Truth or Dare

by Tania Carver

  John Wright stepped into the room. The champagne was waiting, on ice, just as he had ordered.

  ‘I’m just going to freshen up,’ Denise said and disappeared into the bathroom.

  He smiled again, anticipating the sensual, erotic sight that would emerge from the closed door. He opened the champagne, poured two glasses. Not waiting for Denise, he raised his to his lips, downing a little blue pill with it.

  He sat on the bed, waiting for it to take effect, and began to remove his clothes. He always started with his socks. He hated the way so many people, especially Englishmen, kept their socks on during sex. Women he had been with on the continent and elsewhere had assured him of that. He now made damn sure it wasn’t an accusation that could be levelled at him.

  He neatly disrobed, hanging his suit up in the wardrobe. He crossed to the bed, ready to get in, caught sight of himself in the mirror. Saw not a flabby, overweight, middle-aged, balding jowly man. No. He saw a vital, energetic lover. A powerful man. An important man. He smiled. Got into bed.

  And there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake…’

  He got up once more, pulled on the white towelling robe that was two sizes too small. They were always two sizes too small.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, letting the irritability show. ‘We weren’t to be disturbed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wright,’ said a quavering, muffled voice from behind the door, ‘and I realise that. But it’s urgent. Your wife…’

  He didn’t need to hear any more. He flung open the door.

  And stopped dead.

  A figure was standing there, dressed from head to foot in black wearing a close-fitting, skull-like gas mask. He was carrying something in his hands.

  John Wright was too surprised to call out, to move.

  The figure stepped into the room. Sprayed him in the face.

  Locked the door behind him.

  17

  ‘I

  ’m not sayin’ word one. Not word one. Till my brief gets here.’

  Moses Heap sat behind the table in Number One Interrogation Room at Birmingham Central on Steelhouse Lane. He seemed angry enough to burst, as if his rage could spill out and illuminate the room with white heat.

  Sperring and Khan sat down opposite him, Sperring with a manila folder in front of him and a smug smile in place. Khan was aping his mentor move for move.

  ‘All in good time, Moses. We’ve sent for him. In the meantime, we just want a chat, that’s all. Clear up a few things.’

  ‘I’m not sayin’ anythin’. You can try whatever copper tricks you like. I’ve seen them all. I’m sayin’ nothin’.’

  Sperring kept his smile in place. He’d dealt with this kind before. Loads of times. Built a whole career on it. The street lawyers. Prison smart-arses. Those that thought they could outsmart a detective, thought they were cleverer than the person doing the questioning. If that was the case, why were they always in and out of prison? Why was he, the stupid, thick copper, always the one to put them away? Some people, he thought.

  ‘Whatever you say, Moses. We’ll wait, DC Khan and I, we’ll sit here patiently until your brief arrives. We don’t mind. We’ve got nothing better to do. And then when he gets here we can charge you properly.’

  Fear penetrated Moses Heap’s mask of anger. ‘Charge me? With what?’

  Sperring shrugged, folded his arms. Leaned back in his uncomfortable chair. ‘We’ll wait till your brief gets here. Then you can say word one. And two and three, and all the rest, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘What?’ said Moses. ‘What bullshit charge you got me on now, eh? You’re stitchin’ me up, an’ you know it.’

  Sperring shrugged. Khan, taking his cue, kept his features impassive.

  ‘You got nothin’ on me, ’cause I ain’t done nothin’. An’ you know it.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Moses.’ Sperring made a big show of checking his watch. ‘Taking his time, isn’t he?’

  Moses’s left leg began to vibrate. Up and down, faster and faster, like he couldn’t keep it still, like it was readying itself to separate from his body. Sperring said nothing.

  ‘So what’s this charge, then? Eh? Come on, I’ve got a right to know.’

  So easy to play, thought Sperring. All of them. All the hard men. Reel him in a little longer, though. Not quite yet. Make him beg first.

