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

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘So she can see?’

  The man took out the large knife and moved it from one hand to the other.

  ‘When she sees what we are capable of, she will not fight, she will not argue. She will be ours. Take hold of her and turn her towards me so she can see. The younger one is mine — be sure to show her! Now, find your place!’

  The man turned away and was quickly invisible again. There was the sound of movement as he must have climbed higher but it soon stopped, leaving just the gentle hissing of the sea behind him.

  Jack turned towards it. He was standing at the edge of the path. The trees were younger on his side, the trunks nowhere near thick enough to shield him from view, but there was a thick bush planted where the wooden fence made a corner. It would be thick enough to hide him from the view of a casual runner, he was sure of it. He managed to get himself moving and ducked stiffly behind it. He shifted his weight onto one bent knee and leaned a little to peek out. He could see twenty metres or so down the path. He still couldn’t see anyone, but now there were rhythmic footfalls — two sets. They were getting closer. A loose stone was kicked and skipped across the concrete towards him. He took another deep breath. He glanced for a moment at the knife gripped tightly in his right hand. He could feel his heart beating hard as he tried to console himself, his head shaking from side to side, his lips mouthing over and over, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t have a choice, I don’t have a choice!’

  The footfalls were louder. He closed his lips tight and held his breath.

  * * *

  As Harry strode across the silent road, his feet kicked something loose. He heard it skip and roll across the path by his feet. He didn’t look down to see what it was. His attention was in front of him, on whatever might halt his progress, like the wheelie bin pulled roughly across his path. It had two plastic half-lids that, when shut, met in the middle. Now they hung open so the stench of rotting detritus washed over him like a wave. It did nothing to stop his advance.

  He stopped at the front door. It was as he had already assessed: wooden construction, inward opening. The handle hung limp and at an angle as if it was broken — ineffective at least. Sure enough he was able to push it open with his gloved hands. He paused. He could feel the pulse in his temple and his chest at the same time. The door gave him access to a sparse porch with just a crumpled mat on the floor, covered in dried mud and leading to a more solid-looking door with a handle that hung like it should. He stepped forward onto the mat, which crunched under his feet, and his mind flickered with doubt for the first time that morning. This door would surely be locked. He couldn’t knock for access. He wasn’t intending for people to see him.

  He considered that he didn’t know exactly what he was there for. His right hand rested on the door handle, his left was flat against the surface of the door, and he had positioned his feet further back so he was leaning against it, ready to push. But what then? He hadn’t thought this through at all. Harry dipped his head. This was so unlike him. He was running on pure emotion — something he never did. Harry’s strength was his ability to be rational, no matter what was going on. His colleagues had called him cold in the past, cold and unfeeling. This was a massive mistake. His grip loosened on the door handle until his hand slipped off completely. His left still pushed against the door. His eyes lifted to it. His sleeve had fallen down a little, enough to expose the sliver of a scar before his leather gloves covered the rest. The scar on the top of his wrist where the surgeons had needed to push a pin to meet with a metal rod that ran up his forearm. The scarring was worse on the other side: a jagged line, an angry and raised flash of red. Harry didn’t need a physical reminder of that day, of that incident, of the moment his life changed forever. But he had got it. Fate had chosen to brand it on his skin — or at least Daniel Wootan had. Some of his scar was further concealed under a sleek-looking smartwatch, a present from his daughters so he would answer them when they needed him. Not that he felt like he could help. He had never felt so useless, so utterly lost. They wanted their mother back. They needed their mother back. Melissa was still adding to her physical scars. In time they might heal, but the psychological scars could only ever fade — but not while Wootan wasn’t getting what was coming to him, what he deserved for what he did. The justice system had let Harry and his girls down. He knew why he was here: to put it right, to start the healing process.

