HE WILL FIND YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘I agree. But we would still normally need that ratification, someone to report someone missing is where we’d usually start, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘It can be. But we can declare someone high risk. The patch of blood was close to where we found a murder victim don’t forget.’

  ‘Half a mile. And there are no known links between the two.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we need to find him. And her. I’m comfortable with the justification. There’s too much we don’t know. Why would a young lad living in the middle of a town travel up to the rural, bleed, and then travel back. And then he leaves his car outside his flat — assuming he was using that car in the first place — but doesn’t turn up for work? And his girlfriend doesn’t either and doesn’t check in with her boss, which is described as out of character. There are questions here, Maddie, questions that I need answered and we’re not getting any closer.’

  ‘Okay then. So we go in and figure out what we do have. We review the interview and we identify the gaps we still need to fill.’

  ‘Gaps to fill?’ Harry grumbled. ‘This whole investigation is just one big gap.’

  * * *

  The night edged in, despite Jack wishing it away with all he had. He knew he had to return to his flat, if only briefly. And if it wasn’t to his flat, it would have to be somewhere — he was starting to attract attention. Jack was sitting in a McDonald’s in the town of Langthorne. He had moved to a corner booth with a view over the entrance and the food counter as soon as he had seen it become available. The restaurant wasn’t too far from where he worked and he didn’t want to be spotted. He’d purchased a meal when he’d first come in, then a coffee that he had nursed for as long as he could. He’d seen the shift change and made small talk with a couple of employees. It was starting to become awkward.

  When he stepped out of the artificial glare of the restaurant the evening seemed instantly darker. It was cooler too. He zipped his jacket right up and dug his chin into the material, leaving just his nose and his darting eyes visible. It was still enough to be recognised.

  ‘Jack!’ He snapped his head to the voice as if it was the sound of a car skidding towards him. He had to gasp a mouthful of air to be able to reply at all.

  ‘Hey, Rich.’ Jack recognised a man who worked with him. He was out back in the stores. They had started around the same time but Rich’s move behind the scenes was a fast one; it seemed he was a little too rough round the edges to be customer-facing.

  ‘Hey, Rich? That all you got, nobhead? Where the fuck have you been? Called in Tom Dick, I heard.’ Rich’s eyes lifted to the lit-up yellow arches looming over them both. ‘Your quack prescribe a Happy Meal did he?’ Rich’s laugh was powerful and irritating at the same time. Jack had to wait for him to finish before he could be heard.

  ‘Something like that. I’m feeling a bit better. I didn’t have anything in. I’ve been told I need to eat.’

  Rich lifted his hands. ‘You don’t need to be swinging the lead with me, mucker. I don’t give a shit. That Jamie lad, though . . . you wanna watch that one. I reckon the man’s got a broom shoved right up there somewhere! He’s a career rat . . . someone like that’ll have your legs if it helps them up the ladder.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ Jack said, despite only really getting the gist. ‘I’d better get back to my bed anyway.’

  ‘You in tomorrow then?’

  ‘I plan on it.’

  ‘What about that little dolly bird of yours?’ Rich winked. ‘She was off today, too. I heard you two were seeing each other. Maybe you didn’t fancy work, maybe you fancied spending a whole day seeing each other!’ Rich lifted his hands again and stepped back with it. ‘None of my business, though. Now, I gotta get a Big Mac inside me . . . ooh er!’ That all-consuming laughter again.

  Jack smiled politely until it petered out. ‘See you tomorrow then!’ Rich said something in reply and there was more laughter with it, but Jack was already walking away. He didn’t look back. His stomach was suddenly so knotted with tension that he was terrified he might be sick on the pavement right there. At least it would have backed up his story.