  ‘All in good time.’ Sperring leaned slowly forward. ‘But if I were you, son, I wouldn’t go making plans for Christmas. Not this year. Or for the next few, for that matter.’

  Fear was ramping up behind Moses’s eyes. He looked around the room, eyes darting to all corners, off the walls, the door. Like a captured wild animal thinking of making a desperate bid for freedom.

  ‘You can’t do this to me, man. You can’t… Whatever it is, you got no evidence, nothin’…’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Moses sat silently for a few seconds. Tried to regain his breathing, steady himself. ‘Just tell me, man. Tell me.’

  ‘Thought you wanted to wait for your brief, Moses?’ Sperring smiling once more as he spoke.

  ‘Just tell me… tell me…’ His voice loud, desperate.

  ‘Well, if you insist…’ Sperring sighed, as if it was costing him a great deal of effort, and opened the manila folder. He looked down at a piece of paper, read from it. ‘It says here, Moses, that nearly two years ago you were arrested for threatening behaviour.’

  Moses Heap frowned.

  ‘Maybe you don’t remember that particular incident,’ said Sperring, ‘maybe it was one of many back then. This one involved you confronting a rival gang member and threatening him with a crossbow.’ He looked up, straight at him. ‘That right?’

  Moses Heap looked more confused than angry. ‘That was years ago. When the gangs had beef. Nothin’ more happened.’

  ‘You got let off with a caution.’

  ‘Right. An’ the guy I did it with was with me today, chillin’ at the studio.’ He shrugged. Gave a stuttering laugh. ‘So what? That all you got on me? You dragged me in for that?’

  Sperring gave a patient smile. ‘Not quite. Like I said to you earlier, I believe you’re a friend of Letisha Watson.’

  His manner changed, became suspicious. ‘Used to know her. Not any more.’

  ‘You used to be her pimp.’ A statement, not a question.

  ‘You can’t make accusations like —’

  ‘Don’t fuck me about, Moses. You used to be her pimp. You know it, I know it.’

  Moses shrugged, said nothing.

  ‘Cast your mind back to earlier today when I paid you a visit. Remember what I said? Letisha’s ex-boyfriend, the one she had after she left your stable, when you got out of the game.’ He made the sign of inverted commas with his fingers. ‘He’s in hospital now. His new girlfriend – the one he left Letisha for – is dead.’

  ‘You told me that.’

  ‘And their daughter.’

  ‘You told me that, too.’

  ‘Indeed I did, Moses.’

  ‘An’ I told you then and I’m tellin’ you now. I had nothin’ to do with it. An’ I was never her pimp.’

  Sperring sat back. Looked at Moses intently.

  ‘You still got your crossbow, Moses?’

  He looked between the two detectives, wondered what answer to give. Which would work best for him.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’ Khan’s first contribution to the conversation.

  Moses still didn’t know which way to jump.

  ‘I mean, we could find out,’ said Sperring. ‘Get a warrant, search your place, your crib, as your sort call it, and see what we find.’ He leaned forward once more. ‘But it’s so much easier to ask a straight question and get an honest answer. Do you still have your crossbow?’

  Moses sat back in the chair, hitting his back hard. Defeated. ‘Yeah, yeah, I do.’

  ‘There you go now, th
at was easy, wasn’t it? And have you used it recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes. What’s this got to do with Letisha Watson?’

  Sperring smiled once more. Coming in for the kill. He opened his mouth to speak but the words never emerged. The door to the interrogation room was flung open. In walked Glen Looker, seemingly as angry as Moses had previously been.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Trampling all over my client’s rights once again, I see? Getting him to talk when you know it’s against the law once he’s asked for his solicitor to be present? What have you got to say for yourselves?’

  Sperring felt anger rise within him. If there was one thing he hated more than the scum he had to question it was the professionals who made a living from representing them. He stood up.

  ‘Your client’s all yours.’

