The Mayfly: The chilling thriller that will get under your skin

by James Hazel

  Her heart sank. Pictures and a fifteen-second interview. Rather unimpressive considering the risk Charlie had taken getting her in here. The thought of letting him down made her feel sick.

  She stared at the desk – willed it to bequeath her a secret. Then she noticed something odd – there were three drawers but four handles. It took her a second to register that the top handle was attached to a sliding surface which wasn’t a drawer but which opened outwards to make another surface. She pulled the handle and it slid out. Tucked in the narrow gap beneath the underside of the desktop was a thin bundle of papers. At first glance, a police report.

  A movement in the hallway. Georgie’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Time’s up, dear,’ called Sissy.

  Georgie stuffed the papers into her coat pocket. ‘Coming,’ she called.

  32

  In one respect, dinner at the Dower House had been modestly successful, in that Priest had been convinced that Kenneth Ellinder’s reactions to the revelations concerning the mayfly found at Hayley Wren’s church were genuine. In another respect, the meat had been overcooked and experiencing the domestic politics of the Ellinder family at first hand had been decidedly awkward.

  I wonder if the old man knows more than he’s letting on?

  Priest stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He had been allocated a room in a guest wing, tucked around the back of the house and comprising a small office, a dressing room, a double bedroom boasting a fine-looking four-poster bed and a bathroom. The shower had provided a welcome reprieve – for the first time in days, Priest felt he might be able to sleep properly.

  Scarlett Ellinder is a turn up for the books. She and Jessica really are chalk and cheese.

  Priest took a piss, borrowed some mouthwash he found in a cabinet above the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. There were bags under his eyes and his stubble was more beardlike now.

  He stopped when he heard the noise of a latch softly clicking behind him. The bedroom was on the ground floor, with bay windows looking out on to a terrace. Had the latch belonged to the window or the door?

  The bathroom door was ajar. Priest made his way across the tiles as quietly as he could and peered through the gap between the door and the frame. He could see less than half of the room but no intruder. He tensed up and looked around for something he could use as a weapon. There was no T-baton conveniently lying on a table this time around.

  Priest pushed the door open a little further, holding his arm up in case someone was standing behind it. It turned out he was right. He had heard the latch click, but to the door, not the window.

  She stood leaning with her back against the door to the corridor draped in a black silk dressing-gown, her eyes fixed on a point behind him.

  ‘Jessica,’ he said softly.

  She didn’t say anything but crossed the room and for a moment he thought that she might walk straight through him, like a ghost straying briefly into the material world only to dissipate into nothing, but she stopped short. Their eyes met, briefly. She smelt of lavender.

  ‘I’m sorry that my mother left like that.’

  ‘It’s nothing, of course. You’re all under incalculable stress.’

  ‘She’s normally quite . . . unemotional. It’s difficult – seeing her like this.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She was examining his body, unperturbed by his near nakedness. Suddenly, she reached across and took his hand, examining the burn mark across his wrist. She held his hand in hers for a moment, occasionally changing the angle, checking every detail around the wound.

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  Priest swallowed. He could already feel his heart rate increase, his body reacting to her touch, but there was something strange about the way she asked the question, the answer to which should have been obvious. Did it hurt? His gaze followed her arm up to her own shoulders, her neck. The dressing-gown accentuated her curves. It fell low across her chest and revealed enough for him to realise that there was nothing else underneath except her exquisite skin. He felt a warm sensation creep over him as he stiffened underneath the towel.

  ‘Jessica –’ he began. He had intended to stop her, to take her hands away, but he was electrified by the touch of her fingers on his. She wrapped her hand around his wrist, creating a jolt of pain, which she must have known would happen, and drew his arm towards her so that his hand was on her bare chest.

  ‘Jessica, wait.’

  She breathed out heavily as his skin made contact with hers, and pulled him in closer, guiding him down underneath her dressing-gown. It gave way and he took her breast in his hand before their lips met, tentatively at first, then harder. They kissed hungrily and Priest felt the grip on his self-control loosen as she pushed her tongue further into his mouth, then took the back of the towel with her free hand, casting it aside. A wave of intoxication flushed through him as his blood surged south while she wrapped her leg around his hip.

  ‘This is not what I came here for,’ she gasped, biting hard into his neck and pushing him towards the bed.

  ‘You’re a fucking awful liar,’ he breathed.

  ‘No! I don’t want you.’

  Priest’s heart was racing. For a moment, he thought she might be telling the truth as she suddenly pushed him away, digging her nails into the tops of his arms and cutting into his skin. He tried to kiss her again but she ducked underneath his advance and pulled him down on to the bed on top of her.

  ‘Jessica, wait!’

  The next manoeuvre was as graceful as any expert combat move he had seen. She positioned him sideways and, using her new-found leverage, twisted his body around so she was on top. He quickly hauled himself further up the bed and she followed, straddling him and tearing the dressing-gown away. She had him pinned, her body was in complete control of him.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you want?’ he asked, panting.

