A Body Displaced (Lansin Island 2)

by Andrew Butcher

  Lillian put a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder. ‘You might not care, but your mother’s name is pronounced Eh-vuh-lin, the usual way, the way her father had wanted it.’ She nodded to herself. ‘But somehow after he died, your mother got it in her head that I had chosen the pronunciation. So she changed it to her nonstandard way.’

  ‘Well,’ Juliet picked up her voice, straightening her spine and pushing aside her confusion, ‘I believe I’m starting to realise just what my mother’s really like.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KNOCK-KNOCK. ‘UNGH?’

  ‘Are you okay, Nick?’ Tom entered the snug. ‘Did you sleep in here?’

  Light was at the edge of the curtains, but Nick had little awareness of the time and felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. His head ached heavily. ‘I think I fell asleep.’

  Memories of the night before swiftly took him. Kerra … His heart ached.

  ‘I’ll make you breakfast,’ said Tom, and the effort squeezed Nick’s heart in a more pleasant way. ‘Maybe you should get showered and ready, in case you need to go to the station.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As his brother was about to walk off, Nick said, ‘Tom. I’m sorry I complained about Michael staying over the other night …’

  Tom smiled. ‘No, really, I should have let you know. Sorry I tried to turn it around on you. I’ve just been feeling a bit … annoyed lately.’

  Nick was about to say that he understood, but Tom quickly finished with, ‘Anyway, that doesn’t matter right now,’ and he hurried off to the kitchen.

  While he showered, Nick was careful not to reopen the scab above his ear. The heat of the water was cosy and made him wish he’d had a full night’s rest. He struggled staying awake, even standing up. Kerra should be here, showering with me. He got out and dried himself, then pulled on thin socks, dark skinny jeans, and fumbled into a plain purple tee-shirt. His phone rang as he headed to the kitchen, smelling fried food. He answered swiftly.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello. Am I speaking with Mr Nicolas Crystan?’ asked a slightly nasal male voice.

  ‘Yeah. That’s me.’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Anish Talwar. I believe you were questioned yesterday evening by Detective Constable Roughton. I’ve spoken with her, read the reports, and I’m now in charge of the investigation. I need you to come to Glaith Lane Police Station for further questioning regarding the incident at West Edge Country House.’

  ‘When should I come in?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’ There was a pause. ‘Make it on the hour. Nine o’clock?’

  Is it that early? He looked up at the kitchen clock. It was twenty past eight. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Crystan. I’ll see you on the hour.’ The detective hung up.

  Tom had cooked bacon and sausages, heated a tin of beans, and fried some eggs. Nick sat down with his brother and hurried down as much food as he could comfortably handle. They ate in silence, and Nick didn’t blame Tom for having no words to say.

  At quarter to nine, he grabbed his keys from the kitchen worktop, then looked for his least tatty pair of winklepickers. ‘Are you going to tell Dad anything yet? Or Tommy?’ asked Tom.

  ‘No.’ Nick shook his head as he slipped on his shoes. ‘And please don’t tell anyone. I’m hardly keeping it together myself ... I can’t handle anyone else’s input right now. I’ll talk to Dad after I’m done at the station … or later tonight.’

  Tom gave a respectful nod. ‘I won’t say anything.’

  Nick sat down across from the new detective in the same interview room as before. It turned out Detective Inspector Talwar was of Indian descent, though the only accent he had was the slight bumpkinish twang common to most Lansin Islanders, suggesting he was English and born on the island. He looked about forty and was ruggedly handsome. Short dark hair and stubble, both a rich brown, almost black. Pale tan skin with faded acne scars on his upper cheeks. Full eyebrows. A tight set of teeth, free of unsightly gaps. Prominent jaw. And he wore a smart charcoal-grey suit with a striped tie.

  The interview started with nearly identical questions to the night before. After Nick repeated a lot of information he’d already given, the questions became edgier. But most were answered in the negative: ‘Do you know of anyone who might want to harm Miss Evans?’ ‘Do you think Miss Evans was keeping secrets from you?’ ‘Could she have been involved in drugs, gang crime?’ and so on.

  Nick was taken off guard when Talwar changed direction. ‘What is your relationship with Miss Evans like?’

  ‘It was going well ...’ Nick made it obvious in his tone that he thought the question irrelevant.

  ‘Was going well?’ said Talwar. His voice was high for a man’s and became nasal towards the end of each sentence, either from tension or habit.

  The Detective’s little trick riled him. ‘Is going well, was going well, whatever; you know what I mean, so please don’t try to change what I’m saying. And in case you hadn’t noticed, she is missing. Hence the was going well.’ He sighed, but his heart beat fast; he was surprised by his own confidence. He made an effort to calm back down. ‘She had just told me she loves me, and I was going to say it back to her when I returned.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t see how this is relevant.’ Crossing his arms, he let his body language show how closed off he was towards the line of enquiry.

  ‘I’m just trying to get a bigger picture here, Mr Crystan.’

  ‘You should be trying to find her, and whoever has actually taken her.’

  Detective Talwar said nothing. He sat up in his chair and adjusted his suit. Nick mumbled, ‘I don’t understand why you’re asking some of these questions. I told Detective Roughton most of this last night. Wouldn’t you be put to better use actually going out and looking for Kerra?’