  His flat was twenty-five minutes on foot from the centre of town. It took nearly forty. Jack took the long way at a dawdle. The town was in the midst of rush hour, as much as Langthorne ever experienced a rush hour, and the roads were jammed with what seemed like a steady procession out of the town. Jack found himself glancing over at the drivers. They were sat with their cars idling, waiting to edge forwards. He could see their radio screens and the condensation on their windows. It seemed suddenly to him that everyone else was safe, warm and content. He yearned for that — a normal life, even the life that was his just a few days earlier. His mind soon wandered, filled up with images of his last few days, things he had never wanted to see, things he knew he would be seeing over and over for as long as he lived.

  In contrast to the white noise and movement of the busy town, the dead-end road he lived on was quiet. Again he found himself hesitating at his own front door. As he pushed the key into the lock he closed his eyes, as if Alyssa might still be at the bottom of the stairs and he might have to look into her eyes again, eyes that had been full of confusion while those lips he had kissed a thousand times had pleaded with him to let her go. He’d wanted to. He’d told her that. He’d whispered it into her ear when he’d had the chance. But it was her or it was him, and he’d made his choice.

  The door swung a little too hard, enough to thud off the wall. He forced his eyes open in a moment of self-loathing. He shouldn’t be protecting himself from what he had done. He should be made to face it, to re-live it. His exhaustion as he climbed the stairs was worse than ever. He was in the flat for just a few minutes — just as long as was needed to retrieve his car key from the pocket of his jeans on the bedroom floor. He stopped for a brief moment on the way out. He considered if there was something else he might need. He couldn’t remember the conversation about tonight, other than the meeting time being a few hours later. He was dreading that. Midnight was bad enough, but tonight he had instructions for 4 a.m. There was little chance of him sleeping beforehand — not there, at least, not in that flat. He needed to get far away.

  He couldn’t remember if he had been told to bring anything. He didn’t think so. He remembered being in a bit of a daze. The man had told him that this latest task might take longer, he remembered that much. He peered around the interior of his flat without really knowing what he was looking for. He was on autopilot when he moved to the cupboard under the sink. He had some latex gloves in there as part of an oven cleaning kit. He stuffed them in his pocket. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling that he might need them.

  * * *

  It was the flash of light that woke him every time.

  Harry lay on his side, a roar coursing from his mouth, his eyes suddenly thrust open. He fell silent and tried to make sense of the blood-red digits etched in the darkness that showed 3:28 a.m. He pushed himself into a sitting position while his heart beat like a hammer against his ribcage. He checked his phone, considering that it was what had woken him the night before. There was nothing on the screen. Tonight’s reason for waking was all too familiar.

  His eyes took a while to adjust before he could make out the edges of his bedroom furniture. An ironed shirt hung on the outside of the wardrobe for his day at work, its lighter colour meant it came into focus a little quicker than the rest. He fixed on it. His heart was slowing, the adrenalin flowing out of his system. He knew he was over the worst. The dream at least always ended the same, even if the build-up to it could be very different. The flash of light that always woke him was a memory of the last moment of the crash that had claimed his wife. It was the moment the car had struck and a bright white flash had filled his vision where they were hit so hard the car had tipped towards the bright sun in the sky. It was the moment that had replayed over and over since. The changing build-up to that point was cruel, meaning that he could never know
when it was coming. He could be dreaming about anything, about anyone, and then that same ending — the block of white light with a scuffed movement next to him, a suspended scream in his ears and the feeling of a tugging on his arm, as if the afterlife itself had reached for him and then settled only for his wife. He never used to dream at all; how he wished for that state again.

  In the one counselling session he had been forced to attend, he had been told that his condition was likely to be a form of PTSD, that the moment had come from nowhere and had left him traumatised, that his mind was now set up to accept that everything could change in a moment and from nowhere, and how it might make him struggle to relax and switch off to life’s dangers — even when he was lying in his own bed it seemed. Harry had scoffed at him. Everything had its own label these days. He was having nightmares and he was grieving for his wife. Calling it a ‘disorder’ made it sound like there was something wrong with him for reacting like that. And there was nothing wrong with him.

