The Insider

‘Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is,’ Dillon said. ‘A lot of it’s just an optical illusion.’

Harry’s step faltered. Optical illusion. The phrase triggered a snap of electricity in her brain, and an image of her bank account showing €12,000,000 flashed into her head.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The paths are designed to lead people down the wrong turns. Psychological trickery.’ He sounded ten or fifteen feet away, but whether to her left or right, she couldn’t tell. ‘For instance, people tend to avoid paths that seem to go back the way they came. Stuff like that.’

Harry tried to see how this could have anything to do with her bank account. Could it have been some kind of trick? She shook her head. Some part of her brain had made a connecting leap, but she’d no idea why.

Feet scuffed against the clay behind her. She frowned. Had Dillon circled behind her? She checked over her shoulder, but all she could see was solid hedge. Her back tingled, and she geared up to a power-walk.

‘Ever hear the story of King Minos and the Labyrinth?’ Dillon’s voice was growing fainter.

‘King who?’

‘Old Greek legend. King Minos of Crete built this huge mazelike building called the Labyrinth. He used it as a prison for the Minotaur.’

Harsh breaths cut through the darkness behind her. She whipped her gaze around, stumbling against the hedge. Where the hell was Dillon?

‘What’s a Minotaur?’ she called out, not liking the note of panic in her voice.

‘A man-eating monster, half man, half bull.’

She jogged along the narrow path. The scuffing sounds behind her grew louder, more urgent, the breathing laboured. Harry spun round again and stared at the dark empty path.

‘Dillon? Is that you?’

Silence. A wood pigeon cooed overhead. The footsteps had stopped. Had she imagined them?

‘Harry?’

She whirled round at the sound of Dillon’s voice, straining to locate him. Somewhere far to her left.

‘Wait there!’ She lurched round a bend. ‘And keep talking so I can find you.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Just keep talking!’ She broke into a run, her heart thudding. ‘Go on about the Minotaur.’

‘Right. Well, the king locked the Minotaur up in the middle of the labyrinth and every year he sacrificed seven youths and seven maidens into the maze.’ His voice sounded stronger; she had to be nearly there. ‘They’d get lost, and eventually the Minotaur would eat them.’

Feet pounded on the track behind her. Harry gasped. She wheeled around a corner, the disorientation making her head spin. The sound of ragged panting tore after her through the dark. The path began to spiral, the bends so severe she could only see one step ahead. Something warm and damp tagged her shoulder from behind. Harry screamed and shook it off, sprinting deeper into the maze.

‘Harry! Are you okay?’ Dillon sounded somewhere up ahead. ‘Stay where you are, I’ll find you!’

Harry blundered out of her spiral and came up against a T-junction. Left or right? The scuffling behind her was like an animal sound. Man-eating monster, half man, half bull. She blanked the image out, and tore down the left-hand fork. The maze flung her into another twisting vortex.

She scrambled along the path, clutching on to the hedges. Rough branches cut into her palms. The firs snapped and she stumbled, her weak knee giving way. Someone thrashed through the hedges behind her, grunting. She clawed back to her feet, her head reeling.

Averting her eyes from the swirling path, she focused on the hedge. She grasped the woody stems, hauling herself round the tortuous bends. Suddenly, the twisting stopped, and she staggered into a wider stretch of path. She picked up speed, and crashed around the next corner. She slammed straight into someone’s chest and screamed.

‘Harry!’ Dillon grabbed her by the shoulders.

Her heart banged against her chest. She clutched on to him. ‘Someone’s there, someone’s running.’

He shot his gaze to the path behind her. The panting and crashing was closer than ever. Then suddenly the sounds died away.

‘What the hell –’ Dillon shoved her behind him and took a step towards the noise.

Harry yanked his arm. ‘No!’

Who knew what lay behind those hedges?

He looked at her, then back at the maze, hesitating. Then he grabbed her by the hand. ‘This way.’

He dragged her down a narrow path and plunged them both into a series of random turns, or that’s how it seemed to Harry. She raced after him as he zigzagged through the maze, his navigation never faltering. Branches scraped her arms and face as she ricocheted against the hedges. Then the path straightened out and a gap opened up in front of them. Together they burst through it, emerging at the side of the maze.

Dillon hauled her across the lawn. She flashed a backward glance at the massive hedge. It loomed above her like a black fortress. Then she tore after Dillon around the side of the house, to where his Lexus was waiting.

15 (#u3b73707e-90e5-5479-9343-230970466da0)

Leon turned the envelope over in his hands and studied it. It was slim and white, with the word personal printed above the cellophane window that framed his address. It was the type of envelope he’d normally toss into a corner with all his other unpaid bills, except for one important difference. This one was addressed to Harry Martinez.

He sank down on to the shabby sofa and tapped the envelope against one hand. The curtains of his bedsit were closed, even though it was almost noon, and the air smelled of stale sheets and chips from a brown paper bag.

How the hell had a letter meant for Harry Martinez ended up with his address on it?

Leon scratched his chest through his T-shirt. He needed to shower, but the thought of the vile bathroom across the hall made his bowels bunch up. He’d only got up so that he could call his wife, and after that he’d planned on crawling back to bed. But then the post had arrived.

Leon closed his eyes. Ever since he’d woken up, the enormity of last night’s poker losses had been pressing down on him like a ton of wet sand. He’d left O’Dowd’s pub with his wallet lighter by more than eighty thousand euros. Add that to the rest of his poker debts and his bill was now running close to a quarter of a million. Worst of all, he knew he’d be back in O’Dowd’s again tonight.

He squinted at the envelope in his hand. He reached over to the faded drapes and dragged them back a few inches, the curtain rings rattling like chains. A wedge of sunlight pierced his eyes, and he held the envelope up towards it. All he could see were wavy blue-and-white lines, the contents of the letter totally obscured.

The Prophet was responsible, no doubt about that. This was how he operated. Inexplicable letters, anonymous emails. Leon turned the envelope over again. He should just go ahead and open it. Nothing left to lose.

He set the letter down on the coffee table and stared at it. He didn’t like it that the Prophet knew where he lived.

The first contact Leon ever had from the Prophet had been through the post, ten years earlier in 1999. A thick brown envelope had arrived at his home in Killiney, and Maura had brought it up to him in his study, along with a glass of champagne.

‘Time you changed into your tux,’ she’d said, setting the glass by his elbow. They’d been invited to dinner by the chairman of Merrion & Bernstein, the firm of investment bankers where Leon worked.

‘Yeah, in a minute.’ He took the brown envelope from her and ripped it open. Inside was an official-looking document with a cover note attached.

‘How do I look?’ Maura’s voice was as seductive as honey, as she swirled the layers of her silver dress around her tanned legs. Ignoring her, Leon read the note and frowned.

Maura fidgeted. ‘Leon?’

‘You go on downstairs,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’