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

by Murray Bailey

  As she drove back to her sister’s, Kate’s phone vibrated with an SMS. As she ran into the house, she checked the text message. A short message from Brie:

  Confirmed trouble with Mom. There was only one match. Hope this helps

  Then an address in Reading.

  Stephanie Harper’s address.

  FORTY-ONE

  The girls were watching cartoons. Darcy and Tim were still in bed after a late night.

  Kate knew her sister would still be cross. She might be even more cross when she read the note Kate left on the kitchen worktop:

  Just popped out. Won’t be long. Hope you had a nice evening and don’t mind me borrowing the car again. Sorry about last night. Will explain all when I get back—K

  Kate checked on the girls and slipped out. In the glovebox she found Darcy’s satnav, plugged it into the cigarette lighter socket, and programmed it for Stephanie Harper’s address.

  The street was north-west of the town, an old part. Cars lined all the roads and traffic was heavier than she expected. The area appeared to be a special route into Reading for white vans—especially ones that wanted to hog the road so that oncoming cars needed to pull in. A blockage forced her to turn off the main drag and try and cut through. Not an expert at requesting an alternative route on the satnav, she ignored the machine’s complaints and insistence that she turn around when possible.

  Finally, Kate turned the SUV into Stephanie’s road. Speed bumps deterred the white van drivers from this side street, which appeared to be a long sweeping curve. The satnav indicated that Stephanie’s house was at the far end. As she passed the apex, Kate saw another blockage. Only this time the obstruction was caused by police vehicles and an ambulance.

  With her heart in her mouth, Kate stopped in the road and looked ahead at the active crime scene. She had to get out. Scanning the road she saw no spaces, so she reversed to the first side street and turned down it. Finding a parking space, even though it was “Residents Parking Permits Only”, she took it and switched off the engine. She got out, went back to Stephanie’s road and then turned towards the activity.

  She walked robotically, taking in the scene: blue and white police tape strung across the road on either side of the property; a temporary white tent over the front door; the ambulance starting to move.

  A policeman removed the cordon and waved it through. As the ambulance passed her, she noted the siren and lights weren’t on. It could mean one of two things but Kate wouldn’t allow herself to think about them.

  A crowd gathered by her side of the tape. Fifteen or so people standing, looking on. Police stood outside and people in white protective suits entered and left the building. Kate had seen enough TV crime shows to realize these were forensic investigators.

  She reached the crowd and stood behind them. There was a lot of whispering between them and she leaned in to listen. Most of it was speculation, but someone confirmed it was a lady called Harper. Another said she had met Ms Harper who seemed like a nice girl. Chinese. Quiet. Kept herself to herself.

  At the far side of the cordon, a car pulled up. A silver-grey BMW estate. The ribbon was raised so that it could enter. It rolled forward and stopped. Two people got out.

  Kate moved back a pace.

  Mather and Littlewood!

  She was partially hidden behind a large man and watched the two detectives. Littlewood was on the telephone. Mather headed for another man without a uniform—possibly another detective. Mather spoke with the man and then indicated that he and Littlewood would go into the house. Littlewood ended the call and then began to talk animatedly to her boss. Mather shook his head. They stopped at the tent before the front door. Littlewood said something and Kate managed to read her lips—some of the words. At the same time, almost as though something caught his attention, Mather swivelled and scanned the onlookers.

  Kate shrank back, causing the large man to turn and look at her. He said something, but Kate wasn’t listening. She walked away from the scene, her heart hammering a hole in her chest.

  The words she’d read on Littlewood’s lips were: “…is dead… last night… it’s definitely murder.”

  FORTY-TWO

  An hour earlier, Mather had called Littlewood into his office. His scowl spoke volumes.

  “She’s been lying to us. You were right.”

  Littlewood allowed herself a slight smile. “You’re talking about Kate Blakemore. What have you found out?”

  Mather rose from his chair. “Let’s go, we’re going for a drive.”

  “Come on boss! What has happened? What did she lie about?”

  “SHOTWO,” Mather said and handed the sergeant a slip of paper with an address on it. He didn’t say anything more until they were in the car and heading out of the centre.

  Mather said, “There’s been an incident. Last night a Reading woman was murdered. Her name… Stephanie Harper. SH.”

  Littlewood frowned. “So how does that make Ms Blakemore a liar?”

  “OTWO means O2. Stephanie Harper at O2. It’s where she worked. It’s where Ms Blakemore’s missing boyfriend worked. She must have realized.”

  As they neared the address, the roads became clogged with diverted traffic. “We’re going the long way round,” Mather explained. “Harper lived at a junction. The whole section has been cordoned off.”

  When they arrived at the street, Littlewood held up her warrant card and the ribbon was raised. Mather parked. “Quick word with the OIC,” he said. “Then we’ll go and take a look around.”

  Littlewood’s phone rang. As she took it, Mather strode over to the officer in charge and introduced himself. The man said, “SOCO is still in there. If you want to go in, sir, you’ll obviously have to suit up.”

  Mather nodded and waved for Littlewood to join him. They walked to the gate and when she ended the call he said, “Problem?”

