Your Deepest Fear

by David Jackson

‘Ann?’

  ‘Ann Staples. She’s another team member. I think she felt a bit sorry for Matthew. She spent a lot of her free time trying to talk to him. Sometimes she’d sit at his desk and have lunch with him.’

  ‘Can we speak to her?’

  ‘She’s not around today. She only found out about Matthew when she came in this morning. She got so upset I had to send her home.’

  ‘We’d like her address, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Fulton looks down at the table for a moment. Then he says, ‘The news reports are saying that Matthew was brutally murdered. Not just murdered, but brutally murdered.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Webley. ‘I’d say that was an accurate term.’

  Fulton nods. ‘Poor guy. I’ll miss having him around.’

  I can tell, thinks Cody. Look at how upset you are.

  16

  She decides she will wait until she gets home.

  She puts the letter in her pocket. On the walk back to her car, she keeps her hand on it constantly for fear it may somehow escape and be carried away on a freak gust of wind. It seems almost to be burning her fingers, singeing her with its demand for its content to be revealed. But she knows she has to wait.

  She is afraid of what her reaction might be. Afraid of the stares in the library or from other drivers as she sobs uncontrollably. Afraid, too, of what secrets are in this letter – of what drove Matthew to adopt such a clandestine means of communication.

  And so she waits until she is home.

  She stares at the envelope now, at the writing on its front.

  To my darling Sara.

  Undeniably Matthew’s handwriting. So precise, so florid.

  She picks up the letter opener. Slices it carefully through the top edge of the envelope. Inside is a single piece of paper. She unfolds it, sees that it has been laser-printed. Taking a deep breath, she begins to read.

  To my darling Sara,

  If you are reading this letter, it can only be because something terrible has happened to me. I might even be dead. Which is pretty weird when you think about it. But then if there’s one thing I’ve learned from being with you, it’s that life can be unpredictable and dangerous and scary and exciting – all the things I never experienced before you came into my life.

  I want you to know first and foremost that I love you. That I loved you from the moment I first set eyes on you. That I have never stopped loving you, even during those times when it must have seemed that nothing could have been further from the truth. My love for you is total.

  I also want you to know that I am so, so sorry for what I have put you through. I did what I thought was for the best, but it was impossible for me to tell you why. Now, finally, I can explain.

  I’m in trouble, Sara. I made a mistake. The biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I thought I needed to change. If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s that I need to have more courage, that I need to stop hiding from myself and the world. I’ve tried to do that, and now I’m paying the price.

  They’re after me, Sara. They’re coming for me. You’re reading this letter because I have given you a message that only you will understand, and that’s because they must be right on my tail. I’m sorry for my cryptic message, but I know they’re watching and listening. They will search my house and my computer. They mustn’t be allowed to know I’ve contacted you. You mustn’t tell the police either, because that could put your own life at risk.

  I’m telling you all this as a warning. They will want to cover their tracks, and that might mean making sure that I haven’t passed any information about them to you. They may come looking for you, and I want you to be prepared for that. I want you to be on your guard. To be honest, I’d prefer it if you would go back to Copenhagen. You’ll be safer there. But I know you won’t listen to me!

  If they do come, you may be left with no choice but to go to the police. Tell them they need to find a man who goes by the name ‘Metro’. They should start their search in The Tar Barrel pub in Bootle.

  I realise I’m not giving you much detail, but to be honest it’s much better for you not to know. I just want you to understand that it’s the reason I’ve been so miserable. It’s nothing you did, or a reflection on our relationship. I desperately wanted to continue my life with you, but it would have been unfair to put you in danger like that.

  You made me so happy, and I threw it all away. I hope you’ll forgive me one day.

  Stay safe. I’d like to think you won’t forget me, but you should move on with your life now. You deserve much better than me.

  Your loving husband,

  Matthew

  The letter ends with Matthew’s extravagant signature in blue ink. He always liked to use a fountain pen to sign letters.

  A tear tumbles from Sara’s cheek and splashes onto the page. She wipes it away quickly, before it can soak into the paper. This is Matthew’s last gift to her. It’s precious.

  She places the letter carefully on the coffee table, then stands up and walks to the window. She doesn’t see what is outside; her vision is too blurred.

  As she cries, she realises that it is partly through relief. On many occasions she assumed the fault for their separation must be hers. She worried that she must have pushed him too much, taken him too far beyond his comfort zone.

  But now she knows. Matthew has confirmed that it was nothing to do with her. There were other things going on in his life. A secret world of which she was completely unaware.

  She goes back to the coffee table and picks up the letter again. It throws up more questions than answers. Who are these mysterious people who were coming after Matthew? What did they want from him? What knowledge or item in his possession was of such importance that he had to die for it?

  She knows she should take this to the police, to Detective Sergeant Cody. This is vital information. It might possibly lead them directly to Matthew’s killers.

  But then she focuses on the sentence that pleads with her not to say anything to the authorities, because that might endanger her.

  She isn’t worried about danger. She has walked, slept and eaten in the fiery furnace of danger. What concerns her more is that informing the police might lead to a flurry of activity that could tip off the killers. They might go into hiding. Or the police might fuck it all up and the suspects would literally get away with murder.