  His throat felt dry. He pushed the covers off and his feet found the carpet. He rubbed at his face and stood up. He padded through the open door and into the hallway. A low moon was distorted through the frosted window in the bathroom as he passed it. It seemed to soften every edge as he passed through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the window was bigger and the light was brightest. The moon held in the top right corner of the kitchen window like a stamp on an envelope.

  As he held a glass under the tap, a bright lamp flickered on in his back garden. His eyes flicked to it then to what had set it off. A fox lifted its nose from the ground. It was on their path, close to the pond that Robin had made him dig out. It would be after the frogs, maybe, or even his fish. He slapped the window. The fox turned to him. It didn’t run. It didn’t even look as if it felt vaguely threatened and soon put its nose back to the grass. The garden light clicked off and then came instantly back on again. Its light fell over the bench that was his wife’s favourite place to sit.

  There was a happier vision of his wife that he was sometimes able to recall. It was late spring a few years earlier and the garden had been an assault of colours and scents and she was sitting on that bench. She looked so at ease and peaceful. He handed her a drink and she smiled up at him and just announced from nowhere that here and with him was her favourite place in the whole world. He could still remember her smile: big and bright. She’d never looked happier. But that was not the recurring vision that punctured his nights and invaded his days, and it was no longer the image that came to mind the second anyone said her name. Instead, it was that flash of light, that suspended scream. It was as if the crash had taken her so suddenly from his world, it had also scrubbed her very memory at the same time.

  Harry’s heart was racing and his adrenalin flowing again. He still held the glass tumbler and took a step back from the sink. The fox was still out there, moving again slowly but enough to drag his eye. He slapped the window again but it still didn’t move away. He put down his glass of water and balled his hand into a fist, winding himself up into a frenzy. The window shook with the force and he was shouting, too, his booming voice adding to the strength of the blows. The window flexed as if it might go in. He took a step back and his right hand swept up the glass of water. He brought it down in the sink and it smashed instantly. In the darkness he could hear splintered pieces bounce off the window behind, skid along the work surface and scatter across the floor.

  The sound broke through his rage. He was left leaning forward, his breathing heavy from the exertion. He shook his head. Maybe this was what they had meant about him not being able to relax? He needed something to change; he needed closure. He couldn’t go on like this. They couldn’t go on like this. His mind filled with the image of his youngest daughter propped up in that hospital bed, blood seeping through the bandage around her self-inflicted wound. Except it wasn’t self-inflicted. None of this was.

  His mind now rushed with a blur of options but only one had any clarity to it. He pushed back off the unit and went quickly to his bedroom, turning on the lights as he went. There was no chance of him going back to sleep now and anyway, that was the furthest thing from his mind.

  * * *

  The traffic lights changed and Jack stared right into the lurid green light. The whole unit fidgeted in the strong wind. The harsh light flooded the interior of his car and when he closed his eyes to it, he could still see a blob of green. The car horn behind him snapped his eyes back open. He selected first gear and turned right to join the Ashford Road. The Ports Café was a few hundred metres further. This time it was a left turn onto the rutted surface. He had come the long way and he was late. He had considered not turning up. He could have just kept on driving and seen where he ended up, but he knew he had to show. Anytime he considered making a run, he just had to remind himself of the text message his mum had sent him, letting him know that his friend from the café had turned up at her house. She said there was no message; he just wanted him to know. Of course he did.

  When Jack pushed through the door and scoured the interior of the café, his friend was nowhere to be seen. There was a clock on the wall, the hands fashioned out of rusty knives and forks that showed he was ten minutes late. The café was empty, hardly surprising for just gone four in the morning. He walked to the counter and the same waitress appeared from the kitchen area almost immediately. Despite the time of day, she looked wide awake — on edge even. She ripped a piece of paper from the top of a pad, leant over it and stayed looking down, her pencil readied for the order. Jack considered talking to her again, asking her what the hell was going on, but everything about her, the tension in her body language, her quick short breaths, the speed with which her eyes had met with his and then dropped to the floor, told him that the last thing she wanted was a conversation with him.

