Your Deepest Fear

by David Jackson

  ‘I’m not interested in the details of the case, Cody. I’m interested in you, and how you deal with things. I want to know how your mind functions. So tell me: what did you think when you saw the victim in this case? How did you feel?’

  Cody goes quiet.

  ‘Cody? I need an answer if you want your next little present from me. And don’t bother lying, because I’ll know about it, and then the game will be over.’

  Cody believes this. If Waldo keeps following him around, then he may have tailed him to Matthew Prior’s house and will have seen Blunt preventing him from entering.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I didn’t view the body.’

  ‘You didn’t? Why was that?’

  ‘Because my boss instructed me not to.’

  ‘Really? How very interesting. Why, Cody? Why weren’t you allowed to go near the body?’

  ‘Work it out, Waldo. If you’re such a criminal mastermind, you work it out.’

  A deathly chuckle. ‘I think I already have. It’s connected with your visit to the psychologist, isn’t it? Your superiors are concerned about your mental state, your sanity. Is that it? Is that what they’re so worried about?’

  ‘As I already told you, it’s standard procedure. After what I went through on my last case, they’re being cautious.’

  ‘No, no. I don’t think they are. I think they’re seriously worried. I think you’ve been displaying signs of mental instability. You’re falling apart. Your mind is disintegrating. You can’t take much more, can you, Cody?’

  Cody looks up the street again. Sees Webley gesturing to him through the windscreen.

  He turns his back on her.

  ‘Here’s all you need to know about me,’ he says into the phone. ‘You did me some serious damage, okay? I’ll admit it. But you know what’s helping me to keep my shit together? You, Waldo. You. Because while you’re out there, I will be looking for you. And I won’t rest until I find you. Play all the games you want, because life won’t be as much fun when I get hold of you.’

  A full-blown laugh now. ‘I love it! Even through the tears, you display strength. You have the true clown spirit. You make a worthy opponent.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring. Now, are we done here? Because, you know, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Please, don’t let me stop you. We’ll speak again soon.’

  ‘Wait. Is that it? What the hell happened to quid pro quo?’

  ‘All good things come to he who waits, Cody. Be seeing you.’

  ‘Wait—’

  But he’s talking to thin air.

  He puts his phone away and looks back towards Webley. She raises her hands in a gesture of impatience.

  He walks back to the car. Opens the door and gets behind the wheel.

  Webley says, ‘What was that, your stockbroker?’

  ‘Sorry. Urgent call.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  She stares at him. ‘You need help?’

  ‘Nope. It’s fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Why all the questions?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if there’s something you need to get off your chest.’

  ‘No. Really.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. And then: ‘I have something for you.’

  And now it’s his turn to stare. What is she saying?

  Webley reaches to the pocket in the passenger door. Takes something out. Holds it up in front of him.

  His mind races to find meaning. To impose some understanding on the impact of Megan’s involvement in this.

  She’s holding a Jiffy envelope. Exactly like the previous one he received. The same typed message across its front: ‘To Nathan Cody.’

  Quid pro quo.

  31

  He sits frozen, dumbfounded. Why is Megan handing him an envelope? Surely she can’t have a connection to Waldo.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asks, doing his best to sound casually intrigued.

  ‘You tell me,’ Webley says. ‘It was under the windscreen wiper.’

  He takes it from her. Slips it into his pocket.

  ‘You’re not going to open it?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ll do it later.’

  He puts his key in the ignition and fires up the engine, hoping he won’t get a follow-up question.

  ‘Why later?’ Webley follows up. ‘Why not now?’

  ‘It can wait. It’s not important.’

  ‘So you know what it is, then?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He depresses the clutch, puts the car in gear.

  ‘Hold on, Cody. Turn the engine off, will you?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Just turn the frigging engine off and talk to me for a minute, okay?’

  He does as he’s told. Wonders how he’s going to worm his way out of this.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Seriously? You have to ask? Somebody leaves an envelope with your name on it under the wipers and you’re surprised that I want to discuss it?’

  ‘I told you. It’s nothing.’

  ‘If it’s nothing, show me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Show me what’s in the envelope.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m not opening the envelope, Megan.’

  She goes silent for a few seconds. He’s hurting her with his secrecy, but he can’t do anything else. He could open the envelope, sure, but what if its content is not just another key? And even if it is a key, what if it has a tag again, and this time the tag holds a lot more information than the previous one?

  He can’t risk it.

  ‘Why not?’ she presses. ‘Why won’t you open it? Is it something incriminating?’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘I don’t think anything, Cody. You’re not giving me anything on which to base any sensible thoughts. But you can’t blame me for asking the question.’

  ‘Actually, I think I can. Why is that the first thing that jumps to your mind?’

  Her eyes flare, hurt turning to anger. ‘All right, put yourself in my shoes. Let’s turn this thing around. Suppose we come back to the car. There’s an envelope waiting for me, with my name on it. I put it straight in my pocket, refusing to tell you what’s in it. Now, are you saying you wouldn’t find that just a little on the suspicious side? Because if you are, you’re a liar.’

