Prosper Snow Series

by Shaun Jeffrey

  “You’re not making any sense. It looked the same as his work to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it looked like. It wasn’t his. He makes his work shine. It’s personal to him.”

  “What do you mean?” A sick feeling hunkered in Prosper’s stomach.

  “True artists put a little bit of themselves into everything they create. When you look at a true artists work, it sparkles; glimmers. The subtle use of colour, the hint of dew on a flower, the ambient tones of flesh. It’s the little things. The details no one notices. They all combine to make a picture into a work of art, a work of genius.

  “Anyone can press a piano key, but only a true virtuoso can make music that will make you weep. Anyone can put paint on a canvas, but only a true master can bring the painting to life. Anyone can kill, but only a genius can make murder an art. You feel humbled by what you see. They make their subjects shine.”

  Prosper didn’t like what he heard. Wolfe’s speech verged on adulation, made it sound as though he worshipped the son of a bitch. He narrowed his eyes and glared at his old friend, his thoughts running riot. How much did he really know about Wolfe?

  “But I still don’t see how he found us,” Wolfe said, frowning. “No one knew about it, but us.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and the only thing I can think of—” without mentioning that he previously thought one of them was the Oracle “is that one of us has been spouting his mouth off.”

  “Ty,” Wolfe said without hesitation. “The idiot. He’s going to get us all killed.”

  “Not if I can help it.” He ignored Wolfe’s scowl and lit a cigarette. “I’ve got an idea to flush the killer out.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Ty Westwood looked at the strands of hair snagged between the teeth of the comb and groaned. At this rate, he’d be bald by forty. Not for the first time, he considered shaving all of his hair off to beat the baldness to the post, but he couldn’t do it. Surely someone would come up with a miracle cure before it was too late.

  He slipped the comb into his back pocket, scratched the patch of stubble on his chin, took a final look in the hallway mirror, and then walked towards the front door. He opened the door and cautiously stared out. Act normal, Prosper had said in the e-mail. How could he act bloody normal knowing the Oracle had killed Jerel!

  Swallowing to moisten his throat, he exited the house and locked the door.

  The sun beamed down, glinting in the windows across the street like supernovas in the dark vacuum of space.

  Ty sighed. The heat outside would be nothing compared to that inside the bakery. The ovens alone emitted enough heat to warm Hades. The job sucked at the best of times, but in the summer, it was murder. Unlike the other members of the Kult, fortune hadn’t smiled on Ty.

  As he walked along the road, the sun reflecting off something caught his eye and he noticed a Mercedes slow down as it drove by. With the sun shining on the windows, he couldn’t see who was driving, but he had a feeling they slowed down specifically to look at him, so he ducked his head and increased his pace.

  Even before they killed Hatchet Man, he’d sensed someone following him. Since then, though, the feeling only grew worse. Everywhere he went, he thought he saw people looking at him, and he imagined they all knew the part he played in taking a man’s life; thought they were all undercover policemen, tracking him: Ty Westwood, Britain’s Most Wanted.

  Before they committed the murder, Ty convinced himself they were doing the right thing. They were going to rid the world of one of the bad men, so what did it matter? People did it all the time on the television, and they were regarded as heroes. But the reality wasn’t what he expected. He’d helped kill someone, and nothing could ever change that.

  The television didn’t tell you how you would feel after. It didn’t show the nightmares; didn’t talk about the trauma, the sickness, and the giddy, scared sensation. No, television lied big time. Cowboys and Indians didn’t suffer a fit of the collywobbles after they shot someone; they whooped and hollered. Russell Crowe killed in the Gladiator’s arena with impunity. The Magnificent Seven were never less than magnanimous, and Mad Max ruled the wastelands without worrying about the blood on his hands. And none of them threw up when they killed.

  They remained celluloid heroes. The reality was a lot different. A lot worse.

  At the end of the road, Ty thought he saw the Mercedes again, pulling away from the kerb, but a lorry trundled past, obscuring his view, and when it had gone, so had the car.

  He trembled as he walked, fighting hard to stop shaking. Act normal, he said to himself. But how could he act fucking normal after having read Prosper’s e-mail? Someone might be following him. And not just any old someone. A killer.

  Was the Oracle driving the Mercedes? Or was he the man standing on the corner pretending to read the obituary column in the newspaper? Or was he the man sitting out in his front garden pretending to sunbathe, his watchful eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Perhaps the window cleaner whistling what sounded like the Funeral March. Or the milkman who doesn’t deliver pints, but takes them instead: blood. The postal worker delivering that final reminder. It could be any of them, or none of them. Ty felt they were all suspects, all killers, and all after him.

  He wasn’t proud of what they’d done, and he wouldn’t speak about it to anyone. He didn’t fancy being sent to prison, and he was sure this would be another instance where television had lied, because he expected it to be worse than anything he’d seen. A lot worse.

  He could already smell the aroma of baking bread from the bakery at the end of the road. When he first moved into the area, he’d thought it a warm, delicious fragrance, but after a few weeks the smell became sickly sweet and he knew it would be a hundred times worse when he entered the factory.

