‘I’d detach myself from what I’m seeing.’
‘So detach yourself and read the first sentence again.’
An apple begins with me and age too…
Newport scanned the board. ‘What am I looking for?’
York took another step back. ‘I believe the trick with riddles is to apply everything you possibly can to one sentence, and then try to reattach the same logic to the remaining lines. Think about it, how does an apple ‘become?’
Newport shrugged.
‘I asked myself that question earlier,' said York. 'And I didn’t get it then. But now...’
An eerie quiet had fallen over the Pit. Others were listening to York, ears pricked tenaciously.
‘What?’ she probed.
York took a third step back and scanned the room. ‘You, come over here,’ he said, pointing out a lad in his mid-twenties who stepped confidently from the assembly. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘PC Dale Yates, sir.’
‘Dale, answer me something, what does your dad do for a living?’
The young constable frowned. ‘He’s a taxi driver.’
‘A cabbie?’ York shook his head and ushered Dale back into the gathering. In that same instant, the superintendent forced herself into the fray.
‘What’s going on?’ the commander questioned. ‘Some kind of mother’s meeting?’
‘Guv, perfect timing,’ said York. He grasped her by the shoulders and shuffled her to the middle of the floor. ‘Your father, what does he do for a living?’
Mason didn’t hesitate. ‘He’s retired.’
‘And before that?’
‘He was a beat copper. Nick, what’s going on –’
‘A flatfoot,’ he echoed excitedly. ‘And you became a copper too!’
‘So?’
‘So, you might say that the apple didn’t fall too far from the…’
A medley of muted voices completed the sentence: ‘Tree.’
Mason looked to Newport, bewildered.
‘Look at the whole thing,’ he urged. ‘An apple begins on a tree. And age? A tree can’t produce an apple until it’s of a ripe age.’
From the back of the room a voice piped up, ‘And the midst of a man? How does that fit in?’
York bit at his bottom lip as he pondered that. ‘The midst of a man, Dale,’ he said picking out the young constable again, ‘is called a..?’
‘Torso,’ Yates replied.
‘Or?’
‘A trunk!’ Newport cut in.
‘You see trees every day, and you see them down to their bare branches every autumn. We pay so much more attention to plants and trees in daylight hours because they're so much more beautiful in the sunshine. It’s not that we can’t see them at night, but we almost forget that they're there.’
‘But foremost in every apprehension?’ asked Mason. ‘How does that relate?’
Collapsing into the nearest chair, York exhaled heavily. ‘I don’t know. That’s the only bit that’s bugging me.’
A sudden hush fell over the Pit.
‘Okay,’ yelled Mason. ‘Let’s get an envelope prepped and bugged. We have precisely thirty-five minutes left, that should be plenty. If there're any volunteers to take the package out there, step forw–’
‘I’m taking it,’ York cut in. ‘I want to see what we’re dealing with.’
‘That might not even be our man down there, Nick. Chances are he’s just an errand boy. He probably doesn’t even know why he’s here. Someone’s most likely just bunged him a couple of hundred quid.’
‘I’m aware of that, guv, but I also think our guy believes himself so untouchable, he’d risk all just for the hell of it. This is his game, remember, and I'll be fucked if I know the rules.’
*
A warm breeze swept across the blacktop as York traversed the street. He could feel it against his face as he walked slowly forwards.
The messenger didn’t move as he was approached; he just waited, hands dug deep into his pockets, his face obscured. There was a menacing, in-control quality about him.
Six feet from his target York came to a halt and checked his watch. They were fourteen minutes ahead of deadline.
‘I have something for you,’ York said, breaking the ethereal quiet.
From somewhere nearby, a church bell pealed out to remind the good people of London it was time to show their blind devotion. The messenger's hands remained dangerously off-show.
‘A package,’ he added. ‘Is it alright if I come closer?’
Noiselessly the messenger pulled his left hand from his pocket and held it out open-palmed. York edged closer. Arm’s length away, he placed the package gently onto the messenger’s palm. It disappeared inside the hoodie.
York took a vigilant step back as the messenger pushed himself from the fence and began walking back the way he came.
‘You don’t have to do this, son,’ he appealed as the green sweater passed him. ‘Don’t be a part of this.’
The messenger didn’t stop, didn’t even hesitate.
York raised his hand. Further down the street two sets of headlights materialised and two separate car engines popped into existence.
Twenty yards behind, York picked up his pace and fell in behind the messenger. The green hoodie was easy to keep in sight on the quiet pavement, but as the target reached the end of the street, he ducked quickly around the corner.
‘Shit,’ York muttered, picking up pace. He hit the corner as the messenger climbed into the back of a black cab. Seconds later, one of the unmarked units pulled up next to him, Newport at the wheel.
‘Get in!’ she called.
He launched himself into the passenger seat. ‘He just got into that tax–’
‘I saw him. Does he know we’re following him?’
‘Probably.’
As she pulled from the curb, York heard a distinct whoop-whoop-whoop overhead. The Pit Bull had called in the choppers. Between the eyes in the sky and the bugged envelope, the messenger would have to disappear into thin air to slip away unseen.
Swinging to the left, the cab pulled gently onto Blackfriars, Newport a small procession behind. If the messenger knew he was being pursued he didn’t let it
