Guess Who Read online

  The rules are simple.

  But the game is not.

  At eleven years old, Morgan Sheppard solved the murder of a teacher when everyone else believed it to be a suicide. The publicity surrounding the case laid the foundation for his reputation as a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. He parlayed that fame into a gig as TV’s “resident detective,” solving the more typical tawdry daytime talk show mysteries like “Who is the father?” and “Is he cheating?”

  Until, that is, Sheppard wakes up handcuffed to a bed in an unfamiliar hotel room. Around him, five strangers are slowly waking up, as well. Soon they discover a corpse in the bathtub and Sheppard is challenged to put his deductive skills to the test. One of the people in the room is the killer. He has three hours to solve the murder. If he doesn’t find the killer, they all will die.

  An ingenious, page-turning debut, Chris McGeorge’s Guess Who matches the high-wire plotting of classic “locked room” mysteries into the unstoppable pacing of the modern-day thriller.

  GUESS WHO

  CHRIS McGEORGE

  A NOVEL

  Advance Praise for Guess Who

  “Guess Who boils with claustrophobic intensity. Packed with gripping twists and turns, Guess Who is an inventive, entertaining locked room mystery that kept me utterly hooked.”

  —Adam Hamdy, author of Pendulum

  “An ingenious twisty mystery in a totally unique setting.”

  —Claire McGowan, author of The Lost

  “An impressive debut and a sign of great things to come.”

  —James Oswald, author of Natural Causes

  “Chris McGeorge’s Guess Who is a fresh take on the locked room murder mystery. The plotting is intricate, the characters well drawn, and the pace never lets up as it drives headlong to the surprising end.”

  —David C. Taylor, Edgar® Award–nominated, Nero Award–winning author of Night Life

  Chris McGeorge has an MA in creative writing from City, University of London. He lives in England. Guess Who is his first novel.

  For my grandfather John Board

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Acknowledgements

  The school is quiet by the time I get back. My mum always used to say I was scatterbrained when I forgot stuff, but she never got round to telling me exactly what it meant. Looks like I’ve been scatterbrained again though. I knew it the second I looked in my bag, halfway home—I’d left it in the Maths room. My notebook, with tonight’s homework on it. I don’t want to let Mr. Jefferies down, so here I am.

  I slip back across the field and into the main entrance. There’s something really creepy about school after dark—when all of us have gone. Usually it’s loud and busy, but now the corridors are quiet and my footsteps sound like elephants stomping because they echo up and down, up and down. I don’t see anyone but a man dressed in green overalls, using that weird machine to clean the hall floor. He looks like he’s the most unhappy man in the world. Dad says if I don’t study, this is the kind of thing that’ll happen to me. I feel sorry for the man, and then I feel sorry that I feel sorry because pity isn’t nice.

  I start walking quicker and get to the Maths room. The door is half open. Mum always taught me to be polite, so I knock anyway. The door squeaks like a mouse as it opens.

  I don’t see him straight away. The door gets stuck on the papers and exercise books all over the floor. I recognize one and bend down to pick it up. Mine. Mr. Jefferies had collected them in at the end of class.

  I realize that something is very wrong, and I look up to see him. Mr. Jefferies, the Maths teacher, my Maths teacher. My friend. He’s hanging in the center of the room with a belt around his neck. His face looks a strange color and his eyes are so big he looks like a cartoon.

  But he’s not. He’s real. And it takes me too long to realize what it really is that I’m looking at—too long to see that this isn’t some kind of horrible joke.

  But as I look, there he is. Mr. Jefferies. Dead.

  And at some point, I start to scream.

  1

  Twenty-five years later...

  A sharp, undulating tone—drilling into his brain. But as he focused on it, it separated into ringing. In his head or out there—in the world, somewhere else. Somewhere that couldn’t possibly be here.

  Brring, brring, brring.

  Brring, brring, brring.

  It was real—coming from beside him.

  Eyes open. Everything fuzzy—dark. What was happening? The sound of heavy breathing—taking him a second longer than it should have to realize it was his own. His senses flickering on like the lights in a hospital corridor. And then, yes—he could feel his chest rising and falling, and the rush of air through his nostrils. It didn’t seem to be enough. He opened his mouth for more, and found it to be incredibly dry—his tongue rolling round in a prison of sandpaper.

  Was it silent? No, the brring, brring, brring was still there. He had just got used to it. A phone.

  He tried to move his arms and couldn’t. They were above his head—elevated—slowly vibrating with the threat of pins and needles. He could feel a ring of cold around both of his wrists—something cold and strong. Metal? Yes, it felt like it. Metal around his wrists—handcuffs? He tried to move his limp hands to see what he was attached to. A central bar running down his back. And he was handcuffed to it?