  He stood at the entrance, scanning the area. What about just turning around and making a run for it, he thought. But run where? There isn’t anywhere to go.

  With no other option, Ty entered the factory, clocked in and went to get changed. He was already sweating and it wasn’t because of the warm factory air.

  At the end of his shift, Ty thought he must have sweated off a few pounds at least. He could never understand why people paid to visit saunas for the privilege of sweating their bollocks off, because if they wanted, they could do his job for him and save themselves a fortune.

  It had just hit five-thirty when he reached the gate of his terraced house, the small front garden of which was a tangle of weeds.

  He was glad that he’d remembered to draw the curtains before he left for work, otherwise the house would feel like an oven. As he reached the front door, he inserted his key, unlocked it, and pushed it open.

  “Hey, hold on.”

  Ty spun around, eyes wide. His expression softened when he saw his next-door neighbour, Harold Jenkins, an old man with a shock of white hair and a ruddy, veined face. Harold must be at least eighty, and yet he still had a full head of hair that Ty envied. Life wasn’t fair.

  “Glad it’s you,” Harold said.

  “Of course it’s me,” Ty replied. “Who else would it be?”

  “Well, there was a bloke hanging around earlier.”

  Ty’s smile disappeared. His heart thudded and he licked his lips, eyes flicking around in their sockets as he surveyed the street. “Bloke! What bloke?”

  “I don’t know. Just some bloke. He knocked on my door trying to sell double glazing.” Harold wore a bemused expression. “He were either stupid or pretending, ‘cause any fool can see that I’ve already got double glazing. Couldn’t afford not to, not nowadays, not with the price of—”

  Ty glanced up and down the road. “What did this man look like?”

  “I didn’t take much notice, but he asked me when you’d be back, and if you’d be interested in double glazing. Bloody idiot if you ask me, ‘cause you’ve already got it too.” He tapped his fingers against the nearest window to emphasise the point.

  “What did you tell him?
” His stomach felt as if a troop of monkeys were swinging around inside it.

  “I told him you’d be back about five, and he said he might call back then, but I haven’t seen him.”

  Ty ran a hand through his hair, his palm coming away bathed in sweat “And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”

  “No, never. Why, is something wrong?”

  Ty licked his lips, tasting salty sweat. “No, nothing. Some people, hey. Double glazing.” He feigned amazement.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Harold said, wandering away.

  Ty nodded and turned back to his house.

  Did the living room curtain just move?

  Not wanting to take any chances, he started to close the door, intending to get as far away as possible, when a hand reached out and grabbed his wrist, dragging him all the way into the house.

  CHAPTER 34

  Ty winced; he tried to scream but a hand covered his mouth and he almost gagged. The door banged shut behind him like a coffin lid. Fingers dug into his wrist, sharp nails almost piercing his flesh. Fear penetrated him like a knife and his blood ran cold. He almost wet himself. He was going to be killed, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  His heart stopped, his legs went weak. He shook uncontrollably.

  “Please ... please don’t kill me,” he said, the words coming out mumbled due to the hand clamped across his mouth.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  That voice ... As his eyes adapted to the darkness of the hall the hand disappeared from his mouth and he gaped in surprise.

  “Paris, what the ... How?”

  “Where’ve you been?” Paris demanded.

  Ty exhaled loudly. “At work. What is this? What the hell are you doing here? How the bloody hell did you get in? You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Jesus, Ty, haven’t you seen the newspapers?”

  Ty shook his head. “Sod the bloody newspapers. Did you get Prosper’s e-mail? Jerel’s dead. I can’t believe it.”

  “Of course I bloody got it. I can’t believe it either, but you’ve got to see this.” Hands shaking, Paris unfolded the scrunched up newspaper he was holding, and Ty’s mouth fell open as he read the headline:

  ORACLE COPYCAT KILLING.

  It has been reported that the body of Mack Taylor, previously thought to have been a victim of the infamous serial killer, the Oracle, was a copycat killing. Police sources say that the photograph initially fooled them, but after further examination by a photographic expert, it was found that the photographic quality of Mack Taylor’s picture was superior to the Oracle’s work, and that they have had to rule out his involvement with this case.

  Police sources are also keen to point out that the public should not worry about the appearance of a second killer, as they have already apprehended a suspect ...

  “Jesus Christ,” Ty wailed, his eyes going wide as he read the article again.

  “I know. I didn’t believe it myself, but it’s there in black and white. They’ve caught one of us. They know, Ty, they know what we did.”

  Ty screwed his hands together and started pacing the room. “Who? Who’ve they caught?”

  “That’s it, I don’t know. I was too scared to call anyone in case the phones were tapped, so I went round to see if I could find Prosper or Wolfe, but I couldn’t. And then when you weren’t here ... Jesus, I thought you’d all been arrested.” He wiped his brow. “I’ve been waiting hours. I was about to make a run for it.”

  Ty stopped walking and looked at his friend. “Well, how did you bloody get in?”

  “You left a window open around the back. Look at this,” Paris turned side on, “I ripped my trousers climbing through. I didn’t want to hang around outside, did I? That nosy neighbour of yours was already suspicious. There might have been police watching the house, so I pretended to be a double-glazing salesman.”