  He slammed the door as he left the room, Khan barely making it out in time to avoid the blow.

  18

  J

  ohn Wright opened his eyes. His head pounded from more than just the lunch-time alcohol and rich food. He tried to move. Couldn’t. Looked around. He was still in his hotel room but he had been duct-taped to the room’s upright wooden desk chair. He scanned the rest of the room: Denise was tied to the plush velvet chair, a gag over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, fear-filled. He recognised the expensive underwear he had bought for her that she was half undressed in, one stocking on, one rolled down. Despite his own rising fear, he noticed that he still had an erection.

  Damn those little blue pills, he thought.

  ‘Back with us?’ said a muffled voice from behind the mask. ‘Good.’ The figure moved over to the window, drew the curtains. ‘Don’t want anyone looking in, do we? Not that they will. Not up here.’ He turned back to the room. ‘Now. Let’s see…’

  John Wright found his voice. ‘If it’s – if it’s money you want…’ A voice that was smaller and shakier than he had imagined.

  ‘Money?’ The masked figure laughed. ‘Always money with you people, isn’t it? Your sort. Think that money is the answer to everything. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Well…’ John Wright tried to shrug, as if the answer was obvious. ‘What else is there? Why else would you do this?’

  ‘Why else indeed? What else is there?’

  ‘Quite.’ John Wright felt hope rise within him. A small, hard glimmer of hope. He could bargain. He could deal. He had a chance of getting out of this now. ‘What else?’

  The masked figure leaned in close. ‘Justice, Mr Wright. Justice.’

  John Wright was confused now. ‘Justice? For what?’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  Then John Wright understood. ‘Oh, I see. Right. I see what you are. What you’re doing. You’re one of those Anonymous people, aren’t you? I get it now. I’m the big bad banker and you’re the… what? Masked hero? Is that what you think?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wright. That’s exactly what I think.’

  The figure turned away from John Wright and began to take out implements from his rucksack. He placed these implements on the desk. Denise’s eyes widened when she saw what they were. She tried to scream. The gag stopped her.

  John Wright, noticing her reaction and feeling that earlier fear return, tried to crane his neck, see what she was looking at. The figure blocked his view. That just made things worse.

  The masked figure finished arranging things, turned back to John Wright. ‘Mr Wright, you know what you’ve done, don’t you?’

  ‘I should imagine I’ve done all manner of evil things to someone like you.’

  ‘Yes you have. Let’s not deny it. You work for a bank that has not only laundered drug money but also engineered the crash of several years ago. And you did this… why? To make money, of course. For yourself.’

  ‘So?’ John Wright felt himself becoming defensive. ‘Is it a crime to make money?’

  ‘You work for a bank that short sold mortgage-backed securities during the mortgage crisis. You knew what was happening and decided to bet on the collapse of sub-prime mortgages as well as shorting mortgage-related securities. You made your company four billion in the process.’

  ‘So what? It’s my job.’

  ‘And you were handsomely rewarded. While the rest of the world, the rest of the people in this country, were forced into a life of hardship that even their grandparents hadn’t had to endure. All because you wanted to make some money for yourself and your friends.’

  John Wright had had enough. His earlier fear was giving way to anger now. ‘It’s the way the world works. And the sooner you and your naïve, idealist friends accept it the better. Now let me go and we’ll say no more about it. Keep me here and I will make you very sorry for this. Very sorry.’

  The masked figure walked round the room. ‘Were any bankers punished for their actions? Did anyone go to jail? I mean, what you all did was criminal. But did you have to stand up in a court of law and answer for your crimes?’

  ‘Of course not. As I said, that’s the way the world works. Now don’t be so bloody naïve and let me go.’

  ‘The way the world works. Naïve. Right.’ He took out of his bag a laptop, opened it. Showed John Wright the screen. ‘Recognise this?’

  John Wright stared. ‘How did you —’

  ‘Do you recognise this?’