  She smiled a remarkable, mesmerising smile before she took hold of his erect penis and slid it inside her, letting out a groan of pleasure and pressing herself down over him, forcing him into her as deeply as possible. She writhed on top of him, moaning softly as she pleasured herself. He concentrated on her face, which was turned up to the ceiling, eyes closed, and let his hands skim over her hips, her midriff to her breasts.

  As the rhythm of her movement quickened and the sounds of her moans intensified, he guided her head down over him so he could kiss her face. He could feel the crescendo building to the point where their symphony would erupt into orgasm.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you want?’ he whispered breathlessly.

  There was a moment where she grunted, frustrated and animal-like. A few more glorious thrusts brought Priest right to the edge before she groaned in his ear.

  ‘Yes.’

  *

  Priest awoke in the early hours of the morning. On average, he slept for less than five hours, three if he was working on a big case. He wasn’t an insomniac, he just didn’t need as much sleep to function as most people did, so he was unsurprised to find himself in a dark room that was illuminated only by a sliver of moonlight creeping through the gaps in the heavy curtains.

  Beside him, Jessica’s warm body rose and fell gently with the rhythmic breathing that deep sleep precipitates. Careful not to disturb her, he got out of bed and found his clothes using the display on his phone to light his surroundings. His jacket had been slung on the floor. He didn’t bother with his shoes. Most of the Dower House floors were carpeted anyway.

  The corridor was lit, maybe for his benefit, or perhaps it was always lit. He felt apprehensive. Priest hated intruding into other people’s private spaces. He had no idea where he was going but he couldn’t expect anyone to be up for another few hours and he was sure he had seen a small study with a television at the end of the hallway. When he got there, he stood listening at the door. The television was on. There was banging, commotion, panic. Then splintering of wood and blood-curdling screams. He re
cognised the scene. He opened the door.

  ‘There was nothing else on,’ she explained.

  ‘Night of the Living Dead,’ he remarked.

  ‘Very apt for this old, still house shrouded in darkness, isn’t it?’ Scarlett was draped over a small sofa that looked like it had been looted from a French chateau – its frayed fabric a hideous clash of gold and blue.

  She didn’t make any effort to move when he came in, clicking the door shut behind him. She was wearing short, pink pyjamas that clung tightly to her athlete’s body. Her arms were stretched back and around to support her head. She had contorted herself perfectly to fit inside the awkward shape of the old sofa.

  ‘Did you know George Romero appears as a zombie in every one of his films?’ he said. On the screen, a woman screamed as hands burst through the window and took hold of her, trying to drag her outside.

  ‘Mm. I can never work out which one he is.’

  Scarlett turned and looked at him and Priest felt obliged to sit down.

  ‘All zombie films are about class struggle,’ she mused. ‘Did you know that? What happens when the peasants revolt.’

  ‘I just like the relentless violence.’

  Scarlett laughed in a way that was very different to Jessica. Come to think of it, had he ever heard Jessica properly laugh?

  For a few moments, they watched the scene develop. There was a desperate attempt to board up the broken window but it seemed inevitable that the slow, cumbersome, badly made-up extras would eventually break through.

  ‘Do you normally spend the early hours watching B-movies?’ he asked.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she replied, yawning. ‘Think I still have jetlag.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to come home in such circumstances.’

  She made a dismissive noise. Her eyes were still locked on the black-and-white screen. ‘Don’t be. It’s the coming back that’s annoyed me, not the circumstances.’

  ‘Your brother was found impaled on a metal pole in one of your father’s warehouses,’ Priest pointed out. It wasn’t meant to be a criticism, but Priest held his breath while he waited for her reply.

  ‘Miles is not my brother,’ she said eventually. ‘He came with my mother.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry. Was your mother married previously?’ He thought about Lucia Ellinder and imagined a string of bankrupt ex-husbands.

  ‘Not married, no. But she came with baggage.’

  ‘Baggage you didn’t approve of?’

  She shrugged. ‘Miles was nothing to me. A spoilt drug addict who squandered every penny Daddy spoon-fed him. The ungrateful shit got what he deserved.’

  Priest was about to open his mouth when she turned to look at him.

  ‘And don’t think for one moment that I was stupid enough to tell the police that.’

  ‘Although you were in the States at the time of his death.’

  ‘What if I had orchestrated it from afar? Conspiracy to murder by Skype, perhaps.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. But what about your mother?’

  Scarlett looked up, as if trying to find some inspiration from the ceiling. ‘You may find this very unacceptable, Mr Priest, but neither Jessie nor I really know much about our mother. Of course we love her. She brought us up in the right way. We tolerated Miles, for her sake. But we’re not a close family.’

  ‘You can love someone without connecting with them,’ Priest suggested, thinking of William.

  Scarlett nodded.

  ‘So, what do you think happened?’

  ‘You want my opinion?’

  ‘Your father’s paying me handsomely to procure it.’

  She turned back to the television. It looked as though things weren’t going well at the zombie-infested cabin. She was much more conventionally attractive than Jessica. He wondered how many lesser mortals were wrapped around those slender fingers.

  She leant forward. ‘I think there’s something very dangerous out there, Mr Priest.’

