‘And then what, what happened next?’
Abigail’s face changed, like she was recalling something relevant, something potent. ‘He just stopped. Stopped right there in the middle of the room and looked straight at me. I could see the glint of his eyes from the street lights. And I just stared back. He was looking at me, right at me. And then I had the weirdest thought…’
York raised his eyebrows.
‘I wasn’t scared of him. Not one bit.’
8
‘How was the girl?’
York took a seat on the edge of Newport’s desk. ‘She’s sorry she hit you.’
‘She said that?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘She say anything else? Like how she came to be alone in that apartment?’
York nodded, his thick locks bouncing over his forehead. ‘Three days ago, Michael and Harriet Fuller told their daughter they’d be back later that day. They were going out all afternoon “on business”. They never came back.’
‘She not think to call the police?’
‘She said her parents left her all the time, it was nothing new. They went to Thailand once and left her for three weeks.’
‘You’re kidding! She’s ten.’
‘She expected them back at any time. Not that she was devoid of visitors.’
Newport frowned.
‘Don’t get excited. She described pretty much every five-foot-something this side of the Thames. By all accounts it could’ve been me.’
‘Was it you?’
‘Funny.’
Seconds ticked by, an odd silence hanging between them. She wanted to ask York why he looked like shit again, but she knew that'd piss him off. His red-raw eyes were embedded in charcoaled skin around his eye sockets. He looked so desperately in need of sleep. Or food. Or both.
‘She tell you anything useful at all, or are we still blowing smoke?’
Her partner slowly shook his head: No.
The thing about spending so much time with somebody was you got to know a hell of a lot about them. You got to know their little tells and giveaways. York was lying, and he’d been lying to her quite a bit lately. God only knew why. He used to tell her everything. Still, it was lucid to her, and probably only to her, that Abigail Fuller had told him something which he felt prudent to keep from her. Now wasn’t the time to press him.
‘Have you looked at the riddle?’ he asked at last.
‘No, I’ve been doing my nails. Come on, guv, what do you think I’ve been doing?’
‘Any joy?’
‘There’s been a lot of head-scratching going on.’
She examined her partner’s face, noticing his glazed eyes. He was looking at the large wall clock over her shoulder.
‘Shit,’ he uttered, springing from his seat. He pushed through to the window overlooking the building’s fascia.
‘What is it?’ she whispered catching up.
Others joined them at the window, a collage of eyes tracking the figure crossing the tarmac casually.
She understood. There he was, the messenger in the green hooded sweater, walking nonchalantly onto the scene.
His face buried under the hood, everything about this person looked average. Was it the same man whom Abigail Fuller had seen, she wondered? Blue jeans, black shoes or trainers, and that fucking sweater, masking anything of descriptive use.
At the fence towards the end of the building opposite, the man stopped. He leaned back against the panels and dug his hands into his pockets, settling himself in for a wait.
She checked her watch. They had one hour.
*
‘Okay everybody, listen up,’ yelled York over the buzz of tension. ‘Our man across the street is here for our solution to the riddle. If we don’t already know the answer then everybody needs to get their eyes down and come up with ideas. If that man walks away with nothing, a young girl is going to pay for our mistakes.
‘I know that some of you feel like puppets playing this man’s game, I’ve heard a few of you talking. But the alternative is to sit on our hands and do nothing, hope the killer won’t make good on his threat. From what I can gather about this man so far, he’s not going to do that. And if we wake up to another body tomorrow, I want to believe in my gut that we did everything we could to prevent it from happening. For now, you, me, we are puppets, and we don’t have the luxury of controlling our own strings. But if it’s what it takes to get closer to this guy, then we'll do as we're told until he makes a mistake. And he will make a mistake, mark my words. So, let’s get to it. Throw your ideas my way.’
Up on the whiteboard, the riddle had been jotted neatly in block capitals.
An apple begins with me and age too. I am in the midst of a man and foremost in every apprehension. You will find me in everyday and see me in all autumns. It's a pity that you cannot see me in the night, when run must I, hidden from sight. What am I?
Standing before the board, York read the puzzle for the hundredth time. All he saw was the same few sentences of nonsensical bullshit.
Newport joined him. ‘We’re running out of time.’
York closed his eyes.
‘Does any of that make sense to you?’ she asked.
‘Should it?’
‘They do say you're the genius around here.’
‘So I hear.’
‘So..?’
‘So tell me what you think, Holly! Don’t just rely on me.’
‘I don’t know, boss. My bloody eyes are sore, I‘ve read it that many times.’
He took a step back. ‘Imagine it’s a