  His pulse had quickened, the beat so strong in his head that it felt as if his brain might burst out of the sides. He took a step back then shifted his weight forward, his right foot lifting at the same time to meet with the door halfway up. The kick was solid. Harry was a big man and every part of him was behind it. The door crashed in and bounced off a wall on the other side. Harry was already stepping through. He was lost again, back to running on pure emotion, no longer caring about any noise he was making. Once his foot found the bottom step in the dimly lit hallway, he swept up the stairs two at a time, his attention on the door numbers he passed, counting them up. Numbers one, two and three had been on the right side of the corridor on the ground floor; the first-floor landing had numbers four, five and six. The landing turned back on itself to another flight of stairs. Harry’s pace didn’t slow.

  The seven was missing on this door but the process of elimination had done its work. He didn’t stop at Wootan’s door. He didn’t try the handle either. He simply used his momentum and raised his foot. The door folded in. It clattered and thudded against the wall. Harry pushed through it. The light was low, just a triangular patch of light directly opposite where something was pulled roughly across the window. A man stood close enough to the window to be revealed by the poor light. Harry froze as he turned towards him. The man froze too. He was bent forward and there was something at his feet. Harry didn’t look at it, staying focussed on the man. It wasn’t Daniel Wootan — Harry was sure of that. He was too short.

  ‘He was just like this! When I got here!’ The man’s eyes were wide and unblinking. Harry took in the rest of the room: at the man’s feet was a mattress and someone was laid on it, the head almost at the man’s feet. The face was turned away, and Harry could just make out a clump of dark hair. ‘I think he’s dead!’ the man said.

  Harry found a light switch on the wall next to him. A single bulb cast a dirty orange glow. The figure on the mattress was still and the man standing over him had something in his hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ Harry forced the words through a throat that felt tight.

  The man looked down at the item in his hands. When he lifted his head to Harry again, his eyes were just as wide. ‘His wallet, okay? I was just looking. I wasn’t gonna take nothing, I swear! He’s dead, man — OD’d. The needle’s down there. There’s some brown left, too. I just woke up and he was like this!’

  The room was a bedsit. The bed, a low table and a sofa with a messy blanket on it comprised the only furniture. The table was cluttered. Several spoons were laid out, the stubby, distinctive types given out as part of needle exchange kits by drug charities. At least one of them was scorched black. There were paper filters next to a packet of baby-wipes, one of which was pulled out and looked to have a spot of blood on it. A ripped open sachet of citric acid lay on the floor.

  Harry moved forward to see the face of the figure on the floor. It was Wootan. His eyes were open, unmoving and glazed, but there was a quiver from the lips. He knelt down and slipped off the glove from his right hand. He pushed two fingers into Wootan’s neck. There was nothing. He pushed more firmly — a pulse! It was slow and very weak, barely registering. He wasn’t dead, but without intervention he would be very soon. Harry stood back up.

  ‘You’re police, right?’ the man said.

  Harry’s gaze was downwards, his jaw locked so tight with tension that he couldn’t answer. He was fighting the urge to lash out with his foot, but the word police seemed to cut through his haze. He seized on it. The man looked at him intently. He was still frozen, his stance unnatural, knees twisted an
d feet turned to fit between the mattress and the wall.

  ‘Look, I ain’t taking it!’ The man looked less shocked now, his expression more uncertain as he gestured with the wallet.

  ‘No.’ Harry managed finally. ‘I’m not police.’

  The man looked him up and down and seemed to relax. He moved the wallet back closer to his body and flicked through the compartments, his tongue running over his lips. Harry had pulled on a tatty hooded top, jeans and old boots along with his beaten old waxed jacket in his hurry to leave the house. He might not have looked like a police officer but criminals had an uncanny knack of seeing past their attire.

  ‘There ain’t nothing here to have, yeah? Nothing in his wallet and nothing here. I’ve looked. Wootsy never did have nothing. But I got dibs on the brown, yeah? I was first in.’ The man’s eyes fell hungrily to the cluttered table. Harry stepped back. He was back looking at the figure on the mattress, his eyes dragged to movement of the lips. He was still fighting for his last breath.

  ‘You take what you want,’ Harry said.