  “You could say that. The call was from the Prague police. It’s not good news I’m afraid. Sarah Wishart is dead, identified from remains in a burnt-out building. Time of death sometime in the early hours of Wednesday night. About the time Blakemore was missing. And, Boss, it’s definitely murder.”

  Mather shook his head. “Surely you don’t think Ms Blakemore killed her friend?”

  “Surely you don’t think it’s a coincidence?”

  They stood in front of the tent by the door. Mather was deep in thought, and he looked up and down the street for inspiration. None came. Ms Blakemore had lied about going out in Prague. She must have visited Sarah Wishart. She had lied about knowing what SHOTWO meant, about knowing that SH stood for Stephanie Harper. What else was the woman covering up?

  He was about to step into the tent, when something made him look down the road again.

  “Shit, it’s her, Sam!” He pointed and grabbed Littlewood’s arm. “It’s Kate Blakemore!”

  They spun around, ran to the gate and began to run towards the cordon and crowd.

  “Kate! Stop!”

  The command made Kate turn and look. Mather and Littlewood were pushing through the crowd, then running in her direction.

  Something snapped in her mind. The police would guess SHOTWO referred to Stephanie Harper and now she was dead. They’d soon realize Kate knew. Why else would she be here? She began to run. Turning the corner, she swung open the SUV’s door and jumped in. The keys were a jumble in her clumsy hand. Why did Darcy have so many damn keys? As she fumbled, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. No one coming around the corner—yet. She found the ignition key, and turned.

  Nothing.

  Littlewood appeared, breathless, searching the street for a sign of Kate.

  It’s an automatic. Foot on brake first. Turn. The engine fired.

  Kate knocked it into Drive, turned the wheel and the car lurched into the road just as Littlewood reached the door.

  The detective banged on the window. “Stop!”

  Kate didn’t stop. She accelerated along the short street. As she turned right at the bottom, sh
e glanced in the rear-view and saw Littlewood standing in the middle of the road, phone to her ear.

  Although there was a thirty mile an hour speed limit, Kate floored it and hit the first speed bump at sixty. The SUV bounced up and crashed down, Kate fighting for control. As she approached the next speed bump she braked hard but still bounced over it.

  Then she heard the siren.

  Behind her, the BMW estate turned into the road and began to race after her. Kate’s iPhone rang. She ignored it.

  At the next junction she turned. And then turned again. After five more turns she hit an arterial road and took it, heading away from town and away from the traffic.

  Again and again she looked in the rear-view for the pursuing police, but there was no sign of Mather’s BMW.

  Kate drove for twenty minutes through the Berkshire countryside, avoiding towns. Gradually the panic faded and, at a quiet lay-by hidden from the road, she stopped. She sat for a while just staring at trees. She had the window wound down and rested with her head in her hands.

  What was she doing?

  She looked at her phone. Five missed calls and a message. Nervous with anticipation she listened to the message.

  It was clearly left during the chase; Kate could hear the siren, the engine acceleration and the crashes as the BMW bounced over the speed bumps. Sergeant Littlewood sounded breathless as she said, “Running from the police only makes things worse, Ms Blakemore. Call me now on this number. If you don’t call within the hour, you will be arrested for obstructing the course of justice. This is serious, Ms Blakemore. We now know that you lied to us about knowing what the title meant, that you pretended not to know that SH was Stephanie Harper’s initials. Did you have anything to do with her death? Did you have anything to do with Sarah Wishart’s death? Fleeing the scene like this doesn’t look good. If you are innocent then you should call me back.”

  Kate’s chest constricted. Sarah’s death? Sarah was dead too? Tears came then, streaming from her eyes, and great sobs wracked her body.

  What was she going to do?

  FORTY-THREE

  Breathing in the cool earthy air, Kate felt herself relax a little, her mind clear. She thought through what had happened and the options. Her options were zero—or close to. Boomer was her only lead. Get hold of Boomer. That’s what Joe wanted her to do. But how? Presumably the Trust Me document told her what to do. Now she needed Ann to get information from her contact. That seemed the only way.

  She restarted the engine and took a deep breath. Tim and Darcy needed to know what was going on. They wouldn’t be happy. Was Kate putting their family at risk? Her ringing phone snapped her back.

  Darcy spoke, her voice quiet and restrained. “The police have been here looking for you.”

  “That was quick!”

  “You’re driving my car. Didn’t take them long to work out where you were staying.” Darcy’s pitch changed. “What the hell were you thinking, running away from a scene of a crime?”

  “I… I don’t know. I guess I panicked.”

  Darcy took two deep breaths. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Kate explained as much as she could. As she spoke, she could sense Darcy’s exasperation.

  When she finished bringing her sister right up to date, Darcy said, “This is crazy! It’s all based on Joe’s lies…”

  “It’s not crazy, because there’s someone out there—the Arab—who’s killing people I know!”

  “You need to hand yourself in to the police, Kate.”

  “I don’t trust them.”

  “You need to trust somebody!”

  There was a long pause before Darcy prompted, “Kate?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “Please call Inspector Mather. Running makes you seem guilty.” Again a heavy pause. “Kate?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Darcy sighed. “What are you going to do? If you come back here the police will arrest you before you step through the door.”

