Wolf

  ‘I know.’ Cheryl opens her mouth and gives him a diamond-bright shopping TV smile. ‘But I’ve got good news too.’

  ‘I can almost see the light glinting off you.’

  ‘I know – blinding, isn’t it? Damn, it’s tough being this wonderful!’

  She swirls around, like she’s in some crazy advert for the perfect wife, and walks across the office, sashaying her backside, one hand held up at her shoulder – the index finger beckoning him coyly.

  He follows her to a bookcase where an old-fashioned CD player sits, its lights on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your good news.’

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  She flips open the lid of the CD, switches on an angle-poise and twists it round so it shines full on the underside of the lid.

  ‘Ta-da.’

  He feels in his pocket for his glasses, puts them on and peers at it, carefully. There is a small sticker there. It’s a triangular symbol: black on yellow, a sunburst in the centre of the triangle. The symbol from the ring.

  He closes the lid and opens it, as if he’s going to find an explanation for what the sticker means.

  ‘It’s a laser hazard symbol,’ says Cheryl. ‘I recognized it the moment I saw the photos of the ring. We deal in microwave technology, uplink and telecommunications; our speciality is free space optics, which has a huge reliance on lasers. You walk through our factory floor and you see this symbol everywhere – it’s pasted on pretty much every work station in the place. If I hadn’t recognized it, I should have been shot.’

  Caffery shakes his head and pockets his glasses. Not the Masons but something far less arcane, far less mystical and something so close to hand. It’s probably stickered under the lid of his CD player at home.

  ‘So he’s probably a laser specialist,’ Cheryl continues. ‘And that narrows down the places he could have moved on to. Which is the good news.’

  ‘The bad news?’

  ‘Ah yes.’ She holds up a varnished fingernail. ‘The bad news.’ She goes back to the filing cabinet, where there is a second tray, also bulging. She brings it back to the desk and puts it down.

  He looks at it, then raises an eyebrow at her, wondering if this is a joke. ‘I thought you said you’d narrowed it down.’

  ‘This is narrowed down.’

  ‘But there are …’

  ‘I know. Hundreds. It’s a crazy industry.’

  Caffery shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Caffery. I wish I could have been more help. You’re welcome to borrow these, if you want. I’d like them back.’

  Caffery sighs. ‘Yeah, thank you,’ he mumbles. Then in an attempt at manners he forces an uncomfortable smile. ‘Thank you. To get all this together – it must have taken … I don’t know …’

  ‘Four hours. From the moment you emailed me.’

  ‘You were always going to talk to me?’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course.’

  ‘All that stuff about the girlfriend? The one who’s such a pervert she wanted to hear the gory details?’

  ‘I made it up. I’m not even gay – I’m a plain old hettie.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. Quite fancy you, if you want the truth.’

  ‘And Daddy?’

  ‘Made that up too. My dad’s been dead six years. I worked to get this job.’

  Caffery sighs. Shakes his head and looks down at the folder in his hands, not quite knowing what to say. ‘Well,’ he says after a while. ‘That’s OK – because I made up all the stuff about Malcolm Bliss too. I mean he was nuts – a real pervert – but he didn’t eat anyone’s head. Or carve crosses in their chests.’

  Cheryl nods. ‘I know,’ she smiles. ‘I know he didn’t – I know you were making it up.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because you’re just like me. Even if you don’t know it, you’re walking a tightrope. And there’s a huge part of you wishing someone would just push you off the edge.’

  Hog Roast

  THE POLICE CAR doesn’t have its blues-and-twos flashing, but it does have its headlights and interior lights on and the radio cackling full blast. Both front doors are open like wings and the two cops stand with their arms resting on the doors, watching the Chrysler wind its way down the driveway.

  Honig gets out. He’s dressed in a dinner jacket, the bow tie half undone. This is Oliver’s. They’ve only found one in the house, so Ian the Geek has covered his shirt with a camel coat which they’ve discovered in a wardrobe. He keeps it buttoned, just revealing the white collar, and he’s taken off his distinctive glasses.

