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

by Murray Bailey

  Her watch said a little after 10am—forty minutes before meeting up with Littlewood in the hotel reception. Together they would go to the Prague police station for a meeting with Inspector Cerny. The funeral was not to be at Slavia Cemetery as she had expected, but close by. Littlewood explained that the police hadn’t released the body, so it wasn’t a funeral at all, but a ceremony.

  Kate sipped her beer and thought about Joe and the fun they’d had.

  “Penny for them,” the barman said with a friendly smile, his accent obviously Australian.

  She smiled back but declined to say.

  “It’s a great day out. Shame to be in here on your own.” He put down a glass he’d been drying and picked up another. She doubted they needed to be wiped so thoroughly. He winked and the smile stayed in place. The guy was flirting.

  “Aussies! You are incorrigible,” she said with laugh. “Definitely the worst, I should say.”

  “Oh, mate, surely the Italians are worse than Australians. Only just, mind!”

  She finished her beer and stood. “How much?”

  “For the beer? Nothing. On me. Perhaps you’ll come back this evening and then share those deep thoughts?”

  She shook her head. “Thanks for the beer though.”

  She stepped out into the sunlight and headed back to the bridge. It felt uplifting to be flirted with, even though it meant nothing. However, as she mounted the steps, her mood changed. It was the mention of Italians. She recalled the conversation with Andrew last night. He was convinced the Italians still wanted to do business. So if the Italians didn’t break into Andrew’s house, who the hell did?

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Městská police station smells of ancient dust, Kate thought. It looked like something out of the 1960s’ documentary that had been on the TV, with metal-framed windows overlooking the street below. Stark and perfunctory, the interior had all the charm of a public lavatory.

  Inspector Cerny was older than she’d expected from his voice. Either that or he was going prematurely bald. Rather than shave his head, he attempted to cover the patches with swept back, thinning hair. Apart from the hair, Kate assessed him as pleasant and gentlemanly as he tried hard to be understood.

  Littlewood had her notebook out. There was a handheld tape machine on the table to record the conversation. The inspector asked if the interview could also be videoed. He pointed to a camera on the ceiling.

  Littlewood looked at Kate for approval.

  Kate said, “Not a problem.”

  “Good then…” The inspector cited case details and the people present for the purposes of the recording. Then he spoke to Kate: “Slečna Blakemore—you called him Peter rather than Petr?”

  “I think that’s how he preferred it pronounced.” Kate nodded, guessing the inspector had practised saying her name rather than use the Czech version.

  “Then I will call him Peter.” He had a thick lever-arch file by his side and Kate wondered whether it was all the case notes.

  Cerny saw her look. “There are some photographs I would like you to look at,” he said. “There are a good number but, before we look at them, please tell me what you know.”

  Kate was unsure how much or what he wanted, so she repeated the information she’d shared with the Thames Valley police, starting with the first time she had met Peter through her friend Sarah and up to the phone call from the inspector informing her of his death.

  “Sorry, I misunderstood you on the telephone,” he said. “It must have been a shock.”

  She nodded, accepting the inspector’s apology. “It was. Of course it was a shock. It’s not every day you hear a friend is dead, let alone murdered.”

  “And your friend, Sarah, is missing.”

  Kate was asked to repeat what she had told Thames Valley police about the phone call and then having no response to calls, texts or emails. “Do you think she is dead?” Kate asked, and she looked closely to read the inspector’s reaction.

  “We do not think so,” Cerny said, and she assessed this as genuine. “Now I would like—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him, and a young policeman entered with a tray of sandwiches and apples. After placing them on the table, he returned with orange juice. Each time, the inspector announced the man’s entrance and departure for the recording.

  They took a break and Kate ate a prawn and lettuce sandwich and washed it down with the orange juice.

  Cerny opened the lever-arch file and slid it over to Kate. Inside were photographs in plastic wallets, two per wallet. “Please take your time, look through them carefully,” he said. “These are from Peter’s computer memory. I would like you to take out any photographs of people that you recognize, even if they are…” he struggled for a moment.

  Littlewood helped: “Even if they are incidental, like in the background.”

  “But there is no need to pull out those with Peter or Sarah, or either of their parents,” Cerny continued. “We know who they are.”

  Kate began. At first she studied each picture slowly. A few hundred photographs later, and pulling out occasional pages, Kate asked for a rest. She took a ten minute comfort break and resumed the process until every picture had been reviewed.

  Cerny removed the file and neatened the pile of pages she’d taken out. Then he asked her to talk through each one she recognized, noting the number of the page and placing a sticky yellow dot on the photograph. Approximately eighty sheets in total, most were people she vaguely recognized. Some she knew were friends, some work colleagues. One photograph was of Peter, Joe and a woman. Kate reported that she recognized Joe, but not the woman.

  When she had finished, Cerny said, “Thank you.” He had glanced at the wall clock. “We have good time for you to make it to the ceremony. The house is in Vyšehrad. You know it?”

  Kate said she did. Cerny didn’t immediately close the interview. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence and Kate looked at Littlewood for guidance. Littlewood was watching her intently.