  That’s not going to happen, she tells herself. They’re not getting away with this. Somebody killed my husband, and they’re going to pay for it.

  Even if it’s the last thing I do.

  17

  They have to ring and knock several times before they can get Ann Staples to come to the door. When she finally does appear, she keeps the chain on the door, leaving just a crack through which to fix a single beady eye on the two detectives.

  ‘Hello?’ she says. ‘What is it?’

  Cody presents his warrant card. ‘Police, Mrs Staples. We’re here to talk to you about Matthew.’

  ‘Miss,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m a Miss. Not a Mrs.’

  ‘Ah, okay. Sorry. I’m DS Cody and this is DC Webley. May we come in?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Ann closes the door while she removes the chain, then opens it again. Cody gets a view of a short woman in her early forties. She is wearing a green cardigan, a tartan skirt, and pale green tights. Around her neck is a multi-coloured knitted scarf that is so long its ends trail along the floor.

  Ann catches him looking at the scarf. ‘I have the hat too,’ she says.

  ‘Er, right,’ Cody says.

  He has no idea what she’s talking about, but his attention is shoved elsewhere as soon as he enters the house.

  In the hallway is a Tardis.

  Not the real thing, obviously – Ann Staples doesn’t convince as a Time Lord – but a persuasive replica, nonetheless.

  Cody exchanges glances with Webley.

  ‘Wh
at do you think?’ says Ann.

  Cody turns to see that she is now wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘Er, very nice,’ Cody says.

  ‘Tom Baker,’ she informs him.

  ‘The fashion designer?’

  ‘No, silly. He played Doctor Who. Always wore a hat and a scarf like these.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, go into the living room. Mind the Dalek.’

  She ushers them through to the living room, where the first thing Cody sees is a large red Dalek in the middle of the floor, its single ‘eye’ aimed disconcertingly in his direction. Scattered around the room are numerous scale models and other items of Doctor Who memorabilia, while on the wall are a large number of framed photographs of actors from the series.

  ‘Please,’ says Ann, ‘take a seat.’

  While Cody lowers himself onto the sofa, Webley looks warily at the decapitated head of a Cyberman on the sideboard alongside her own chair.

  ‘So,’ says Cody, ‘I take it you’re a Whover.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A . . . Whover?’

  ‘No, I think you’ll find that’s a type of vacuum cleaner. If you mean Whovian, then yes, I’m one of the most devoted fans. I go to all the conventions. Most of these photographs are signed by the actors. I even got to meet Bernard Cribbins. Did you know he’s the only actor to have played two of the Doctor’s companions?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Yes. He was so lucky. I’d do anything to travel with the Doctor.’

  It occurs to Cody to suggest his own psychologist as a suitable doctor for Ann Staples. She seems to have only one foot in reality.

  He clears his throat. ‘As you may have gathered, we’ve come here today to talk about Matthew Prior.’

  She nods. ‘It’s very upsetting. I had to leave work when I heard. Why do humans insist on doing such horrible things to each other?’

  ‘I understand you knew Matthew pretty well.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘We spoke to your boss. Mr Fulton.’

  Ann’s expression hardens. ‘I see.’

  ‘Are you annoyed that he told us that?’

  ‘Let’s just say that Lewis and I don’t always see eye to eye. He’s not a nice man.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He makes snide remarks. Says things that a boss shouldn’t. He can be really immature sometimes.’

  ‘These remarks – does he only make them about you?’

  ‘No. He does it to everyone. Except his own bosses, of course. Never has a bad word to say about them, especially when they’re on site. Personally, I can cope, but when he says things about people like Jodie . . .’

  Cody sees the sudden blazing in Ann’s eyes.

  ‘Jodie?’

  ‘Jodie Whittaker.’

  ‘I’m sorry, who?’

  ‘The first female Doctor. I mean, why can’t the Doctor be a woman? Why can’t the Doctor be black or gay or whatever? It’s called “regeneration” for a purpose. Lewis should bloody well keep his misogynistic views to himself.’ She blinks at Cody. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t swear, but, well, he really does push my buttons.’

  Cody grants her a second to calm down and hopes that she won’t keep dragging every question back to her fantasy world.

  ‘Did Lewis make comments about Matthew?’

  ‘Oh, yes. More than anyone else, probably.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Ann hesitates. ‘Lots of little things. If they happened just once, you might dismiss them, but they all added up over time. Like Matthew would be talking to me and another woman, and Lewis would walk in and say, “Hello, ladies.” Just last week, he announced that the ladies’ loos were out of action, but he looked directly at Matthew when he said it.’

  ‘In other words, he made a habit of challenging Matthew’s masculinity?’

  ‘Yes. It was always very subtle. Nothing that would stand up if a formal complaint was made. But he knew what he was doing, and I know for a fact that Matthew noticed.’

  ‘Why do you think Mr Fulton was doing that? He told us he had nothing bad to say about Matthew’s work.’