  They stop the Chrysler ten foot from the electronic gates so they don’t drive over the pressure sensor and cause the gates to open automatically. Honig gets out and walks to the gates, bending down to open them manually.

  ‘Sorry.’ When the gates have opened he approaches the police car – and stands with his hand resting on the newel post. ‘The guy who’s coming to fix them has been “definitely coming” for two days now. So here’s us having to come down to the gate every time someone turns up.’

  ‘Looks like you were on your way out anyway,’ says the smaller of the two cops – a guy in his twenties who is already losing hair at his temples. He nods at Honig’s dress shirt. ‘Somewhere nice?’

  Honig looks down at his clothes. Shakes his head and makes a face as if it’s all a big embarrassment. ‘I know. Has to be done though – Mum and Dad need someone to, you know, keep up appearances. The local hunt are having a charity barbecue in Blagdon. I can picture it now – actually, I don’t want to picture, but I’ll do it anyway. Still, it’s a hog roast. Every cloud and all that.’

  ‘Hog roast?’ The bigger cop grimaces. ‘Don’t – it’s torture.’

  ‘He’s on a diet,’ says the one with the receding hair. ‘Six kilos by midsummer. Don’t think he’ll make it.’

  ‘Too many donuts?’ Ian the Geek tries to make the comment sound witty and convivial, but it fails miserably. The atmosphere lowers a fraction. There’s a pause. The larger one eyes Ian the Geek carefully. Then, taking his time, he gives a slow laugh.

  ‘Actually, I can’t stand donuts. In fact my weight is a matter of genes and I could eat half of what you eat and, do you know what? I’d still be fat. But that’s the problem with stereotypes, Mr …?’

  ‘Raven,’ Honig interjects quickly, before Ian the Geek can dig himself any deeper. ‘He’s my friend Julian Raven and I’m Kiran Anchor-Ferrers.’ He holds out his hand to shake. ‘This is my parents’ place.’

  The officer pauses. He’s still giving Ian the Geek a sideways glance as he leans forward and shakes Honig’s hand. Then he steps back. Adjusts his radio and pulls back his shoulders a little. ‘They here, are they – your parents?’

  ‘No, you’ve missed them. They’re in Scotland. Or rather, my mother’s in Scotland, my father …’ Honig looks at his watch and waves a hand vaguely in the air. ‘Well, he’s somewhere over the Lake District if SleazyJet are flying on time – we’re just back from dropping him at Bristol Airport.’

  ‘I think I saw you,’ says the smaller one. ‘Earlier. Over there – in that lay-by?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Honig reaches in his pocket for his phone. ‘I’ll give him a call, if you want? Is it them you want to speak to?’

  ‘No no, it’s just a routine enquiry. I’m sure you can help us, Mr Anchor-Ferrers.’ He inclines his head to Honig, then Ian the Geek. ‘And your friend, Mr Raven.’

  Honig takes the smile off his face abruptly. ‘OK, OK. If you want to make a joke, do – be my guest.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ve clearly got a problem with me having a’ – he makes inverted commas with his fingers – ‘friend.’

  The cops exchange glances. The bigger one sighs. ‘I’m sorry if we gave that impression. It wasn’t our intention, everyone has a right, to his or her sexuality.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound genuine. In fa
ct it sounds like you’ve got that from one of those courses they send you on.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.’

  Honig shakes his head. ‘No. I’m sorry. It’s just that Julian and I? We’ve seen it all – been through a lot. We don’t want any trouble, but we have got used to having to defend our choices.’

  ‘We’re not here for trouble.’

  ‘Well, if you are, Julian and I will deal with it in a civilized way. Although a legal process is never an easy choice, sometimes it’s the only choice. I’m blessed in that I’ve got the money to carry it all the way through to the end. Let’s say that every time lawyers have been involved, no matter how much it’s cost, I’ve made a point for every brother, every sister out there. We get called bolshie, but frankly, if we don’t do it, who will?’