  ‘A white coffee, please. As strong as you can make it, though. I haven’t exactly been sleeping well.’

  The woman pushed off the counter, her pencil dropping onto the empty pad as she did. She went straight to the coffee machine.

  ‘I’ll bring it over,’ she said. Her voice sounded hoarse.

  Jack walked to his usual seat. The door opened as he sat down and the man stood in the doorway to stare. Jack stared right back. He was beyond being intimidated anymore; he was tired — exhausted really. His confused mind couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly. From leaving his house earlier that evening he had driven to a spot he knew on the North Downs that overlooked Langthorne. He’d made his car as warm as he could and put his chair right back. But sleep hadn’t come. He was beginning to think he might never sleep again.

  The man in the entrance half turned, his bandaged hand hooked around the door. Jack knew that he was meant to get up and follow him out, that the man had no intention of staying.

  ‘I’ve got a coffee coming. I’m drinking it,’ Jack said. He crossed his arms to emphasise his point.

  ‘You’re late!’ snapped the man.

  ‘You’re later,’ said Jack.

  The man’s lips curled into a sneer and he paced across the floor and pulled out the chair opposite. He sat down heavily and leant right forward. He had his dressed hand balled into a fist that he caressed with the other. Jack ignored his stare as his coffee arrived — plus a black coffee for the man. The waitress put down the drinks silently and then she was gone.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Jack jabbed his thumb towards the kitchen area where the waitress had stepped out of sight. The man opposite glared back. Jack was considering if he’d ever seen him blink before. He had a sudden urge to throw his hands out, to try and make him flinch, to get some sort of reaction at least — anything to get a sign of something human.

  ‘Tonight’s expression of loyalty is yours,’ the man growled. ‘We are so close to everything that we desire.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Access.’ The man licked his lips and his nostrils flared with excitement.

  ‘Access to what?’
>
  ‘You have stepped a long way to know nothing about the path you have trodden. You should have kept your eyes open.’

  ‘Honestly, I love the way you talk. It’s very cute and I bet it gets all the girls. But you should know that I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept for days. I’ve seen things I never wanted to see and after last night . . . what we did . . . I’m a little bit fucked up right now, okay? So you’ll forgive me for not quite having a clue where the hell I am headed. What the fuck does access mean?’ Jack could feel himself getting angrier. The man repositioned his hands and snatched his dressing off. As it was folded back it flashed an angry red. He rolled the dressing up and stuffed it in his pocket. The palm of his left hand faced towards Jack, propped on the table at the elbow. A thick blob of blood leaked from the middle of the torn skin. It looked like a piece of shredded meat. Jack couldn’t help but watch the blood roll down his wrist and out of sight. His brave front went with it. The man pulled a clean dressing from another pocket. He ripped it out of the packet and applied it while he spoke.

  ‘Access means everything. This world is controlled by those with access. You want to succeed in this world, you want to be someone, you have to earn your access — you have to prove you are loyal. We are close. This is our final task.’ The man finished dressing the wound on his hand. He reached into a pocket and flicked a small rectangle of white card onto the table. Jack hesitated, but he did pick it up. He spun it over. The other side was busy with typed font. He read the words through the middle.

  ‘Who the hell is Maddie Ives?’ he said. The man didn’t answer, just stared right back, his eyes still unblinking, his growing excitement obvious. Jack looked back to the card and scanned the other words on there too, below the name was a rank and contact details and in the top corner was a crest he recognised.

  ‘A police officer? You have got to be kidding me!’

  The man’s expression was suddenly more serious, his cheeks rippled where it looked like he was biting down hard. ‘I don’t kid. The final task is to be a statement. A statement that cannot be argued, that cannot be questioned, that cannot be bettered.’