  He kept staring at the screen. ‘It’s… it’s my account.’

  ‘One of them. One of your off-shore accounts.’ He flicked between screens. ‘I’ve got several more here, too. More accounts. All full of your money. All of them.’ He put the laptop down on the desk, turned back to John Wright. ‘You’re very rich, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am…’ He sounded like he was in shock.

  ‘Very rich. And you became very rich by making other people very poor. Didn’t you?’

  John Wright didn’t answer.

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘If you… if you say so.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What… what d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, as I said, no one stood trial for what they had done. You didn’t stand trial. And you should have done. Your actions were criminal. And you never ever answered for them.’ He leaned in close. ‘Until now.’

  He turned away from John Wright, picked up something heavy from the desktop. Examined it, hefted it in his hand, turned back to Wright.

  ‘See this?’

  He brandished what he was holding in John Wright’s face. Wright flinched.

  ‘This is… well, you can see what it is. A pair of bolt cutters. I was going to go for secateurs at first. But they would have been too messy. Not to mention too much like hard work. Something you’re not used to, eh, John?’

  Wright recoiled from the cutters. ‘What… what are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, as I said, you haven’t answered for your crimes. And you should have. I think we’re all agreed on that. So now, this is your chance. All you have to do is tell me what you value most. And I let you go.’

  Wright waited. Not sure he had heard correctly. ‘You…let me go?’

  ‘Of course. This is justice, not vengeance. You have a choice. A genuine choice. I give you that choice, you pick one thing or the other. Depending on your answer, on what you pick, you get to go. Free. Now.’

  ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch.’

  The masked figure moved a drinks table in front of Wright, put the laptop on it so that Wright could see the screen. Next to the laptop he laid the bolt cutters.

  ‘So here’s the question.’ The masked figure looked between Wright, Denise and the laptop. ‘What do you value most?’

  ‘What?’ His voice was wary, sensing a trick.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ said the masked figure, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘What do you value most?’

  ‘In… this room? The world? What? What d’you mean?’

  ‘In the world. I think we can rule out t
his woman here. I’m sure she’s fine for a few hours of fun, if you can last that long, but she’s just a distraction. So it’s down to two things. You and your money.’

  John Wright said nothing. The masked figure continued.

  ‘You see, you were caught with your fingers in the till. Taking out other people’s money and stuffing it into your own pockets. Or rather, your own accounts. And you got away with it. So I ask you again. What’s more important? Your money or…’ He picked up the bolt cutters. ‘Your fingers?’

  John Wright stared at the cutters. ‘This is a joke. This is not real.’

  ‘It’s no joke.’

  ‘It’s… it’s some kind of prank. You’re a… a student. From some pressure group. You’re filming this for YouTube or something.’

  ‘That’s a no. To either of those things. This is, as I said, for real. This is happening to you right now. So. What will it be? Fingers or money?’

  Wright said nothing.

  ‘This is boring, John. You need some incentive.’ The masked figure leaned forward. Hit some keys. ‘Watch the screen. See there?’ It was filled with rows and rows of numbers. ‘That’s your accounts. For every second that you take to decide, money is going out of your account. I’ve set up some random charities to be the beneficiaries. It’ll be gone and it won’t be coming back. And when it’s gone, it’s all gone. So come on, John, what’ll it be?’

  John Wright watched the screen, his eyes wide with horror. He saw everything he had worked for disappear in front of him. He thought hard, mind whirring. He could let the money go. Yes. Do that. He could always make some more. Yes. That’s what he would do.

  ‘Oh,’ said the masked figure, as if reading his mind, ‘I should say something else. I’ve set this program not only to empty your accounts but to cancel your credit cards too. And lose your personal credit rating. And lots of other lovely things. In short, I’ve set this up to personally ruin you. Once it’s completed its run, there’ll be nothing of you left. And it’ll make you out to be too much of a financial liability to employ. Anywhere. So what’ll it be?’