  The smaller officer reaches into the car. He pulls out a pocket book. His attitude has changed completely. He’s gone from swaggering to formal. ‘Mr Anchor-Ferrers, Mr Raven, let’s bring this whole thing on to a calmer footing. Is that OK?’

  Honig and Ian the Geek exchange looks. Ian the Geek shakes his head and puts his hands into his armpits as if he’s trying to subdue them, stop them hitting someone. He raises his chin and stares at the stars.

  Honig turns his scrutiny to the cop’s notebook. ‘That looks worrying. Is everything OK? You must be here for a reason other than to harass us.’

  ‘Yes,’ says the taller one. ‘And whether everything is “OK” or not rather depends on your perspective.’

  ‘That’s not the most promising comment I’ve ever heard. Sounds ominous.’

  ‘Someone local is missing.’ The cop takes a couple of paces towards the house and stands, squinting up at it, as if he’s an estate agent sizing it up for the market. ‘It’s a house-to-house enquiry – just to pick up if anyone’s seen anything strange. Just to build a picture.’

  ‘A missing person.’ Honig manages to get the words out and make them sound innocent. In his head, though, he’s seeing the intestines again. The shiny, ruddy line they made in the branches. The three measuring jugs in the boot of the car. ‘And under what circumstances is this person missing?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, it’s probably nothing at all. It’s not someone who is known for their reliability. Spends a lot of time in the Cart and Horses, according to the landlord – you know what I’m saying. But we have to check to make sure nothing untoward has happened.’

  ‘Not someone known for their reliability? Who might that be?’

  ‘Ginny Van Der Bolt. Van … Der … Bolt. She lives down in the village.’

  Honig swallows. Although he doesn’t let it show, he has a moment where he wants to put his hand back on the gate, just to steady himself. Not the woman in the yellow house. Closer to home than that.

  ‘Mr Anchor-Ferrers? Are you …?’

  ‘I’m fine. Of course.’ He recovers himself. ‘Perfectly fine. It’s just – Ginny – she cleans for my parents. So I know her.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I mean, I really don’t have many dealings with her. My mother generally does.’

  ‘But she comes up here once a week?’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s twice when we’re all here, once if we’re not, just to check everything’s OK.’

  ‘Your mother – has she mentioned anything about Ginny recently? Anything on her mind?’

  Honig shakes his head slowly. ‘No. I mean, not that I can recall. Is something … I mean, you haven’t found anything? No … evidence of her?’

  ‘She didn’t have any problems at home? No upsets with boyfriends? Her ex?’

  ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘Would your mother know more? Have you got her number?’

  The taller cop pulls out a business card and a pen and holds them out. Honig leans against a tree and carefully writes out a number the company uses – one that will always be answered by an anonymous sounding answer service. He hands it back, saying, ‘I know she said she was going to be out of signal for a while. You know what it’s like up in Scotland.’ He looks from one face to the other, licking his lips, not sure who to direct the question to. In the end he turns to the diet cop. ‘You do know about what happened here, don’t you? In this area.’

  The cop looks up at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The teenagers – back in the nineties?’

  There’s a pause, then recognition dawns. ‘Minnet Kable? Yeah, we know. Everyone round here knows about that.’

  ‘And …’ Honig says searchingly. ‘And I suppose it’s nothing to do with him?’

  ‘No.’ The cop flips another card out of his pocket and hands it to Honig. ‘Nothing to do with him – unless it’s his ghost.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He died about a week ago. Never got let out of Rampton. If your mother calls, get her to give me a ring, would you? Don’t worry her – it would just be nice to have a quick chat.’

  Honig stares at him blankly. The cop shakes the card at him and Honig snaps out of it, takes the card hurriedly. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Enjoy the hog roast.’

  ‘We’ll try to.’

  The police get into the car and fasten their seat belts. The big one starts the engine and the car reverses in a crunch of gravel. It spins into a three-point turn then heads back down the road in the direction of Compton Martin. Neither Honig nor Ian the Geek speak until the car has completely disappeared and the sound has dwindled into silence. Now it’s just the faint click click click of crickets in the field, and the soft shush of a breeze going through the corn.