  The inspector said, “Before we end, Slečna Blakemore, who is WO?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Littlewood said, “Do the initials WO mean anything to you?”

  Kate thought for a moment. “No,” she said with a categorical shake of the head.

  Littlewood’s eyes narrowed. “The photograph of your boyfriend with the victim—with Peter—had a title. The others did not.” She paused for a heartbeat, two, three. “Did Peter or Joe shoot someone with the initials WO or called Wo?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The service of remembrance was in a building opposite the Gothic Vyšehrad cathedral. Kate had attended a few registry office weddings and her initial impression of the service was the same. The only difference being a sombre atmosphere, created by sad music, white lilies and subdued lighting. Kate and Littlewood both wore black, having changed after the Czech police interview.

  Peter’s parents shook her hand at the door, their haunted eyes smiling briefly as they recognized her. She and Littlewood sat in the back row and studied people as they filed in. Kate immediately noted that most of the crowd were smartly dressed, the men in suits, the women in business attire—work colleagues, she assumed. Littlewood had asked her to point out any close friends of Sarah’s and to watch out in case Sarah herself showed up. Kate agreed to do her best.

  They sat on the back row. A kindly faced middle-aged woman introduced herself in English and then sat beside Kate. “You don’t speak Czech?” she said.

  Kate and Littlewood shook their heads.

  “I can translate for you,” the woman said. “Petr’s mother has asked me.” When Kate protested that she would be fine, the woman said, “Please, I’ve been told I must insist.” She indicated that Kate should swap places with her so that she was between the two English ladies.

  The room quickly filled to its capacity of up to a hundred people, the doors were closed, and at 4pm precisely, the service began. When the music stopped, the lights came up, and
in an instant the room seemed less depressing. A man in a suit stood at a lectern and welcomed everyone on this solemn occasion, which should be a reflection and celebration of Petr Sikorski’s life. As he spoke, the woman translated quietly.

  The man then introduced Peter’s father, who took his place at the lectern. He gripped the edges as though without them he might be unable to stand. He waited a moment, gathering his thoughts and strength. When he spoke, he told a long story of when Peter was a young boy, how proud they were when he rescued a friend from a river, putting another’s safety above his own. He sat down and an uncle stood and told a story of Peter’s sporting achievements, particularly swimming and football. A third family member talked of Peter’s academic achievements. Then, one by one, friends and work colleagues went to the lectern and told stories, some of which seemed to have meaning, others merely anecdotes from a friend’s life.

  Two hours passed quickly, and finally the leader of the service returned and spoke at length about love. It was not a Bible reading, because this was not a religious ceremony, but by inserting references to God or Heaven, Kate thought, it could have been.

  At the end, the man asked everyone to clap in appreciation of Peter’s life. A few people cheered and Kate noticed tears cascade down Peter’s mother’s cheeks. Her husband held her close and forced a happy smile for everyone. Kate fought back tears of her own.

  People turned and shook one another’s hands warmly, and Kate found herself shaking hands with Littlewood who seemed totally unmoved by the proceedings. Kate shook hands with others before the translator said, “We will now go to the Sikorski household where they will serve food for everyone.” She handed over a slip of paper with an address on it and Kate thanked her.

  During the cab ride to Peter’s parents’ house, Littlewood said, “Was Sarah there?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  “She could have been in disguise.”

  “I didn’t see her. But then most of the time people had their backs to us.”

  Kate mentioned that she’d seen the very tall man with the short woman—the Mafia son and his partner, as she’d previously imagined them. “They were at Peter and Sarah’s engagement party,” she explained. “I noted they are now married. They weren’t eighteen months ago.”

  “It happens,” Littlewood said.

  Kate looked at her expecting a grin, but nothing. The policewoman wasn’t attempting humour. Kate said, “Were you ever married?”

  Littlewood went to respond, hesitated and said, “Let’s keep this on a formal basis. Anyone else you recognized?”

  “Quite a few looked familiar but, like the photographs, I can’t give you names. And I didn’t see anyone I would class as a close friend of Sarah’s—not from the time I knew her best.”

  Kate took a long breath. For a moment her sight blurred and her skin prickled.

  “Are you OK? You look pale.”

  Kate held her stomach. “Feeling a bit dodgy. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

  They arrived at the large house on the outskirts of Prague. Kate blinked a few times trying hard to focus and get her bearings. Stepping out of the cab, she sucked in the cold air and rubbed her face.

  Littlewood asked the taxi driver to wait and stood at her side. “You don’t look good,” she said.

  “I’ll splash my face with water. I’ll be fine.”

  They walked into the house, already crowded with people from the service. People continued to arrive to pay their respects. Kate found a toilet and locked herself in. She splashed water on her face and ran her wrists under the cold tap. She took a deep breath and felt a jolt in her abdomen. Just in time, she lifted the lid and emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. She knelt, gripping the toilet bowl for a while until the nausea passed.

  After cleaning herself up, and putting some tissues in her pocket just in case, Kate emerged from the room. Littlewood waited outside, concern on her face. “Been sick?”