  Both arms were throbbing at the elbow—both bent at odd angles as he tried to maneuver himself. He was sitting up against this thing, whatever it was. But he was sitting on something soft—and felt his current unease was most likely because he had slipped down a bit. He was half sitting and half lying down—an uncomfortable arrangement.

  He braced himself, digging his feet into the surface and pushed himself up. His foot slipped, unable to keep any type of grip (shoes, he was wearing shoes, had to remember that), but it was enough. His bottom shuf
fled back so the strain on his arms was released. With the lack of pain focusing his mind, the blurs around him began to come into focus.

  The objects to his left were the first to appear—the closest. He saw a table, between whatever he was sitting on and a white wall. On the table, a black paneled cylinder with red digital numbers on it. A clock. Flashing 03:00:00. Three o’clock? But no—he watched it and it didn’t change, illuminated by the light of a lamp next to it.

  It hurt his eyes to focus on the light, making him realize the room was rather dark. He found himself blinking away sunspots and looking up at the white wall. There was a picture there, framed. A painting of a distant farmhouse across a field of corn. But that wasn’t what drew him to it. The farmhouse was on fire, red paint licking at the blue sky. And in the foreground there was a crude representation of a scarecrow smiling. And the more he looked at it, the more the scarecrow’s smile seemed to broaden.

  He looked away, unsure why he felt so unsettled by the picture. Now, in front of him he saw his legs and feet—black trousers, black shoes—stretched out over a large bed. The plump duvet had slid down and he had been scrabbling against the bunched-up sheets. Assorted dress cushions were scattered around him.

  In front of him was a familiar scene—would have been to anyone. Desk, small flat-screen TV, kettle, bowl full of coffee and tea sachets, a leather menu standing open on its side. There he finally saw the phone—far and away out of reach. He moved his head slightly to see a walk-in wardrobe to the front left. To the front right, a window—curtains drawn with the ghost of light creeping through.

  Unmistakable. This was a hotel room. And he was handcuffed to the bed.

  And it was all wrong.

  Three sharp tones, drilling into his brain. Brring, brring, brring.

  This was all wrong.

  2

  He didn’t know how long he sat there, listening to the ringing. Forever and no time at all. But eventually there was a new sound. A voice. A female voice. Slightly robotic.

  “Hello, Mr. Sheppard. Welcome to the illustrious Great Hotel. For over sixty years, we have prided ourselves on our excellent hospitality and vast range of unique comforts that you can sample while staying in your luxurious surroundings. For information on our room service menu, please press 1, for information on our newly refurbished gym and spa, please press 2, for room services such as an early wake-up call, please press 3...”

  Mr. Sheppard? Well, at least it was his name. They knew his name? Had it happened again?

  “...information on live performance in our bar area, please press 4...”

  Had he had too much, done too much? Twenty years of using and drinking, and using and drinking, he had started to think that too much was a concept that didn’t apply to him. But it had happened before. A grand blackout where he woke up somewhere else entirely. A rollercoaster of a fugue state, where he’d bought the ticket.

  “...information on the local area, such as booking shows, and transport options, please press 5...”

  But he knew how those situations had felt. And this wasn’t that.

  Because—It still wasn’t there. Where had he been? Before. Where—The last time he remembered. Now, a hotel room, and then—a figure danced around on the edges of his memory. A woman.

  He swallowed dry and ran his tongue over his teeth. There was something in them—the gray and rotting aftertaste of wine along with something chemical.

  “...for early checkout, please press 6, if you would like to hear your options again please press 7.”

  This was wrong. He shouldn’t be here.

  And the phone—the phone had gone silent. For some reason, no voice felt worse. If he could hear her, could she hear him? It’s a robot, just a robot. But the line could still be open. Worth a shot.

  “If you would like to hear your options again, please press 7.”

  He tried again to move his hands, to get some feeling back into them. He made quick fists with his palms. And when he had enough control, he braced himself and moved his wrists quickly against the central metal bar. The center of the cuffs clanged against it. The sound was loud, but not loud enough. You’re wasting your time. Just a robot.

  “If you would like to hear your options again, please press 7.”

  He opened his mouth, his lips ripping apart as though they hadn’t been open in years. He tried to say something, not knowing what. All that came out was a hoarse grunt. “If you would like to hear your options again, please press 7.” Silence.

  He opened his mouth. And what came out was something like a “Help.” Just a robot. Still not loud enough.