  Honig turns to look at Ian the Geek. The Geek is staring back at him, eyes like open spaces.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Honig says. ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue either.’

  The Cellar

  THIS IS SO fucked up it isn’t true. So fucked up. Just like Lucia said, it’s all going wrong. Honig paces back and forth in the kitchen. He and Ian the Geek have made a show of setting off for the hog roast, in case the cops have bothered to stop and check, but now they are back at the house. For hours they’ve been trying to make sense of it and decide what to do. But they’re getting nowhere.

  The Chrysler, which neither of them cares about hiding any more, is parked directly next to the front door. They’ve left the interior light on. Every instinct is telling Honig to dump everything and run. But Pietr Havilland will find them. They could go on threatening Oliver, but even if he retracted what he’s told his agent, he’ll be able to come after Gauntlet Systems at a later date. Time is running out. Something beyond all this is at work – something that’s outside all Honig’s understanding. He cannot for the life of him figure out what is happening.

  He takes deep breaths and for the hundredth time talks himself through the list of realities, hoping to comb some sense out of it all.

  1. There is no phone line up here.

  2. The only phone signal is at the bottom of the lane where the cops are cruising around like sharks.

  3. The Anchor-Ferrers’ cleaner is missing.

  4. It was someone’s guts he and Ian the Geek took into the forest in three jugs this morning. They were human. The sweetcorn – the filling – the alcohol. (Someone not known for their reliability. Someone who spends a lot of time in the Coach and Horses, you get what I mean?)

  5. Minnet Kable is dead.

  This last detail is the biggest mind-melt of all. He has double-checked that Kable is indeed dead. He is. No mistake about this. There are messages on the phone that Ian the Geek overlooked – he checked the emails, but the text messages from Gauntlet and various others he hadn’t bothered to read. Ten days ago Minnet Kable died from complications of lung cancer in the medical wing of Rampton high-security facility. Honig’s fury with Ian the Geek pales into insignificance against his complete and utter bewilderment. What the fuck is happening here? And how long can he wait until his nerves unzip completely?
/>
  The shadows outside have been long and sharp, but now they are getting muddy as ditchwater and twilight is sliding into darkness. He hadn’t intended spending another night in this place but he still can’t make up his mind, which way to leap. He has changed out of the dinner jacket into his own clothes, but Ian the Geek is still dressed for the ‘hog roast’. His face is red and congested because he’s started drinking – a bottle of wine he found in the rack by the window. A cigar sits in an ashtray on the mantelpiece. The tobacco and alcohol go against all the rules, but the situation has got to both of them.

  The moment they came back from the encounter with the cops both men went and checked every door, every window. They gave Oliver his medication and checked on Matilda and Lucia, who are still perfectly healthy and alert – as healthy as you can be after three days in shackles. There is absolutely nothing, no evidence to suggest that anyone has been at the house. Yet something feels wrong.

  Honig wafts the air with his hand, half hoping the smoke from Ian’s cigar will mask the smell that still permeates every centimetre of the kitchen.

  ‘Are you sure you washed out those jugs?’ he says. ‘It still fucking stinks in here.’

  Ian the Geek nods. Pours another glass of wine. Honig glares at him. The guy is really irritating him. He’s got almost as much of the money as Honig has been paid, and has done half the work. He’s fucked up from start to finish. From gathering up those innards, to not being able to get the landline working, to not checking the texts from Havilland about Kable’s death. There is every chance that when he arrived four days ago he didn’t search the place efficiently.

  Bad-temperedly he snatches Ian the Geek’s cigar and throws it into the sink. Ignoring the other man’s indignation he picks up the torch, goes to the cellar door, unlocks it and opens it a small way. It makes a slight groan. The smell from down there is foul. Truly disgusting. Honig licks his lips and looks down at his feet in his clean shoes – they’re going to get trashed. Then he realizes he’s standing where he cleaned up the blood stains two days ago from where Ian the Geek carried the intestines through the house. Something niggles at him; somewhere in the back of his head in a place he keeps all the things he doesn’t want to address head-on, it nudges at him briefly.