by James Hazel
‘Did you recognise anyone from the database?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
On the coffee table his phone lit up. Two new voicemails. He picked it up and dialled. He heard an unfamiliar voice: ‘Mr Priest. I’m a friend of Georgie’s. She’s in trouble. Phone me back. Please.’
Shit. He pressed the recall button. Come on, pick up. Jessica raised her head.
Eventually, the phone connected. ‘Hello?’
‘This is Charlie Priest.’
‘Thank God! I didn’t know who else to call.’
‘Who are you?’ Priest demanded.
‘My name is Li . . . I’m a friend – a flatmate – of Georgie’s.’
‘She’s mentioned you.’
‘I didn’t know who else to call.’
Li gave an account of her phone call with Georgie. As he listened, Priest felt the darkness claim a little more of his soul.
‘She was in Cambridge?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I don’t know why.’
‘I think I do.’
What had he expected? That she would go home and play role-playing games with her nerdy friends? Forget all about the case? Fuck, he had been naive.
‘Are you sure the phone cut out because of a struggle?’ Priest asked Li. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because I heard some sort of scuffle . . . And there’s something else,’ Li said carefully. ‘Somebody . . . somebody sent Georgie something. In the post.’
Priest swallowed hard. No! ‘What kind of something?’
Jessica sat up.
‘Like an insect. A dead bug,’ said Li, her voice shaking.
‘A mayfly.’
‘Think so. Maybe. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Li, I want you to phone me the minute you hear from her, OK?’
‘Sure, but –’
Priest cut the call, sinking down into the sofa. Jessica put her hand on his arm.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, panic rising in her voice.
‘I think they have Georgie.’
‘Who? Who has her?’
‘I think it is the same people that have Hayley.’ He sat still, trying to take it in.
Jessica swallowed. ‘Charlie, I . . . I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.’
‘What?’
‘I mean you were supposed to be looking into my brother’s death. I had no idea how deep this thing went.’
‘No, I mean, you called me Charlie. You usually call me Priest.’
She leant against him and he placed his arm around her shoulder. She nuzzled her head into his chest and he began to feel his heart rate increase. Her smell was familiar to him now; he wondered whether her scent might be enough by itself to bring light to his darkened soul. Gently, he kissed the top of her head. He was caught between worlds again in a black void. He was afraid; a feeling he hadn’t known for a very long time. He was afraid that he now had something to lose.
‘If I could stop time,’ he told her.
She leant across him to pick up his phone. ‘You have another message,’ she whispered, passing it to him.
He dialled the voicemail again, standing up and crossing to the other side of the room so she couldn’t hear what was said. He listened to Georgie’s voice, excitable and fresh, ignorant of the danger she was in.
‘Hi, Charlie. Please don’t be mad but I went to Cambridge to look for Hayley. I know I shouldn’t have but I just can’t stand back while all this stuff happens around us. So, you know, I hopped on a train. Guess I shouldn’t have. Like I said, don’t be mad. I mean, I know you will be but let’s try and keep it to just Attila the Hun mad and not Vlad the Impaler mad, OK? Sorry, I’ve just realised how inappropriate that is. Anyhow, I did get something helpful, I think. One of Hayley’s neighbours said she saw a car outside Hayley’s house recently and, although she couldn’t identify it, she described a symbol stuck in the windshield, which was the Ellinder Pharmaceuticals brand logo. I guess it was a car park pass or something. And Hayley’s room is a mess. It’s clear something bad has happened in there. There are fingernail scratches on the dresser, and the table has been pulled off the wall. We need to find her. So, in conclusion, don’t be mad, we need to find Hayley, there’s something fishy about the Ellinder company. Bye.’
An Ellinder Pharmaceuticals car park pass. It was starting to fit together.
Jessica was staring at him, eyes wide.
‘Who was it?’ she asked.
‘Georgie. Before they took her, I guess.’
‘What did she say?’ she said anxiously.
Priest checked the lionfish. When was the last time they were fed? He reached for a little tub of pellets and sprinkled some in. The fish flicked through the water to the surface and ate greedily.
‘Nothing. She was just checking in.’
46
Georgie felt the van slow down and heard the unmistakable noise of tyres on gravel. She sat up, glancing at her watch. She had been in the van for the best part of an hour, the last half of which she had spent in a state of semi-consciousness, curled up in the corner, occasionally jolted awake as the vehicle lurched through traffic. It was so cold that she had lost the feeling in her hands.
There was a crunch as the handbrake was pulled on, then the sound of both cab doors opening. Two people got out of the van. She braced herself. Tried to measure the risk of bolting through the door when it was opened. Where was she? Could she outrun them? They could have guns. She wouldn’t make it more than ten yards before they shot her down.
Georgie concentrated instead on controlling her breathing. She was light-headed, her brain swimming in oxygen and adrenaline.
The door opened. The view outside was blocked by two large men. Their heads were covered with hoods, similar to the conical headwear of the Ku Klux Klan, save that the peak of the hood was less exaggerated and the eye sockets were elongated slits set at an angle, rather than round holes.
They stood motionless, staring at Georgie. A cold, raw fear flushed through her, a sensation she had never experienced before.