  ‘You mean aside from George Romero dressed as a zombie?’ Priest asked.

  She ignored him, serious now. ‘I think Miles was engaged with some cult or other that’s gone horribly wrong. That in itself would hardly be unusual. There are plenty of secret societies recruiting people of my brother’s disposition – vulnerable, stupid and rich. Skull and Bones, the Golden Dawn, the Masons . . .’

  ‘None of those are well known for impaling people this side of the twenty-first century,’ Priest pointed out.

  Scarlett shrugged. ‘Bram Stoker was a member of the Golden Dawn. The main source for Dracula was –’

  ‘Vlad the Impaler.’

  ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘You know your useless junk occult stuff.’

  ‘Thank you, although I have very open-minded and resourceful staff to tell me these things. Do you really think Miles was a member of some sort of cult?’

  ‘His death was ritualised, clearly.’

  ‘Do you know of any cults or societies operating today that have the resources and capacity to pull this off?’

  ‘I can think of one.’

  He waited but she didn’t expand.

  Instead Scarlett sat up with a swift movement. ‘I want to show you something, Mr Priest.’ At the door, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. He checked the zombie situation. It looked pretty dire. He followed her down the corridor.

  At the far end of the house, Scarlett stopped. ‘What’s your favourite film, Mr Priest?’ she asked.

  Priest thought for a moment. ‘Freaks.’

  ‘What do you like about it?’

  ‘I like the strapline: Can a full-grown woman truly love a midget?’

  ‘Genius,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘We walked a long way to discuss film interests.’

  She turned to a door at the end of the hall.

  ‘There’s a detail you’re missing, Mr Priest.’

  ‘Hm. I’m toying with the possibility that your father was being selective about what he tells me.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean to deceive. He is trying to deal with this situation with as much dignity as possible, although I fear it is a futile exercise. The group share price has already halved since details of what happened to Miles leaked out.’

  The door was locked. Scarlett took a key from the top of the doorframe. Priest wondered how much of this had been set up. Perhaps the whole thing, from the moment Jessica had announced they were going to the Dower House. Just one big production, including her seduction of him.

  The latch clicked. The room was dark. As he followed her into the gloom, anxiety began to settle in. The floorboards groaned under his weight. The walls were textured, covered with something. Books. A library, perhaps.

  She flicked a switch behind him and everything illuminated in glorious multicolour. His eyes adjusted. Not books. Display cabinets fixed wall to wall. At first, the light bounced off the glass, obscuring what was behind. He shifted position; the reflection subsided.

  He swallowed but his throat was taut with dryness. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Tiny insects – their delicate, papery wings glistening lightly, nails driven through their torsos fixing them to their mounts. Hundreds of them.

  A collage of flying insects: butterflies, dragonflies, moths . . .

  ‘Your father –’ Priest began.

  ‘Collects dead bugs. Yes.’

  ‘Including, coincidently, the same insect that was found in Miles’s throat and sent in the post to Hayley Wren?’

  Scarlett was looking at the floor. She seemed to be in a trance. Priest wondered if she regretted showing him.

  ‘Will you confront him about it?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘What will I gain if I do?’

  ‘Probably nothing.’

  Priest quickly scanned the cases, rapidly assimilating each display. They varied in size and colour from tiny, yellow butterflies to brown moths the size of a man’s hand. Other winged insects he didn’t recognise. But no empty pins – th
ey were all apparently present and correct.

  He turned to Scarlett. ‘You said you could think of one contemporary society capable of carrying out what happened to Miles.’ She didn’t answer at first. ‘Scarlett?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Help me out.’

  ‘The Nazis.’

  Priest stood in the insect room and allowed the words to swill around his head. Nazis. He had calculated the possibility, even likelihood of some sort of cult being involved in Miles’s death but although neo-Nazism permeated much of Europe and parts of Asia, as far as Mongolia, there was no significant resurgence of the movement in the UK. There was nothing about Miles’s death that suggested it was politically motivated. It didn’t seem to fit. Priest turned to ask Scarlett what she meant.

  His words would have been wasted. Scarlett Ellinder had gone and he was alone with the insects.

  33

  For the second time that morning, Priest awoke, this time with a headache. He experienced a few moments of disorientation before, slowly, the room came into focus and he remembered where he was.

  His phone was ringing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charlie? Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Priest rubbed the back of his neck and found a goose feather from the pillow tangled in his hair. His wrists were still marked from the cable ties Miles Ellinder had used to restrain him and his arm was still sore from the burn. The underside of his forearm had blistered horribly.

  He’d crept back into the room after spending some time considering Kenneth Ellinder’s insect collection and managed to slip back into bed without disturbing Jessica. She must have left at some point after he fell asleep because when he turned over he found nothing but a warm indent in the mattress.

  ‘Charlie?’ said the voice down the phone.

  ‘Sorry. Georgie. How are you?’

  ‘I’m great. Better than you sound.’

  Priest climbed out of bed and opened the door to the en suite. There was no sign of Jessica. Disappointed, he cupped the phone to his ear with his shoulder and used the toilet.