  ‘It’s an envelope, Megan. That’s all. Nothing earth-shattering. I’ve been expecting it, so I know what’s in it.’

  ‘You do, huh? Okay, so how did they find you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Whoever delivered the frigging package! In case you’d forgotten, we’re on an assignment, in an unmarked police car. How the hell did the courier know to leave the envelope here? Are they psychic?’

  Cody turns away from her, shaking his head. He is fully aware he has no good answers, and every word he utters just adds to the depth of the murky hole he’s in.

  ‘I don’t want to get in an argument about this, Megan.’

  ‘I’m not trying to start an argument. I’m trying to get you to talk to me, because you know what? I think you’re in trouble.’

  ‘I’m not in trouble.’

  ‘No? Who was the phone call from just now? The one you didn’t want me to overhear.’

  ‘Nobody. It was nobody.’

  He risks another glance in Webley’s direction, and sees how her eyes glisten.

  She slumps back in her chair. Grabs her seatbelt and yanks it. It catches with the tension, and she has to pull it several times to latch it into position.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this bullshit,’ she says. ‘You want to run away, then go ahead. Just fucking drive.’

  *

  The awkwardness hangs in the air between them as Cody drives back to the station. As he parks up, Webley is out of the car before he has even put on the handbrake. She storms off, not waiting for him to catch up.


  Cody turns off the engine. Takes a deep breath. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out the envelope.

  He studies it for a full minute before tearing it open and emptying the contents out onto his palm.

  Another key. It’s bigger than the previous one. A Yale, for a front door or similar.

  Like the other one, this also carries a label attached to it via white twine. The label says, ‘The key to life.’

  Cody reaches into his jacket pocket for the first key, and places it next to the newest addition to his collection.

  The key to freedom and the key to life. Very profound.

  But what do they open?

  32

  The pool hall stands on an industrial estate, next to a tyre fitters’ on one side and a computer repair place on the other. Its gaudy orange sign reads, ‘American Pool. Licenced Bar. Delicious food.’

  Sara pushes open the door and walks in. She is greeted by the aroma of beefburgers and the click-clack of the games in progress. She stands there for a few seconds, eyeing up the interior. Most of the tables are empty, but a few are attended by sun-starved young men swigging from beer bottles and lining up their shots. At the bar, a man who is too old to be wearing his baseball cap backwards puts down his towering monstrosity of a burger and wipes his mouth with a napkin, spreading tomato relish across his cheek.

  From out of the shadows, a short, pot-bellied man with flabby jowls and sad eyes waddles across to her. He wears a skin-tight polo rugby shirt over a physique that suggests he doesn’t play rugby.

  ‘All right, love. What can I do you for?’

  Sara has heard the deliberate grammatical mistake many times. She no longer finds it amusing.

  ‘You work here?’

  ‘That’s what they tell me. Not exactly rushed off my feet at the moment, though.’ He eyes her up and down. ‘You’re not here for a game, are you?’

  Sara wonders whether there is something about pool players that he can spot at a glance. Perhaps it’s her physique – just not built for knocking balls into holes with a stick.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ she says.

  ‘Someone in particular, or will I do?’ He emits a high-pitched laugh as he says this, but again she doesn’t see the funny side.

  ‘Not unless your name is Metro.’

  The smile is instantly crushed from his lips, and she knows she has uttered the magic word. She said it loud enough for everyone to hear, and she notices the wave it generates across the room. Postures stiffen, faces become grave, eyes bore into her.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ says the man.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You have.’

  The man swallows, then looks around him. It is very quiet here now. Not a shot is being played.

  ‘Now look, love. I don’t know what you’ve been told, or where you got your information, but there’s nobody of that name here.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says. ‘My mistake. In that case, I think I’d like to play a game with your balls.’

  ‘My . . .’ He swallows again. ‘My what?’

  She points to the table closest to the bar. ‘Your cute little ball game. Show me how it’s played.’

  ‘You, er, you have to hire the table.’ He points to a sign by the door. ‘There’s an hourly rate. You need to—’

  ‘Will this cover it?’ she asks, pulling a ten-pound note from her pocket.

  The man checks in with his observers again, who remain impassive, and then he gingerly plucks the money from Sara’s outstretched fingers.

  ‘It’ll do for a start,’ he says. He moves to the table and takes two cues from the rack. Hands one of them to Sara. She takes hold of it and studies it like it’s an alien object. She decides not to tell the man that she spent a good deal of her leisure time in the army playing pool.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  ‘You’re welcome. Now watch how I do this.’ He takes one of the balls from the triangle, lines it up with the cue ball and the centre pocket, then bends into position. ‘See how I’m bridging my hand like this?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘Now what you want to do is gently tap the cue ball so that it hits the other one and knocks it into the pocket.’

  He takes the shot and pots it nicely. Around the room, others relax back into their games.

  ‘Fancy a go now?’ the man asks.

  ‘Why not? It looks easy enough.’

  She waits while the man lines up the balls again, then she bends over the table and spends time trying to copy the man’s stance.