  ‘Oh, he definitely couldn’t fault Matthew’s work. It was his personality he didn’t like. He was all over him when he first arrived, inviting him to parties and stuff. Truth be told, I think he was more interested in getting his chance to talk to Matthew’s wife. Sara is very attractive, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Cody, feeling the heat of Webley’s eyes on him. ‘But then it all turned sour, right?’

  ‘Yes. I think it was partly jealousy over Sara, but also because Matthew wasn’t one of the lads, you know? He didn’t like football or boxing or heavy drinking, didn’t talk about women in a demeaning way. He was more of a quiet, sensitive type.’ She pauses. ‘I don’t like to talk about my boss in this way, but to be honest I think he was bullying Matthew because he knew Matthew wouldn’t stand up to him.’

  ‘Was Matthew upset about it?’

  ‘He didn’t actually say he was, but I could tell it bothered him.’

  ‘Did he ever give you his opinion of Fulton?’

  Ann shakes her head. ‘Matthew wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t speak ill of people, even if he didn’t like them.’

  ‘What’s your view? Do you think he might have hated Fulton? Enough to make trouble for him?’

  ‘I don’t think Matthew was capable of hating. He didn’t do strong emotion, and he found it difficult to act on whatever feelings he had.’

  Webley says, ‘How did you get to know Matthew?’

  Ann turns to face her. ‘We work in the same office. I liked him as soon as I met him. I could tell he was my sort of person. I once asked him to name all the people who’d played the Doctor, and he only forgot one. That’s pretty good going.’

  ‘What about others in the office? Did he get on with them?’

  ‘I think they liked him at first, but gradually they started to ignore him. I didn’t. I made sure he always had someone to talk to.’

  ‘Did he open up to you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘About his personal life?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What about recently? Did he talk about anyone that might want to hurt him?’

  ‘No. Not that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Ann considers this. ‘Matthew had been troubled for a long time. He’d been very unhappy.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Not really. I got the feeling he did something. Something he regretted.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Matthew was never comfortable in his own skin. I think he wanted to make a change, to turn from a caterpillar into a butterfly, if that makes any sense. I think he believed he’d never be good enough for Sara.’

  ‘He said this?’

  ‘Yes. Several times. He would say how strong Sara is, how fearless. He wished he could be more like her, but he knew he wasn’t capable of it.’

  ‘Did you know that he and Sara had separated?’

  Ann hangs her head. She looks deeply sorrowful. ‘Yes. Such a shame. Whatever it was that Matthew did, it destroyed him, and that destroyed his marriage.’

  ‘Did he talk to you about Sara? About what she meant to him?’

  ‘Yes. He loved her deeply. But something got in the way.’

  Cody resumes the questioning. ‘Do you think it’s what led to his murder?’

  Ann shrugs. ‘I have no idea, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘The last time we had a proper heart to heart, he told me he’d made a decision.’

  ‘A decision?’

  ‘Yes. An important decision. He said he was going to fix things, no matter what the cost.’

  Cody exchanges glances with Webley. ‘And that’s it? He didn’t tell you what the decision was, or what it was supposed to fix?’

  Ann’s eyes glint
with tears. ‘No. But you know what I think? I think he’d decided to be brave for once, to do what was right. I believe Matthew was killed because, for the first time in his life, he decided not to back down.’

  18

  Sara sits in her car and watches the comings and goings on the other side of the street. The Tar Barrel doesn’t look the sort of place she would ever consider going for a night out, or even a single drink for that matter. It sits between a fenced-off derelict building and a graffiti-adorned house with the flag of St George hanging from one window. Tracksuits seem to be the attire of choice of its shaven-headed patrons. Congregated in front of the entrance, a small knot of young men puff on hand-rolled cigarettes and compete over how many f-words they can fit into a sentence.

  Sara wonders whatever possessed Matthew to set foot beyond the peeling door of this place. Okay, it’s only a ten-minute stroll from his office building, but Matthew didn’t like pubs at the best of times. He couldn’t relax in the midst of alcohol-fuelled displays of aggression and brashness and lack of inhibition. He preferred people to remain in full control of their faculties at all times. From what Sara can see of those who frequent The Tar Barrel, Matthew might as well have painted ‘Victim’ across his forehead when he decided to walk in there. They would have been on him like piranhas.

  She waits for the men to finish their roll-ups and head back inside. She gives them a couple of minutes, then gets out of her car and locks it up. She hopes it will be here when she gets back.

  She crosses the street. She has dressed down for the occasion – jogging bottoms and a hoody – but she suspects it’s not enough to blend in. She’s not turning back now, though.

  Before she reaches the door, her nostrils are assailed by the pungent odour of weed, left behind by the lads who were just here. Further unsavoury smells greet her as she enters and moves past the gents’ toilet: a mixture of stale beer and bleach, with undertones of urine and vomit.

  Nice, she thinks.

  A head turns. Then another. Someone nudges someone else, who nudges someone else, and attentions fall like dominoes. In all corners of the room, eyes follow her as she makes her way towards the bar. She has to squeeze past a gang of girls who make no attempt to get out of her way. Their orange faces, with their plumped-up lips and heavy eyebrows, carry more hostility than those of the lascivious males. Their examination of this stranger in their midst is more probing, more distrustful.