I Dare You: A gripping thriller that will keep you guessing (A Kate Blakemore Crime Thriller Book 1)

by Murray Bailey

  The next room was a lounge or drawing room. Two leather sofas, a central low table and a long bookcase. An upright piano stood against the far wall. Amir had no doubt it was quality though well used. He searched it anyway, removing the backing felt to ensure nothing was hidden inside.

  He searched the sofas carefully, without ripping them apart, and then turned his attention to the bookcase. Meticulously, one by one, he took the books out and flicked through them looking for loose pages. A few notes and receipts fell out and then a photograph. He examined it: three people and writing on the reverse. He placed it carefully in his bag.

  When finished, he checked that the room looked undisturbed and went into the kitchen. He looked in the cupboards, apparently empty containers and anything that appeared unusual. A large pot containing white flour was out of place in a cupboard with non-baking items. Removing a glove, without touching the large pot, he delved into the flour, checking in case anything was hidden inside. Finding nothing, he shook the flour off his hand and replaced the glove. There was no disappointment, only patient searching.

  From the kitchen he went upstairs. A toilet, another lounge and an office. There was nothing in the toilet cistern that shouldn’t be there. The lounge was dominated by a 52-inch flat-screen TV. He shook his head. Out of place and inappropriate. The room felt lived-in, unlike the downstairs lounge. The furniture was more relaxed: a comfy sofa and two chairs. He searched them as he’d searched the leather sofas. Then he turned to the system beneath the TV: a computer-like box connected to a stereo system and a Blu-ray player. He switched off the power, opened the boxes and checked inside. Nothing unexpected.

  A cupboard with DVDs, Blu-ray discs and CDs was next. Just like he had with the books, Amir checked the contents. Anything suspicious, such as a personally recorded disc or one in the wrong box that he didn’t recognize, he placed in his bag.

  The study was the least tidy room so far. Amir went first to the computer and switched it on. As anticipated, the sign-on screen required a password. Never mind, he could get that later. He checked the drives for discs and external memory. One flash drive was in a USB port and he put it in his bag. He also collected non-pre-recorded CDs and DVDs from a shelf and checked the contents of software boxes.

  He searched the documents in the desk drawers and photographed anything that might be interesting. He flicked through the books on a bookshelf as he had done before, again keeping anything that fell out.

  An address book lay open on a cabinet. A name and address on the page had a date written next to it. Not a birthdate, but this year and only two days ago. He photographed it and then photographed the whole book. He picked up a telephone and checked for messages—just one, a mother asking to be called back. He took a note of the recent calls held in the phone’s memory.

  When he was convinced he’d done all he could, he went up the second flight of stairs. A landing with a bureau, two large bedrooms—one clearly used, one not—a bathroom and a cupboard with a boiler. He took photographs of documents in the bureau but found nothing else of interest on this floor.

  He moved a chair from the bathroom and stood on it to reach a hatch in the ceiling. Just able to reach the bolt, he slid it across and the hatch door swung open to reveal a folded wooden ladder. He pulled a rope and the ladder jerkily descended.

  At the top, Amir threw a light switch and the attic space lit up brilliantly. It was mostly boxes, neatly arranged on boards and some other items that were probably antiques. Amir checked his watch. So far, the search had taken almost three hours. However it was still early afternoon and there was plenty of time. He began to search the boxes for anything of interest.

  When he was finished, he returned everything as it had been, turned off the light and descended the ladder. Standing on the chair, he locked the hatch shut. Then, after dusting the cushioned seat, he returned the chair to the bathroom.

  Amir went downstairs and sat in the lounge, facing the door. From beneath his overalls he took out his gun. He attached a silencer, laid the gun on his lap and waited for the homeowner to return.

  THIRTEEN

  After leaving the message for Sarah to call, Kate felt guilty. She hadn’t spoken to her friend for at least three months.