  “Well that’s made him even more suspicious. Couldn’t you see that he already had double glazing?”

  “I wasn’t taking that much notice. I was more concerned with finding out where you were.”

  “When you dragged me in the house ... Jesus, Paris, I thought you were going to kill me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I needed to get you inside.”

  “Come on, let’s get away from the door.” Ty led the way through the house, shivering. Someone didn’t just walk over his grave; they threw a goddamn party on it.

  “How the fuck has this happened?” Ty asked, collapsing onto the couch in the lounge.

  Paris stood in the doorway, his blond hair neatly clipped, much like his manicured nails. No matter what he wore, he always looked the consummate banker, and today, dressed in a blue shirt and grey trousers, was no exception. He radiated money. Whether it was his or not was beside the point. His pale blue eyes looked dreamy, slightly sad, and his permanent tan looked somewhat faded by recent events.

  “I was hoping you could tell me that,” Paris eventually said.

  “Me? You seem to know more about it than me. Why should I know anything?”

  Noticing the state of his living room Ty blushed in embarrassment. Paris would no doubt be used to better than this. A lot better. He probably lived in a house designed by architects and decorated by professional designers who charged more for a consultation than Ty earned in a month. Items from Ikea and B & Q decorated Ty’s house, with a splash of Focus and a liberal helping of second hand bargains from the thrift shops.

  Ty sat on a faded blue three-seater couch with lumpy cushions. The frame of the couch had already collapsed once, and he’d tied it together with sturdy rope. He only hoped Paris didn’t wish to join him. The rope was strong, but it seldom had to bear the weight of two people.

  Paris leaned against the wall. A moment later, he stood up straight and ran his hands down the back of his clothes. Then he looked at his hands as if expecting to see dirt on them.

  “Someone must have blabbed. Why else would any of this be happening?” Paris asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Oh, so you instantly think it’s me.” Ty bit his lip. He couldn’t believe Paris would think so little of him.

  “Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  “Who’s to say it was any of us? The newspaper says that they found out the photograph was a fake, doesn’t that tell you anything?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. My head’s spinning. Have you got anything to drink?”

  “Tea, coffee?”

  Paris scowled. “Haven’t you got anything stronger?”

  Ty stood up, walked across to a cabinet in the corner of the room, and pulled down the hinged front. He took out the expensive bottle of whisky he’d been saving for a special occasion. He didn’t know what that occasion was, but he always felt he would know it when it came – and it had come. But it wasn’t the special occasion he’d been expecting. He never in his wildest dreams expected to be drinking it at what felt like his own wake.

  He poured two good measures into the tumblers and passed Paris his drink. “To Jerel,” he said and took a good swallow of the amber fluid. The initial sip burned his throat and warmed his stomach; by the third, he was immune to its effects.

  Ty sat back on the couch and nursed the tumbler in his hands, staring into the fluid as if it might offer up an answer to their predicament. When no answer became apparent, he downed the drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Paris stood in the middle of the room, swirling the contents of the glass and continually holding it up to inspect the golden liquid in the narrow beam of light that shone through the drawn curtain.

  “We should phone Prosper or Wolfe,” Ty said.

  “I told you, their phones might have been bugged.” Paris sipped at his drink.

  “Do you think the police would go that far?”

  “What if it’s not just the police? What if the Oracle’s listening?”

  Ty sniggered. “Now you’re being daft.”

  Paris
glared at him. “Daft. Jerel’s dead, killed by the man we tried to frame and God knows who’s been arrested, and you’re calling me daft. Jesus, Ty, wake up and smell the coffee.” He downed his drink and ran a hand through his hair. “We’ve got to get away from here. My car’s parked at the end of the road, come on.”

  “And go where?”

  “Do you want to sit around and wait for the police ... or the Oracle to call? Anywhere’s better than here.”

  Hoping Paris wasn’t referring to the decor of the house, Ty felt inclined to agree that they should be doing something, and if they were moving, they would be harder to find.

  After checking the coast was clear, Ty followed Paris to the car, his eyes nervously scanning the road and the houses. He felt certain every curtain along the road twitched as they walked.

  Ty settled himself in Paris’ Range Rover; the blacked out windows made him feel a little safer, like hiding in plain sight.

  “So where are we going?” Ty asked, fastening his seat belt.

  “I think we should take a run out to Wolfe’s house as he’s closer, to see if he’s back yet.”

  Paris started driving, and Ty stared out the window at his side, the hairs bristling on the back of his neck. Although he couldn’t see anyone, the feeling of being watched persisted and despite the blacked out windows, he slumped down in his seat, hoping and praying for an end to the nightmare.

  CHAPTER 35

  The Oracle peered through the leaves of the tree and watched Ty and Paris as they exited the house, their movements furtive. Seeing them made his blood boil and the anger coalesce. He tightened his grip on the branch, snapping it within his grasp. A bird took flight.

  The Oracle took a calming breath, inhaling deeply. He exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, bringing down a subconscious shutter on his thoughts so that he could concentrate on the task at hand without letting his emotions get in the way.