Everyone in This Bank Is a Thief: A Novel

PROLOGUE

Given I'm dying, and have just the one pen, let's motor through the pleasantries.

My name's Ernest Cunningham. Up until today, I would have said that I'm a passable detective. Not professional, and a long way from expert, but so far three murderers would likely attest (if the two dead ones could talk) that I am quite the nuisance. So: passable. Factoring in the whole dying thing knocks me down a few notches, though.

If it seems like an odd time for me to jot out a memoir, I'll clarify that I'm not catastrophically injured. There are no missing limbs spurting crimson, no poisons coursing through my body, and nor am I, unlike some other unfortunate souls in the pages to come, aflame. I'm just sitting here on the ice-cold floor of a steel box, about the size of a fridge, with, I've calculated, fifteen hours of air inside it. That is, of course, not factoring in any oxygen wastage from my screaming and banging useless fists against the inside of a door only I know the code to. Some of my curse words were quite inventively lengthy and required deep breaths. Call it fourteen and a half hours, then. Worth it.

Neither my dwindling ink or air has time for backstory but, generally speaking, if you're reading something I've written, it's because I've solved a murder or several. I was raised on a diet of Golden Age detective novels the 'fair-play' mysteries where the clues are front and centre for the reader which came in mighty handy when I found myself getting caught up in, and transcribing, real-life murders. I've always prided myself, when I chronicled those three cases in my first three books, on being a reliable narrator. Everything I show is the truth, exactly how I saw it. The reader and the author solve the mystery together. There are no hidden facts or deliberate omissions. That's how 'fair play' works.

I say 'generally speaking' because this time's a little different. Yes, there's been a murder. Several, actually. And in fourteen hours and, let's see . . . twenty-nine minutes, there'll be another. I will, as promised, write down and present to you every clue I see. Against form, however, I must make one omission not usually permitted in the Golden Age: the name of the killer.

That's because I haven't solved it yet.

Usually, once I'm up to the writing, I've satisfied all the requirements of the genre. I've had my stitches and book deals sewn up not necessarily in that order. I've generally also spilled some blood and had some poured back into me  definitely in that order. I've stood in front of a room full of suspects and whittled them down, one by one, to the real killer or killers. That's usually my favourite part; the parlour scene, it's often called. The climactic unraveling that both reader and detective earn. It's really the only reason people read murder mysteries.

Knowing the ending usually means I can tell you where to look, point out the important clues along the way so you are as well armed an armchair detective as I am a real one come the finale. Without knowing who the killer is, I can't assuredly point you in the right direction. Sure, I can tell you some things to pay close attention to: that the pieces that look too easy probably are, for example. But it's not the same. A book without an ending is swallowing your greens and not making it through to dessert.

I have theories, of course. I managed to weed out a few red herrings, expose a few lies and stockpile several motives before being sealed in here, but I am still a killer short of a murder mystery. It's small consolation that I must have been getting close enough for someone to want to get rid of me. Perhaps that is my final clue. What did I discover, just before this all went down, that turned me from a nuisance into a liability?

I keep trying to trace the size of the pair of hands against my memory of their pressure on my back did I feel a ring? or to dissect the patter of the retreating footsteps what was the length of their stride, the type of shoe? under the iron clank of the door sealing. But it doesn't help.

Irony is quite neat in fiction, but in real life it's smug and annoying. I spent the better part of twenty-four hours trying to get into this safe. Now I'm going to die in it.

My supplies are as meager as my oxygen. I have this notebook, pen and a few other bits and pieces: a thumb-sized flashlight to write by, a thick black marker, a broken radio, a magnet, a high-school chemistry textbook and a near-empty gun. The gun is a revolver with a visible chamber: I'm no weapons expert, but I can tell there are two bullets left. I won't die of thirst: I have a glass jar of water yes, a jar that I'm putting off drinking because it's not mine. And I'd feel really guilty if I drank it. I need air more than water, anyway. I guess, if suffocating really is as bad as I think it might be, at least I have those two bullets. One spare.