  “I’ll find a B&B. I need to think things through, consider my options. Maybe I just need some time to myself. My friends are dead, Darce!”

  “All right, all right. Hopefully you’ll work out what you need to do by Monday. I could do with my car back … and I left my laptop in it.”

  “I’ll just stay somewhere tonight and do something by Sunday evening. You’ll have your car and laptop back in time for work.”

  “OK. Have a rest. Clear your head and then do the right thing.” Then, in a more caring tone, she added, “Let me know when you are checked in, so I know you’re safe. Also, if you need anything… And I’m here if you need to talk.”

  “Sure… and thanks, sis.” Kate switched off the phone and pulled out of the lay-by. She headed back to a village she’d driven through; there was bound to be a pub with a room.

  As she drove, random thoughts filtered through her brain. Then she replayed one that took prominence. Joe said he was Special Forces. Boomer was his buddy. Presumably Boomer was also Special Forces then. What was US Special Forces anyway? And maybe she could whittle down the number of bases. How many Special Forces units could there be?

  She stopped at an inn advertising B&B, free Wi-Fi and parking. With the SUV out of sight of the road, she located Darcy’s laptop and checked in under an assumed name.

  In the room, she rang her sister, told her where she was and asked for the password to get into the computer. Within minutes she was online and googled US Special Forces.

  The term appeared to be interchangeable with Special Operations, of which there were four: US Marine Corps Forces Special Operations, Army Special Operations, US Navy Special Warfare, and US Air Force Special Operations. These were all linked under a single command with the acronym USSOCOM.

  Kate followed links starting with the Marines to a MARSOC website. Here there was no way to search for people or email addresses. There were contact phone numbers but they started with com. and she had no idea how to dial that. She then turned to the army site. Again no email addresses and confusing phone numbers, but two things caught her eye. Firstly, the name Fort Bragg, which she recalled seeing on the Army.com site. Secondly, the term Delta Force.

  She googled Delta Force and read it was the term given to the US Army’s 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, a unit of the Joint Special Operations Command and located at Pope Air Force Base and Fort Bragg, both in North Carolina. Joe had mentioned Virginia. Virginia—North Carolina, reasonably close?

  Again she found no obvious means of contact. She went back to the Army.com site. There was no listing of Pope Air Force Base, but of the 128 camps listed, two said Special Operations Forces: Fort Bragg and Camp Mackall. She clicked on the link to Fort Bragg and again searched for a means of contact. Finally she spotted it: a link to a forum. Clicking on this she found herself redirected to Facebook. On the wall she posted the message that she needed to contact Danny Guice, believed to be in Special Ops.

  She went to the Camp Mackall site and searched until she found a similar forum link. Again she posted her message on a wall.

  Four thousand miles away, an algorithm, scanning electronic traffic, picked up the forum posts and fired off an automatic email.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Prince bin Shahd watched as Hamasalih dialled a number. It was an encrypted line and, should anyone try to trace it, they would eventually find a dead end in Belarus. He could hear the ringing but suspected there was no sound at the other end and visualized a red light frantically blinking in an office in America. Eventually it connected and the aide passed him the handset.

  The call was answered with a gravel-filled Southern American drawl. “I was in a meeting.” There was traffic noise in the background.

  Hamasalih didn’t bother questioning whether the line was secure. He knew it would be. He said, “Of course, I understand. The prince has a message. He says: it has been a long time, Mustang.”

  “Too long,” Mustang said, walking.

  Bin Sha
hd, listening in to the conversation, knew this was insincere, but it didn’t matter.

  Mustang said, “Where is His Highness?”

  Hamasalih glanced at the prince. When bin Shahd shook his head, the aide responded, “You are dealing with me now.”

  Mustang didn’t respond.

  After two seconds, Hamasalih said, “It seems Mirrorman has been found.”

  “That is good news.” Genuine interest from the other end of the line. “I trust he will be dealt with.”

  “He is in the United States.”

  A long pause, then: “Yes?”

  “We need your assistance.”

  Another pause. Bin Shahd wondered if he could hear bird song in the background. Finally the American said, “That would be most difficult.”

  “However, as a favour to the prince, you will do it.” Hamasalih’s tone suggested anything but a favour. This was an obligation. “Remember, this may well be a personal issue for the prince, but if Mirrorman has information, there would be serious implications for you… my dear Mustang.”

  “But if such information did exist then it would surely have materialized by now. It’s been—what—two years?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps you are right, my dear. But information may come from many sources.”

  The American bristled. “I don’t respond well to threats.”

  “Oh you misunderstand me. Perhaps my English… We are friends, are we not?”

  “The prince and I have been friends for a long time.”

  “Then we are friends also.”

  Mustang said nothing.

  Listening to the other man’s breathing, Hamasalih said, “And that friendship has been most beneficial, has it not?”

  “I will do what I can,” Mustang said, and bin Shahd wondered if the American was speaking through clenched teeth.

  “I think that is the right decision. As I said, it really is your problem as much as ours.”