  Kate nodded. “I think it must have been the prawns.”

  “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

  “Not straight away. I’ll circulate for a few minutes, just in case I recognize someone here who wasn’t at the service.”

  Littlewood agreed and waited by the front door as Kate weaved her way through the rooms bursting to overflowing with mourners. A few people nodded or spoke to her, but little registered. She avoided the room laid out with trays of sandwiches and picked up a bottle of mineral water from the kitchen.

  “Anything?” Littlewood asked as Kate reappeared in the hallway.

  “Apart from being bumped and squeezed to death in there, you mean? No. There was no one new I recognized.”

  They travelled back to the hotel in silence. Kate sipped on her water; Littlewood stared out of the window.

  As the taxi bounced over an uneven section of road, Kate dribbled the water on her chin. She put her hand in a pocket to get the tissue. When she retrieved it, she realized there was more than tissue in her pocket, there was a piece of paper.

  Casually, and careful not to attract attention, Kate unfolded the paper. On it was written:

  Kino L 12 tonight. Tell no one! Be careful!

  She recognized the handwriting immediately.

  Sarah’s.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  With the words Be careful playing over and over in her head, Kate stole from her room and took the emergency stairs. What did Sarah mean? Keep the appointment secret so that the police didn’t know? Or was there something more sinister?

  At 11:45 she emerged at the rear of the hotel. Kino L stood for Kino Lucerna, a cinema which was about ten minutes’ brisk walk from the hotel. Kate wore black jeans and a jumper under her dark coat. Pulling up the collar to hide her face as much as possible, she kept to the shadows.

  Slightly out of breath, she arrived at the cinema just before midnight. Her throat burned from the exertion following its date with stomach acid in the afternoon. The lights were on inside the cinema and people milled about. She walked under the glass dome from which hung an upside down horse with a man sitting on its underside. It never ceased to astound.

  Upstairs, voices could be heard coming from the café-bar and, after a glance around downstairs, she decided to head for that. There were fifteen people at tables in the café-bar, mostly in pairs, but no one remotely like Sarah. She sat at a table overlooking the ground floor and ordered a mineral water from the waiter.

  She drank the water and checked her watch. Almost 12:30. Where was Sarah? Was something wrong?

  Ten minutes later she had just decided to give up when a familiar, hushed voice said, “Don’t turn round.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Try and look as though you aren’t talking to me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Peter was murdered.”

  “I know. Look, the police don’t think you did it, if that’s what’s frightening you. Your parent’s are worried about you. Even the UK police are looking for you. There’s even one—a woman detective—with me.”

  “You didn’t…” Panic edged Sarah’s whispered voice.

  “No. No one knows I’m here.”

  “He’s going to kill me too.”

  “Who?”

  “I think he’s the man who killed Peter. He came after me first. He was in my apartment, went through my things, my documents, my address book. I was hiding. He must have thought I was out. I heard him talking on the phone. When he came upstairs I hit him with a baseball bat, knocked him down the stairs. But he wasn’t knocked out, just stunned. I ran past him. He grabbed me and then chased me outside and through the neighbourhood. When I thought it was all clear I tried to ring you. But he was there. I think he was able to track my phone. I switched it off and dumped it. I’ve been in hiding for two weeks.”

  “Where?”

  “One of the empty properties I’m showing.”

  “And you’re OK?”

  “As long as he doesn’t find me, I’ll be fine.”


  “You can’t keep hiding for ever.”

  “Kate, listen to me. You aren’t getting it. You’re in danger. There’s a killer and he’s tracking down anyone connected to Joe. Don’t you get it? He used my information to find Peter. Equally, he could trace you from me or Peter.”

  “Oh God! Did you send me a photograph?”

  “No. What photograph?”

  Kate ignored the question. “So it must have been Peter who sent it. God! This man who you hit will know of my connection through Peter.”

  Kate recalled the break-in at Andrew’s house.

  The computer.

  The computer had a copy of the Trust Me document.

  The document on the memory card—she hadn’t lost it!

  The man had been in her house. Ann had heard him go in after Kate left to check the Runtime on the train. “He’s already found me,” Kate said, her mouth tasting bile for the second time that day. “He’s been in my home. He looks Arabic, right?”

  “Yes! You need to hide. You need to go into hiding right now!”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The small sensor in Amir’s hand vibrated, waking him up. The girl had opened her hotel room door. He checked his watch: 11:45. What was she up to?

  Within minutes he was outside the Hilton, watching the road. He had timed the journey from her room to the front. She should be here by now. Movement further up the road caught his eye—somebody moving furtively, collar up to hide the face, keeping close to the wall and hurrying. It had to be the girl. Amir followed.

  He saw her arrive at the arts cinema, briefly look around the ground floor and then head upstairs for the café-bar. She sat by the railings so that she could see the stairs. She was definitely meeting someone here. His pulse quickened, sure he knew who it was. He stood beneath the balcony, his back to her, studying a poster. In the reflection of the glass, dominated by the upside down horse, he could just make her out.