished.

  ‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘Did Sara Prior supply you with any of this information about being in the Danish army?’

  Cody swallows. ‘No. No, she didn’t.’

  ‘No. A fairly significant omission, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe. But I got the impression that she likes to keep herself to herself. She—’

  ‘I don’t care what she likes. This is a homicide investigation, and she needs to go along with what we like. Talk to her again, Cody. I want to know what else she’s decided isn’t worth telling us.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Cody feels like a scolded schoolboy. He catches Webley looking at him again.

  ‘And while you’re at it,’ Blunt adds, ‘what about this telephone message?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Blunt gestures towards Grace Meade. ‘Grace, play it once more, will you?’

  Grace fiddles with her computer. Over the room speakers comes the recorded message left by Prior for his wife.

  ‘We were talking about this before you got here,’ says Blunt, almost as though it’s Cody’s fault that he was unable to attend earlier. ‘We can’t make head nor tail of it, probably because it obviously relies on some knowledge shared only by Prior and his wife.’

  ‘She said she has no idea what it means,’ says Cody.

  ‘Yes. And we’ve also established that Sara Prior is adept at being economical with the truth. Her husband was trying to tell her something, in a way that meant something to her but would not be understood by the people breaking into his room to murder him. He wasn’t just tossing out random phrases. Whether she realises it or not, she holds the key to this mystery. Get it out of her, Cody.’

  *

  The discussion moves on. Plans are made, actions identified, tasks assigned. When the meeting finally breaks up, Webley sidles over to Cody’s desk.

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, you were late coming in this morning. The last time that happened, you were in deep shit.’

  He laughs, but he realises how hollow it sounds. ‘Nothing like that. I had an appointment I couldn’t break, that’s all.’

  ‘In the first twenty-four hours of a murder inquiry? That’s not like you. Normally, it’d be impossible to tear you away from—’

  ‘Yeah, well this one was different.’

  His words slice not only through Webley’s sentence, but through the atmosphere.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. Then, after a lengthy pause: ‘Is something going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yesterday, at the house. One minute you were getting suited up to view the crime scene, and the next you just disappeared.’

  ‘Blunt had other ideas for me.’

  ‘It seemed very sudden. What was the problem?’

  ‘No problem. She made a suggestion, I thought it was a good idea, and . . . and that’s it.’

  ‘I see,’ says Webley, patently unconvinced. ‘You didn’t prefer to see for yourself what they did to Prior?’

  ‘I’ve seen the reports. It’s all there.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  She stands at his desk for a while longer, and he wishes she would just give up and walk away.

  ‘What time are you going to see Sara Prior?’ she asks.

  ‘Soon as I’ve caught up on these reports.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘I can manage. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just thought . . . well . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I dunno. I just wonder if she might be a little bit more forthcoming if there were two of us in there. You know: good cop, bad cop.’

  ‘She doesn’t need the third degree right now. She’s just lost her husband.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But you heard what the boss said. She seems to be playing with us.’

  ‘Us? Do you mean me?’

  ‘Well . . . you were pretty defensive of her.’

  ‘Defensive?’

  ‘Yes. Surely you can’t deny—’

  ‘I wasn’t being defensive. I just happen to believe what she told me. She convinced me.’

  ‘Come on, Cody. This isn’t like you. If this had been anyone else you were interviewing—’

  ‘What do you mean, anyone else? Are you accusing me of bias?’

  Webley clamps her mouth shut, but Cody can see in her eyes
what she thinks. She thinks his head has been turned. She thinks he has fallen under the spell of an attractive blonde Scandinavian woman.

  ‘I will talk to her,’ says Cody. ‘I will interview her again, using exactly the same approach I would use for anybody else on any other homicide investigation. I expect the outcome to be the same, but I will follow orders, and I will do so in a professional manner. Is that good enough for you?’

  Webley straightens up. She wants to say more, but then she shifts her gaze and realises that others are tuning in to this strained conversation.

  She nods and walks stiffly away, and Cody is left feeling that he no longer knows how to deal with people.

  11

  She seems surprised to see him at her door, but not alarmed. She doesn’t appear to be thinking something like, Shit, I’ve been rumbled. Or whatever the Danish equivalent of that might be.

  She even offers him a smile as she says, ‘Sergeant Cody. Please, come in.’

  So he does. He enters a home that is filled with varnished wooden floors and doors, oak furniture, massive candles, flowers, tasteful framed paintings.

  Sara Prior is wearing a baggy sweater in powder blue, black leggings and big fluffy slippers. When they get to the living room, she kicks off the slippers and sits cross-legged on the cream sofa. She beckons Cody to take the armchair opposite. In the background, soft piano music is being played.

  ‘This is a lovely house,’ says Cody. ‘It’s very relaxing.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve probably heard the Danish word hygge, describing feelings of comfort and contentment. It’s been all the rage. That’s what Matthew and I were aiming for here.’

  He watches her for a second, finding it hard to reconcile what he sees here with the image of her dressed in combat uniform and firing a rifle with the intention of blowing the enemy’s brains out.

  ‘How are you today?’ he asks.

  Her eyes seem suddenly to fill with sadness. ‘Hygge is also about being with the one you love,’ she says. ‘Unfortunately, that has been taken away from me now.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

  She waves it away. ‘It’s okay. It’s for me to deal with. Time is the great healer, is it not?’