  Peter and Sarah’s engagement hadn’t lasted long. A whirlwind romance and an equally fast break-up. Ironic, when she thought about it. Joe had discussed Peter and Sarah’s pending nuptials when all the time he was married. If the internet stories were true.

  After splitting from Peter, Sarah had stayed in Prague and thrown herself into her work selling homes. The relationship had been passionate and fiery. Only it turned out to be a little too fiery. The fun had gone, and they had argued. The couple that had seemed in love and perfect found out that they couldn’t get along.

  Sarah hadn’t understood why Kate was distraught about losing Joe. She tarred Joe and Peter with the same brush. “Men are bastards!” she had said. “From now on I use and abuse. I certainly don’t plan to marry them.”

  Kate wondered how many women of her age were like Lisa and Sarah. Would she turn out the same once she knew Joe’s truth? Kate hoped not and wondered how much the manner of Joe’s disappearance—the suddenness of it—determined her outlook. Sarah’s bitterness had grown over time while losing Joe had been a shock. Or maybe it’s simply because we are different people, she thought.

  After the initial call to comfort Kate, Sarah didn’t want to talk about Joe. In Andrew’s opinion, deep down, Sarah still had feelings for Peter. He said that talking about Joe would make her think about her ex. Maybe.

  Back home, Kate poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and put the TV on—muted. As soon as she sat down, Tolkien leapt onto her lap and quickly settled. She took a sip and was just about to try Sarah again when the iPhone rang with a song called “Poker Face”, which her sister Darcy had chosen for herself.

  That would be it for the evening. When Darcy needed to talk, it would be for hours, although Kate couldn’t tell her the about the message Joe had left.

  “Hey, Darce.”

  “Hi, have you spoken to Mum lately?”

  Darcy surely knew about the Sunday dinner with Terry and her outburst. Kate said, “Not since I went over. What’s up?”

  “Oh, just that she seems a bit down at the moment. Kate, I think you should cut her a bit more slack. She’s had it hard, you know. It can’t have been easy raising the two of us with Dad hardly around and then to lose him—”

  “I have been supportive. I’m just finding it difficult to accept Dad’s replacement so—”

  “I think if you had kids of your own, you’d be much more sympathetic about what Mum went through.”

  Kate didn’t bite. Instead she said, “So how are your two angels?”

  As her sister got into the swing of her update on the three-year-old twins, Kate stuck a ready meal in the microwave and ate it. While she said the odd word, Darcy flitted between concern for their mother, what she’d been doing, and the challenges of bringing up her kids. Eventually Darcy said she was thinking about going back to work. Not her previous job at the mortgage company, because her old boss had never forgiven her for not returning from maternity leave. The man hadn’t even sent a congratulations gift when the girls were born, and Darcy knew he wouldn’t be flexible or sympathetic if she needed time off when the girls were sick. She also needed a job with hours that allowed for the picking up and dropping off of the girls when they started school.

  After Darcy had stopped griping about her old boss and company, they spent another thirty minutes discussing her criteria and her options and Kate managed to get her sister to spell out a plan of action.

  They didn’t talk about Darcy’s husband Tim, but at the end of the call Darcy said, “Tim sends his love.”

  Kate figured this meant everything was all right on the marital front. At least someone’s relationship is fine, she thought. When she put her phone down, her ear was warm from having it pressed to the phone for so long.
Not good.

  Remembering it was recycling day in the morning, Kate collected a pile of papers and plastic from a cupboard in the kitchen. She was just about to take it downstairs to the outside bin cupboard when she remembered the junk mail and fliers in the kitchen. She’d abandoned them after opening the heart monitor packet.

  Just in case, she looked at the three letters. One stood out. Looked like junk, but the stamp wasn’t British.

  She looked more closely. The Czech Republic.

  Maybe a letter from Sarah. The address was handwritten although Kate didn’t recognize it.