‘Wh-who are you?’ The words tumbled out of her mouth.
One of the men beckoned for Georgie to get out of the van. She hesitated, feeling as if her legs would not work even if she wanted them to. After a few moments, the one who had motioned for her to come out dropped his hand and put a foot inside the van, arching himself through the doorway.
‘OK,’ Georgie croaked, holding up her hand. ‘OK, I’ll come out.’
The temperature outside wasn’t much lower than it was inside the back of the Transit, but the icy wind that gusted across the courtyard felt like knives cutting into her skin. As she was led over the gravel she saw they had parked in the shadow of an enormous baroque mansion.
As they headed towards the house, Georgie noticed a row of cars lined up against the side of one of the wings. Porsches, Jaguars, Range Rovers, all gleaming. A handsome fleet.
They reached a side door. ‘What is this place?’ she said. The only reply was a sharp prod in the back to push her on into a dark hallway.
Inside, a worn red carpet spread down the middle of a stone floor. There was a flight of spiral stairs to the left and various closed doors to the right. The air was heavy but the warmth was a small relief. There was a musty smell she could not quite place – maybe just the smell of age, or rot.
Georgie was led to a room off the hallway – a study, its walls lined with old leather books and containing a green sofa and two writing desks. She was shoved in to the middle of the room where she stood alone and silent, her heart racing but her head held high. She would not give anybody the satisfaction of sensing her fear if she could help it.
After a moment she turned. Her guides had taken up sentry positions either side of the doorway, their arms crossed in perfect symmetry. Georgie stared, baffled.
‘Where are we?’ she demanded. ‘What is this place?’
They did not move. They might has well have turned to
stone.
Georgie felt her resolution starting to melt. ‘Why won’t you talk?’
‘Because they are paid not to.’
She whirled around, shocked, the voice ringing in her ears. A man was lying, legs spread out, across a chaise longue in the corner of the room, a book in his hand.
‘Who are you?’ she said, trembling.
The speaker placed the book on a nearby table, careful not to lose the page, before slowly getting up and stretching. He wore no hood, his face clearly visible. He struck Georgie as someone who might be ill. He was no older than Charlie, but his face was gaunt and skeletal. His hair looked wet, dark streaks swept haphazardly across his head.
Georgie was short of breath. She quickly scanned the room but the only way out was past the two guards standing on either side of the door. She wondered whether she could make a break for it, but her arms and legs felt like lead. She doubted she would even make it to the door, let alone get through it.
‘I have a name,’ said the ill-looking man. ‘But it is of no consequence.’
‘My name is Georgie Someday,’ she said with venom. You will not see me afraid!
‘I know. Thank you for joining us, Miss Someday.’
She swallowed but her mouth was dry and the action made her want to gag. ‘I didn’t get much choice in the matter.’
‘No,’ he agreed, smiling at the floor beneath her feet. ‘I doubt you did. And I apologise for the necessity of sedating you, if only for a short while, and for the unpleasantness of your transportation. And, indeed, generally for the inconvenience that has been caused.’
‘Inconvenience?’
‘Well –’ Still smiling, he held his arms up defensively. ‘We all know how frightened you must be, but I see no reason to compound it with inflammatory language. So, may we just call it an inconvenience?’
‘Where is Hayley?’
‘Here. Safe. You will see her shortly. I have found her to be, however, a little uncommunicative.’
He strode across the room until he was only a few feet away from her. He was not tall, or well built, but he was bigger than Georgie. She had an urge to shrink back but something made her hold her ground, despite the fact that the grip she had on her nerves was hanging by a thread. She stared at him, unblinking.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘History, Miss Someday. A rebirth of something very old. You are honoured to be a part of it.’
‘Why me?’
He shrugged. ‘A hunch. Nothing more.’
‘What hunch?’
‘That you’re one of those people who have spent their whole lives trying to fit in when in fact they stand out like a sore thumb . . . And because I feel it will increase our chances of being joined here by a mutual friend of ours.’
She fixed him with a look – the best version of hatred that she was capable of. A look she had only managed once before in her life. Then she understood.
‘Charlie! You’re using me as bait?’
Her captor smiled, although his mouth fell at the corners so it was an ugly smile. She could smell him – drink and cigarettes. He reached for her, cupped her face in his hand. Her heart jumped. She wavered. The urge to run was irresistible.
‘Can you scream, Georgie?’ he whispered softly. ‘Can you scream? I hope so. Because people have paid me a lot of money to hear you scream tonight.’
47
‘This is it,’ said Jessica. ‘Ruck’s nursing home.’
The Volvo pulled up outside a red-brick building surrounded by dead trees and clumps of nettles. A sad waiting room before the final curtain call.
‘How long has Albert Ruck been here?’ asked Jessica.
Priest shrugged. ‘No idea. But he’s a hundred and three years old.’
They parked on the grass outside the main entrance. Priest had looked it up online. The Priory was a private nursing home where the residents could enjoy their time in the embrace of the Lord. Before, presumably, they were allowed to enjoy their time in His backyard.
‘Sad place to spend your inheritance on,’ Jessica said.
