Page 111 of 36 Hours

The video had been full of bangs, taps, dark energy and terrified screams from Jared, ending, as they all seemed to, with passionate exclamations that it had been the most terrifying night of his life.

The comments were filled with statements of total belief and acceptance of his claims, even though he’d found what looked like old chalk marks of a pentagram on the stone floor of the boot room.

Chalk, still visible after fifty years.

His viewers clearly had no access to Google or they’d have known that the incident had never happened, and the house was an Airbnb property that he’d rented for the night.

She understood that he was making entertainment, but there was something inherently dishonest about allowing his viewers and fans to be hoodwinked.

Only one person in the comments had questioned the story’s authenticity, and that guy had pretty much been run out of town as a pile on of loyal fans had ensued.

Far more interesting to her, though, were the treasure hunt escapades. She’d now watched a few, and each episode was formulaic throughout.

The first clue outlined what lay ahead and the time needed to solve it.

The second clue came twelve minutes in.

The third clue came twenty-four minutes in.

The fourth clue, which contained a wow moment, was thirty-six minutes in, and so on.

Some clues were riddles, others were anagrams and some were just words that made no sense.

Every one ran to the same formula, and it was one that she recognised. It was a similar pattern they’d been following for the last thirty-one hours.

She was pretty sure Jared Truss was their Jester.

EIGHTY-FOUR

2P.M.

Every time Kim looked at her watch, she saw the face of a little girl looking back at her.

A little girl who was likely going to die if they didn’t find Nazeera in time.

And here she was pissing about at a scrapyard chasing the only lead they had.

‘Second home for you?’ Bryant asked.

He knew how much she loved spending time round scrapyards searching for rare motorcycle frames and parts, but not particularly this one.

Dickie, the owner, dressed in a shirt and tie and slacks, which for some reason annoyed her. The scrap business wasn’t for folks in shirts and ties. It should mean tee shirts, sweatshirts, oil-stained jeans and dirty fingernails. It was as though Dickie was trying to give it a legitimacy that it just didn’t need, and that made him seem disingenuous and not totally honest.

She’d bought a few bits from him years ago, but she’d since found other dealers that she preferred to buy from.

Nevertheless, his face showed a hint of recognition when she walked in the door.

It took all her energy not to roll her eyes. The reception area had been altered since her last visit. It was painted in a pastel blue with a couple of soft chairs and a coffee table. There was a self-serving coffee machine on a dresser-type cupboard and even a little basket of pre-packed biscuits.

The whole thing offended her sense of what a scrapyard should look like.

‘Do I know you?’ Dickie asked as she approached.

‘We’ve met,’ she acknowledged, taking out her identification.

He frowned. ‘I don’t think I know you in that way. Hang on, you build bikes,’ he said, demonstrating an impeccable memory.

‘I do indeed. I need to check on a vehicle you bought around six months ago.’