  ‘Does this look about right?’

  She notices how the man’s eyes instantly abandon their task of trying to see down her top.

  ‘Er, yeah. Just relax now. Keep your eye on the ball. When you’re ready, slowly pull back and gently—’

  Sara lets fire with one of the most powerful shots she has ever attempted. The cue ball springs from the table, cannons across the bar and smashes into the bottles of spirits lined up on the shelves. The bartender leaps back with a yelp as he is showered in glass and alcohol, while Sara’s instructor pulls at his hair in disbelief.

  ‘Gently!’ he yells. ‘I said gently!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Let me try again.’

  Before she can be stopped, she stoops and attempts another shot. This time her cue rips a two-foot gash in the cloth.

  Sara straightens up from the table in mock surprise, swinging her stick wildly. Its tip strikes the fluorescent light overhead, causing it to explode into a million fragments.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ cries the man.

  Sara runs to the next table. ‘This one will be better,’ she declares.

  ‘No,’ says the man. ‘No.’

  But Sara has already ripped through the cloth on this one too.

  And then she knows her fun is over. The bartender has left his post and is storming towards her, as is a more muscular guy who has just come through a door marked ‘Staff only’.

  ‘That’s it!’ says the bartender. ‘Out!’

  Sara remains where she is, still holding on to the cue. She maintains a face of pure innocence.

  The bartender’s first mistake is in grabbing her arm. She twists it from his grasp and says, ‘Don’t touch me.’

  The bartender’s second mistake is in repeating his first mistake.

  Sara whips the cue up between the man’s legs. He releases her arm and grabs his crotch, while emitting a shrill cry.

  Sara cuts off the noise by ramming the end of the cue into the man’s mouth. Staggering back, he brings a hand up to his mouth to staunch the flow of blood and broken teeth.

  ‘Fucking bitch!’ says the jock who was in the back room. He attempts to rush her from behind, but Sara stops his charge by spearing his solar plexus with the other end of the cue. She spins, taking the stick in an accelerating arc that catches the man on the side of his head and sends him reeling backwards. He hits one of the pool tables and falls onto it, sending the balls into a clacking chaos of Brownian motion.

  Sara becomes aware of the clientele closing in on her. They are cautious but loyal to the owners of this place. She brings the cue above her head, whirls it rapidly in a huge swishing circle to keep them at bay. When they have taken a few steps back, she holds her weapon across her body and squares up to them.

  ‘Anybody else like to try their luck?’ she asks.

  There is no direct answer. Just groans and whimpers from the two men she has put out of action.

  Sara turns slowly on her heel, eyeing up her audience for signals of intent. She has had enough experience to know when danger is imminent. Nobody here wants a repeat performance of what they have just witnessed.

  She points the cue tip at the man in the rugby shirt. He looks terrified.

  ‘You,’ she says. ‘Where’s Metro?’

  ‘I . . . I have no idea.’

  She takes a step towards him, and he raises his hands in surrender.

  ‘Honestly,’ he says. ‘I haven’t s
een him here in days.’

  ‘You know how to get a message to him, though, right?’

  The man opens and closes his mouth.

  ‘Right? ’

  ‘Y-yes. I can do that.’

  ‘Then do it. Tell him I want to see him. Tell him Antarctica, midnight. Okay?’

  ‘Antarctica. Midnight. O-okay.’

  Sara starts moving towards the door. The men in her way part to let her through. She pushes open the door, then slams it shut behind her.

  Only when she has left the industrial estate does she toss the cue onto a rubbish skip.

  33

  Cody hardly touches his meal. He sits at the breakfast bar, pushing the food around his plate. He can’t take his eyes off the two keys lined up in front of him.

  The key to freedom and the key to life.

  What the hell are they supposed to mean?

  He picks up the most recent key and studies it. It’s just an ordinary-looking Yale key. He has already compared it with his own keys, and it doesn’t match any of them.

  But what if . . .?

  He jumps off the stool, dashes out into the hall, down the staircase to his apartment’s front door. He unlocks it and goes out onto the landing. Puts the lights on.

  From here on down in the building, the rooms all belong to the dental practice run by Simon Teller, Cody’s orthodontist landlord. To Cody’s right, there is a passage to a small kitchen. On the left of the passageway, opposite an opening to the stairs leading downwards, are a couple of doors to surgeries. They are usually locked.

  But they have Yale keyholes.

  Cody tries his key in the first of them. His heart stops when it fits.

  A weapon, he thinks. I should have brought a weapon with me.

  But it’s too late now. He’s here, and he will have alerted whoever might be inside.

  He tries turning the key.

  It doesn’t move.

  Shit.

  He tries again and again, but without luck. The key doesn’t open this door.

  He moves on to the next door. Same result. The key will go in, but won’t turn.

  Cody heads downstairs to the ground floor. More doors to surgeries and reception rooms. He tries the key on all of them, but he can’t even insert it all the way in these locks. The only door he ignores is the one leading down to the basement, which has a completely different type of lock.