  Silence.

  And then the robot on the phone laughed. Not a robot. “Okay, Mr. Sheppard, have it your way. But you’re going to have to start talking soon. Can’t wait to see what you do next.”

  What? He didn’t have to time to think about the words because there came a terrible sound. The dull tone of a dead phone line. The woman was gone.

  He tried to calm down—his heart was racing in his chest. This wasn’t happening—couldn’t be happening. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just some bad dream, or some kind of new bad trip. He had been hitting it pretty hard lately. But as he thought it, he couldn’t believe it.

  It felt too real.

  Someone would come. Someone had to come. Because the staff obviously knew he was here, which meant the whole hotel knew he was here. And he couldn’t have handcuffed himself to the bed, so...

  Can’t wait to see what you do next.

  What was the point of the call? That’s the thing about a phone—you could pretty much be whoever you wanted to be and there was no way of knowing for real. Why would this woman robot/not a robot be calling him? He couldn’t reach the phone. So, this woman could be the one—the one who’d handcuffed him to the bed. The one who was playing some sick joke. And if she wasn’t a staff member, maybe that meant no one would come.

  No. This was a hotel. Of course someone would come.

  Eventually.

  He shut his eyes. And tried to slow his breathing enough to listen for anything outside of the room. Any thundering past, any suitcases rolling. But there was nothing. Silence.

  Except that wasn’t quite true.

  He felt it before he heard it. That prickling on the back of his neck. And then, very softly, the sound of breathing.

  He wasn’t alone.

  3

  He realized that it had always been there—such a natural sound that he didn’t register it. But, as he held his own breath, it became louder. Breathing. Almost silent—like the breaths of a specter. But it was there. Soft, shallow breaths.

  And the more he focused, the more he heard. It was all around him. Not just one person. How many? He couldn’t know. People—plural—in the room with him.

  He knew he had to open his eyes, but they refused. His brain was starting to connect dots that weren’t there—trying, fruitlessly, to make sense of it all. Was this some kind of PR stunt? His agent had warned him about stuff like this—the tabloids paying for a scandal. What more of a scandal than some kind of hotel room orgy?

  But it didn’t sit exactly right. Would they really abduct him, cuff him to a bed, just for a story? Not their style. And besides, he was fully clothed. The most disappointing orgy ever.

  Against all odds, he almost laughed. He was going crazy now too. Add it to the long list of things that needed addressing.

  But first—he wrenched his eyes open again. The hotel room looked back at him. The breathing was still there. He had to look. He shifted left as far as he could with his wrists bound. The ice-cold cuffs bit into his skin, but he tried to block it out. His body leaned left, and he tilted his head so he could see over the edge of the bed.

  * * *

  He expected—hoped?—to see nothing but the carpet. Instead, he saw something he couldn’t quite d
efine. Until he realized he was looking at the back of a person, dressed in a gray suit, lying facedown on the carpet. As the thought clicked in his head, he hurriedly rocked back on his wrists and shuffled back to the center of the bed.

  A person. A real person. Facedown on the floor.

  Silence again—the breathing still there. But now began something else. A skittering sound, like mice nibbling on cardboard.

  He forced himself to look over the right side of the bed, straining on the cuffs again. There was no one there. The carpet was a muted purple. Looking down at the slice of floor he could see, however, he noticed something. A small trail of something yellow toward where the bed ended. It looked too fine to be string, and as he looked it started to twitch. Hair. It was hair.

  He returned to the center of the bed. Hair? God.

  He looked straight ahead, into the black mirror of the television. Couldn’t see anything in it—not even himself. And he was glad. He didn’t want to know how pathetic he looked. The blackness calmed him—the nothing. He would focus on the television until someone came to rescue him. He would refuse to accept any of this.

  And even as he told himself that, he found his eyes drawn downward to the edge of the bed, past the shine of his shoes, as something rose up. One finger. And then two. And then a whole hand gripping the duvet.

  His heart sank. The shuffling grew louder and the breathing did too—all around him. And now—They were waking up.

  4

  A face at the end of the bed. Blonde. A girl—twenties. Looking like he felt—confused and pale, her eyes filled with panic. She looked around first, her head rocking around on her neck, and then she saw him, rapidly ducking down again in surprise.

  “H-hey,” he tried to say. His voice was cracking in all the wrong places, making it sound like more of a threat than a greeting. He tried again. “Hey.” A bit better that time.

  The girl surfaced—just her eyes. They flitted to his handcuffs. They looked even more confused. But hey, he wasn’t going anywhere, so maybe that helped her stick her head up again.