  She tore open the envelope. It was a photograph. There was no letter, just the photograph of two young men in army desert fatigues. They had beards and Arab scarves around their heads. Her first thought was that Sarah had sent her a photograph of her latest beau. Kate flipped the photo over to see what Sarah had written on the reverse.

  A name that Kate had heard a year ago: Boomer. The second name was Mirrorman. And underneath, the words: Find me.

  FOURTEEN

  Peter Sikorski tidied his desk and logged off his laptop. He disconnected the machine, put it in his bag and added confidential papers to file securely at home. A good day, he told himself. The relaunched phone packages were starting to take-off. The bait-and-switch telephone campaign showed exceptional response rates and churn rates were marginally down. It all pointed to real growth rather than recycling existing customer performance.

  Before he left his office, he did what he always did. He wrote on his whiteboard by the door. It was a message to himself for the morning. Tonight he wrote: Compete on VOIP handsets. Oskar Mobile was behind the competition on handsets. They’d missed a trick with the iPhone and had been slow to promote the BlackBerry. They were coming back, of course, but history showed that the first in the market won the prize. And the prize, as always, was sales.

  As he walked the short distance to the metro station he tightened his coat. The dark sky was clear, the temperature was dropping quickly and he was relieved to get into the warm carriage for the journey home.

  Relaxing in the seat, he wondered whether it was time to move on, whether he would be allowed, or was this it: head of sales at Oskar Mobile. He earned more money than he’d ever dreamt he would, lived in an exclusive area of the city, had everything he wanted. Almost. In the past he hadn’t thought to challenge his position, but surely now was a good time. Maybe he could have a relationship that wouldn’t collapse under the stress. Maybe he could make a go of it again with Sarah. In the short time they’d been together, they had shared a great deal. She would understand—if she would have him back that is.

  He continued to dwell on the past as he walked from the Střížkov metro station to his home. He wondered where Joe was now and how he was getting on. Peter had done his job, everything he needed to. He’d even followed the unexpected instruction he’d received. How had his last conversation with Joe gone?

  Over a beer one evening Joe had said, “We’ve become good friends, Peter.”

  “Yes. I suppose it was unexpected, but we have.”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  Peter had agreed.

  “Even if it’s against the rules?”

  That caused him to hesitate, but a frisson of fear was immediately dispelled from his mind. Joe was a good man, a close friend. “Even then,” he had said.

  “Something may still happen.”

  “You must have mixed feelings about it.”

  He had been surprised when Joe had said, “Not really. I’ve met a wonderful girl and life’s too short.”

  Peter had nodded, guessing what Joe was about to say. “So you are worried our guy will find the trail and it’ll lead to Kate.”

  “There might be no warning, but if something happens to me, would you keep track of Kate, please?” He had shrugged. “You know, make sure she’s all right.”

  In the hall, Peter took off his coat and shoes and slipped into comfortable house shoes. Without Sarah, the house always felt empty. His promise to Joe seemed hollow now. Sarah had been Kate’s best friend and he couldn’t even keep her. The heating clicked on and he noted absently that the house felt different—not just missing his girlfriend. The cleaner hadn’t been in, had she? It wasn’t her day.

  He walked to the stairs and up to the first floor. In his office he took out the papers and put down the laptop bag.

  A noise behind him! He swivelled. As he turned, he saw something flash close to his face. The pain in his head was bright but brief. He blacked out.

  From the darkness, the recollection of someone knocking him out avalanched into his consciousness. He jolted awake. His neck felt like he’d been bulldozed. He tried to move, couldn’t. He was bound to the office chair. A man stood impassively over him with a silenced gun pointing at his head.

  A cruel smile cracked a swarthy face. “Tell me what you know,” the Arab said.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Peter said weakly.

  “Tut-tut.” The man slapped Peter on both ears, producing the effect of an explosion in his head.

  Peter’s eyes rolled, unfocused for a minute.

  When Peter breathed normally again, the Arab said, “That was just for fun. Now tell me everything you know.”