‘Depends where your inheritance comes from,’ Priest replied. ‘The nurse I spoke to was very helpful. Bertie is lucid most of the time, prone only to the occasional bout of screaming madness.’ Much like my brother . . . we’ll get along famously.
The inside was as drab as the outside. It smelt of disinfectant.
The young nurse smiled as they approached the desk. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Are you Lina? I think I may have spoken to you an hour or so ago.’
‘Yes! How nice of you to drop by. You’re here to see Bertie, right?’
Priest returned her smile. ‘Yes. We are. May we?’
‘Of course!’
Lina ushered them down a beige corridor past a number of open doors. From inside, a few of the residents looked up from their tea and newspapers; most were asleep.
As they walked, Jessica whispered in his ear, ‘Just how much of your investigatory work is achieved through flirting, Priest?’
‘About half. Maybe more.’
‘And what lie did you spin to get us in here?’
They reached a door at the end of the corridor. It was closed, but the sign read A RUCK.
‘I didn’t lie at all. I told her I was a priest.’
‘This is it,’ Lina announced, knocking gently and showing them through. ‘Bertie, you have some visitors.’
A frail, emaciated creature lay on the bed. He was awake. Two glassy eyes were trained on Priest, although how much Bertie Ruck could see through the cloudy lenses was questionable.
Jessica hung back as Priest approached the bed.
Priest didn’t speak until he heard the door click behind him and the sound of Lina’s heels making their way back down the corridor to the reception.
‘Mr Ruck?’
There was no response. Were it not for the methodical rising and falling of the old man’s wheezy chest, he might have been dead.
‘Mr Ruck. My name is Priest. This is Jessica Ellinder. We’re private investigators. I wondered whether you would talk to us for a moment?’
The old man blinked once. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’ His voice was surprisingly clear.
‘You know why we’re here?’ Priest asked.
Ruck coughed out a laugh. ‘Of course. You want to know about the Cage. Everyone does. How we treated the prisoners, how we won the war. You’re all the same.’
Priest cast Jessica a glance and raised an eyebrow.
‘Actually we’re here to talk about Eva Miller.’
Ruck held Priest’s gaze for a moment, unblinking, and then turned his head away in disgust.
‘Leave an old man in peace, Mr whatever your name is. I’m tired.’
‘So am I, Mr Ruck. But I want to talk about the Mayfly.’
Silence.
‘I will be brief. If you want, I’ll ask the questions in a way that allows you to only answer yes or no.’
‘Nothing you say, Mr Priest, will persuade me to talk about anything with you. Save your breath.’
Priest thought back to Eva’s will. The only piece of information it had offered on Ruck was his rank. ‘Please, Colonel. It’s a matter of life and death.’
Ruck creased up his forehead and jostled himself higher up the bed. ‘What did you say?’ he wheezed.
‘I said it’s a matter of life and death.’
‘No. Before that.’
Priest carried on uncertainly. ‘I said, “please, Colonel”.’
‘How do you know my rank? Nobody knows my rank. I never used it.’
‘You’re Colonel Albert Ruck. Sir.’
‘I am. And who did you say you were?’
‘My name is Charlie Priest.’
‘Mmm. I see. And you want to talk about . . .’
Priest took a small envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Ruck. The old man took it with quivering hands, slipped open the top and tipped the contents o
n to the bed in front of him.
‘This was sent to you?’ he asked gravely.
‘To a friend of mine. Do you know what it is?’
‘Of course I do. Rhithrogena germanica, of the genus Epeorus. More commonly known as the March brown mayfly.’
Colonel Bertie Ruck had hauled himself upright and was looking far more animated than a man of a hundred and three. He reached over to a bedside drawer, fished around inside and took out an envelope. He shook it open.
‘They sent me this a few days ago,’ he explained. ‘It’s an invitation, you see. Sick bastards.’
‘Perhaps you ought to start from the beginning,’ Priest suggested.
Ruck shook his head. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of first, Mr Priest.’ He paused, as if to gather further strength. ‘Tell me, what drove the Nazis to what they termed the Final Solution?’
‘The Nazis believed that they were the descendants of the Aryans, the master race. They sought to remove impurities from the gene pool – this is the essence of eugenics. It wasn’t just the Jews, of course, but anyone considered to be defective – the feeble-minded, the lame, the infirm. The Useless Eaters, they were called.’
Ruck inclined his head. ‘Fine. So, you read occasionally, but it’s an incomplete answer.’
‘How so?’
‘Because it provides a starting point for Himmler’s warped ideology but it does not explain what was, to me, the biggest unanswered question of that bloody conflict. That is, why, at the point at which the Germans’ struggle against the Allies became desperate, they used their valuable resources not on transporting men and materiel to the front line but on getting Jews into gas chambers. Trains were crammed with intended victims to the detriment of German troops. Why did the Nazis miss the opportunity to bolster their defences in favour of transporting the Jews to the death camps? It makes no sense, unless the answer is far more complicated than you suggest.’
‘The Nazis were in chaos at the end of the war,’ Priest offered.
‘To an extent their command chain was dysfunctional, but they were not incompetent,’ Ruck countered. ‘That does not account for their actions.’