  ‘You see that!’ The man must have noticed movement from Wootan. ‘He ain’t gone! You know that CPR stuff? Compressions, right? You got a phone? We should call an ambulance!’

  Harry stepped towards the man. He was much shorter than Harry. He tried to step back but his heel was wedged against the wall. He arched his neck to meet Harry in the eyes.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Harry growled. ‘He’s beyond help.’ He fixed the man in a stare. He nodded, it was hurried, and his lips broke into an uneasy smile.

  ‘I get you . . . Fuck him! He ain’t no friend of mine, yeah? This was just some place to crash and he was taking a big rent. All he did was mug me off.’ The man chuckled. ‘And at least I know you ain’t no copper now, right?’

  Harry stepped away. He snatched a baby-wipe that was reaching out of the packet and rubbed Wootan’s neck where his fingers had searched for a pulse. He pushed the wipe into his pocket and slipped his leather glove back on. The man by the window now had his hands on his hips.

  ‘Ain’t no one else gonna be checking on him. You think I should call it in? I got a mate who’s got a phone. Wootsy ain’t got no family or friends no more. He pissed ’em all off! He could lay here for days, mate. I could call it in anonymous like.’ The man shrugged.

  Harry moved to the door and cast a last glance around the dingy room. ‘Let him rot,’ he growled.

  ‘You too then!’ The words followed Harry out of the door. There was laughter too, it sounded almost manic.

  Harry made it out of the house and left the door swinging behind him. He pulled out his phone, fumbled over it then pressed it to his ear. He was still hearing a dialling tone as he clambered into his car, then it cut to voicemail. He cursed, cut it off and tried again with the same result. He checked his new watch: 06:32. He’d been sure Maddie would be up. Usually she was out for a run at this time. He dialled again. This time he spoke when the voicemail finally cut in.

  ‘Hey, Maddie . . . It’s me.’ At that moment Harry regretted calling, it washed over him in a wave. He glanced back at the halfway house and hesitated. But he had to say something. ‘Look . . . I made a mistake. This morning. Just now. I just needed to talk. I know I made a mistake. I’m not after anything. I just wanted to talk about it.’ He exhaled and hesitated. ‘I guess this was what I was talking about, when I said about how we call each other for opinions — to run something past them. Maybe I should take my own advice. It doesn’t matter, okay? I’ll see you at work. It’s six thirty. I’ll make my way in now, I think. If you get in early maybe . . . Maybe we can get a coffee. Okay . . .’ He fizzled out, hung up and cursed again. The phone went back into his pocket and he started the car.

  He had been a fool.

  Chapter 20

  Harry’s face scrunched up as the car’s display read Maddie IVES calling. He was back in Maidstone’s one-way system, heading out.

  ‘Hey, Maddie.’

  ‘Harry, you okay?’ She sounded out of breath.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

  ‘Yes, you should. Like you said, that’s what we do. You sounded upset?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Okay, then. You still want that coffee, though? Maybe you can tell me just how okay you are?’

  Harry rubbed his head. His very first reaction had been to call Maddie. He didn’t even know why. Whatever his reason, it was fading now. Perhaps it was better he didn’t talk about it. Not straight away. Not until he’d considered what he should say. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was nothing, really. Moment of weakness.’ He waited for Maddie to answer. She took her time.

  ‘There’s this Harry Blaker I know. He’s the sort of bloke where there’s no such thing as a moment of weakness. I’ve turned back now. You’ve already ruined my run. I finally get Rhiannon out and I had to leave her to finish on her own! I have a training programme and we had a breakfast planned after. It’s all ruined, Harry. You did that. The least you can do is buy me a coffee.’

  ‘When you put it like that . . .’

  ‘Usual place. I need a shower, so I’m an hour away.’

  Harry glanced at the clock in the car. He’d probably need half that. It suited him. He could have some time on his own first. ‘An hour it is.’