  Peter shook his head.

  The Arab smiled, as though he preferred his victim to resist. “Peter… Peter, not only will you tell me the password to your computer and laptop, you will tell me the combination to the safe behind the oil painting in the dining room. By the time I am finished with you, you will be desperate to tell me anything at all. You will tell me your girlfriend’s birthday, how many times you have had sex with her and which position she prefers.” He placed his thumbs on Peter’s temples and applied enough pressure to threaten severe pain.

  The Arab’s face was close and Peter could smell the man’s breath. He tried to blank out the image, think of happier moments, of the good times with Sarah, of hopes and dreams. The pressure across his forehead intensified. He looked into the man’s eyes.

  The Arab said, “Now, tell me about Joe Rossini.”

  FIFTEEN

  Kate slept badly, with disjointed images that left her wishing she didn’t have to get up when the alarm sounded. It was Saturday and she’d agreed to work half a day at the health club.

  She was distracted all morning. She had three patients but her mind kept flipping between the mysterious data card and the photograph from Prague. Between patients, she dialled Sarah’s phone, each time getting voicemail.

  Her final patient suffered from tendonitis in his Achilles. On his previous appointment she had tried acupuncture into and around the painful areas. It seemed to work, and against her advice, the man went on to compete in a ten kilometre road race at the weekend. However, the tendons were inflamed more than ever and he asked for the needles again.

  The poor chap howled with pain as she knocked one of the needles. She covered her clumsiness, claiming it was due to his weekend run, but her distraction was the true cause. The poor man was probably put off acupuncture for life.

  Andrew was waiting for her at lunchtime. She greeted him with a smile. “What’s the news about the document?”

  “Still trundling on I’m afraid. But I have some news of my own… about work.” He grinned like an excited child.

  “Techion, the company I’ve signed an NDA with, are finalizing the contracts.” He then spent twenty minutes giving her a progress update. It was always so positive and she loved him for his optimism.

  Kate had Earl Grey and Andrew ordered a large black Americano. They ate paninis while he talked and she tried hard to follow his report. After five minutes her eyes glazed over as names and seemingly irrelevant detail were thrown at her. There was never a short version from Andrew. “It’s too complicated to summarize,” he would often say when she complained at being lost.

  “So is that the news?” she asked when she could eventually get a word in.

 
; He looked a little crestfallen before brightening again. “No! No! It’s more than that. I just needed to give you the context,” he said. “Well, the connection with Luigi led to meeting Paolo at Rialto. They are interested in the software. They have been planning to enter the peer-to-peer lending market, and my solution offers them a shortcut.”

  “Wow! That is great news. Make sure you get contracts and discuss the financial deal early on this time.”

  He said he would, but Andrew had avoided the commercial side of negotiations before.

  “Make sure you do,” she said. “You’re too trusting for your own good.”

  He looked at her out of one eye. “Rearrange this sentence: black calling kettle pot the?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She said, “I received a photograph in the post. I think Sarah might have sent it.”

  “And?”

  “The photo is of a couple of soldiers.”

  Andrew raised an eyebrow, waited.

  “Not just any old soldiers. There are names on the back. One of them is Boomer.”

  “Boomer?” Andrew looked thoughtful for a moment. “One of the characters from Joe’s stories?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Why would Sarah have a photo of one of Joe’s friends?”

  “You’re missing the point. Why would there be a photo of Boomer at all? If you recall, Joe’s army experiences were part of his fantasy world. Boomer was the one who used to have a bowl of rigatoni pasta between his knees as a snack when they were off on a mission.”

  Andrew squinted, trying hard to recall. “Wasn’t there a story about this guy picking up a grenade and throwing it back at the enemy?”

  “That’s the one. He was a college quarterback, allegedly. He could throw an American football eighty yards with ease. Joe said he could throw a grenade further than any other man he knew. And then there’s the other name.”