  * * *

  Harry headed straight into work. When he moved through the Major Crime floor at Canterbury Police Station he was accompanied by the sound of clunking overhead as the sensors to the strip lights activated. The blinds were drawn; the night duty DC was based out of Margate, so the office would have been left empty since 11 p.m. The sensors were slower than he was and his office was still half dark when he sunk heavily into his seat. When the light did erupt above his head he had to narrow his eyes. He ran his hand over his face and pulled his cheeks down, trying to massage some life into them. His eyelids felt heavy and his monitor was reflective enough for him to see that they looked puffy, too. He was exhausted. He’d only managed a few hours sleep and, since waking, had been through just about every emotion. Now he just felt empty. And foolish. The feeling was amplified by the silence of his office and he was surrounded by reminders of what he was, of the career choice he had made. He considered what he had risked, what he might have done. He shook his head.

  Wootan was dead. Harry was sure of this. If he’d done what he could to save him he would almost certainly still be dead — but he hadn’t. He had walked away, and he was damned sure Wootan’s pickpocket had done the same. A few hours earlier and Harry might have considered this to be all that he wanted, but now he wasn’t so sure. The image of Wootan laid out on that mattress stuck in his mind while the conversation with the man stood over him played over and over. Daniel Wootan was the epitome of a miserable existence. His life was nothing and allowing it to ebb away meant nothing. It might even have been his preference. By contrast, Harry stood to lose everything. He shook his head again and thought about what he should do next. He was pretty certain there was no CCTV in that block; he had looked for it on the way in. There was nothing council-owned; he knew that at least. If Harry still had a mortgage, he would confidently have bet that on the man stood over Wootan, the only witness, snatching the heroin that had just taken his mate’s life and getting as much distance between him and that bedsit as he could. Harry’s mind flashed with the possibility that it was a bad batch, that it might take the man’s life, too, and then any possible lead back to him would be gone. He shook his head again — just for thinking it.

  He would talk to Maddie. He needed to talk to someone. Someone he could trust. He knew she was sensible. She made good decisions and she would be able to do so without all the emotion and the anger that he was struggling to control. Maybe he would take up that offer of the counselling, too. Maybe this PTSD was a thing — certainly he hadn’t behaved rationally. He looked over to the wardrobe in the corner of his office. He had some smarter trousers in there and a few shirts, a shaving kit and some shower stuff, too. Th
ere was a shower a few floors up. He felt like he needed it, as if a layer of filth and death was still clinging to him. It might make him feel better — more awake, at least — and Maddie would be here by the time he was done. He took a few more minutes just to sit, to try and calm his mind. When he walked out and towards the lift, the lights had to clunk on again.

  * * *

  ‘Good run?’ Harry dropped into a seat opposite where Maddie was playing with a sugar sachet. He pushed her drink towards her and she sat back. She was eyeing him the whole time.

  ‘No. The best bit about a run is not the start, when you’re cold and maybe a little stiff, or the end when you’re knackered and just want to go home. It’s the middle bit. I was just about getting there when you called.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to turn back.’

  ‘Rhiannon was delighted! She thought it meant she could turn back too. I had to be quite insistent. She needs the training.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Harry suddenly stiffened a little.

  ‘That the night duty DC had a query. That it was probably nothing but I said I would come in and take a look before they went off-duty. Nothing about you calling, don’t worry!’ Maddie smiled and her head cocked to one side. He knew she would be picking up on his tension. He would be exuding it and she was good at reading people.

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  ‘I’m playing with you, Harry, of course I am. Did you have a bad night?’

  ‘A bad night?’

  ‘Sleep. I assumed that was the issue?’

  ‘Oh, well . . . yes. But that wasn’t why I called. It was just a reaction. I think I just needed to speak to someone, you know. I wouldn’t have called — I know you’re into your running . . .’

  ‘A reaction? To something that happened at six thirty in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. I went out. Early. I don’t know what time.’ Harry was aware Maddie was staring at him. He was also aware that he’d started as if there was more to come. He was struggling to say it.