  ‘There’s been a change in the case, Mr Crystan. I have some news that may be hard for you to hear.’

  Nick’s senses piqued. ‘What is it?’

  Talwar took in a deep breath. ‘We’ve identified the blood from the hotel room. It belongs to Miss Evans. From the amount there was, it’s extremely unlikely she could have survived the loss of blood, unless whoever took her treated her immediately and had the facilities to do so.’

  Unable to bear the news, Nick’s mind slipped away. It took a long moment to pick itself up and process the information. His thoughts kept trying to offer comfort: Maybe they treated her, maybe it wasn’t all her blood, maybe she could handle that amount of blood loss, she must be alive, she must.

  The detective’s questions made sense now; the case was being treated more as a murder enquiry than a missing person investigation. It hit him hard then: They’d already given up on finding her alive.

  Tears came to his eyes before he could stop them. He hurried to hide his face. He’d wanted so badly to hold it together. For Kerra. But this was too much.

  Detective Inspector Talwar remained silent at first, while Nick sniffled and tried to compose himself. But Talwar was ruthless … ‘Did Miss Evans ever cheat on you?’

  A sharp twist came in Nick’s chest. He remembered the night he’d caught Kerra and Alex, and now he worried that Kerra’s past actions gave him a motive. Would he be arrested mid-interview? Should he stop answering questions and say he needed a lawyer?

  I’m not guilty; I don’t need someone else to prove that for me. Reluctant to answer, he sucked up his pride and pain. ‘She cheated on me over six years ago, in our past relationship. And after that, cheated on me again, and eventually we broke up. I got back with her because Janet Morgan, a colleague of mine, set us up. She said Kerra regretted what she’d done and wanted to see me.’

  Talwar seemed thoughtful. ‘Are you still angry at Miss Evans for betraying you?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have got back with her if I hadn’t moved past it.’ He tried to sound calm and reasonable, but his jaw was tense. Dead … She might actually be dead. He squeezed his ey
es shut, then opened them.

  ‘Did you make plans for someone else to take Miss Evans while you went to the shops, ensuring you had witnesses to confirm your alibi?’

  Nick gave the detective a long, cold stare. ‘No.’

  ‘Your mother, Samantha Crystan, was reported missing nine years ago. She’s never been found.’ Talwar looked almost impressed with himself; he’d intended for his statement to gain a reaction.

  Nick answered, ‘I am aware of that,’ and then forced his lips together. Don’t antagonise him. It’s not worth it.

  ‘It’s quite the coincidence. And very unfortunate. Do you think what’s happened to Miss Evans is connected to the disappearance of your mother?’

  Then Nick’s thoughts ran rampant. Tom had asked the same question. Now the death of Aldrich was at the front of his mind. He panicked. Then panicked some more when he remembered his brother’s words: They are trained to read body language, mannerisms, your facial expressions … Surely Talwar was picking up on his anxiety. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally answered.

  The detective seemed stumped, and Nick hoped they’d reached an impasse.

  They hadn’t.

  Talwar began repeating questions, rewording them to the point that Nick felt confused, but Nick tried hard to keep his answers congruent. Eventually Talwar stopped the interview and informed Nick that witnesses confirmed his whereabouts at the time of the incident, and also that he was captured on CCTV footage from out the front of the Tesco Express store in Beade.

  Then it clicked; there was no strong evidence against him. He began to feel wary of the detective.

  After Nick was led out of the room, Talwar said to him, ‘Mr Crystan.’ He squinted, his lightly scarred skin creasing under his eyes. ‘You might not be guilty of this. But you are guilty of something.’ There was a hunger in his stare.

  Trying to appear unaffected, Nick held eye contact and heightened his awareness of his facial expressions. Maybe he twitched, or flared his nostrils, or held his breath, or blinked too much … or too little; maybe he somehow confirmed the detective’s suspicions, but at the same time, he was certain Talwar had acted unprofessionally by voicing his opinion while no longer in the presence of the recorder.

  Something inside Nick reminded him there was a more important issue to devote his emotions to, and then he ceased to care about the detective’s not-so-subtle threat. ‘Just find Kerra,’ he said, and was soon out of the police station.

  It was like déjà vu, this scenario so similar to the night before, only it was dark then. And there was more hope then.

  Nick had managed to convert most of his grief into anger. He punched the air on the way to his car. When he got in, he sat stunned for half an hour.

  She can’t be dead. He started the vehicle up and drove home. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet, even though the questioning had seemed to take hours. Tom was about the house still, so Nick described the interview to his brother. He quickly tired, though. His head swam; he wondered if he’d faint.

  Tom was thoughtfully taciturn when Nick revealed that Kerra had lost too much blood. He comforted his older brother by silently listening, allowing Nick to grieve in his own way. After a while, though, Tom said, ‘She might still be alive. Wait until the police know more.’

  When Nick stumbled and nearly fell, Tom suggested he get some sleep; there was nothing he could do until the police got in contact again. Too weary to argue, Nick found himself in bed. He missed Kerra instantly. While he rubbed the sheets on Kerra’s side, imagining her lying there, knowing she’d touched the fabric, deluding himself into believing that stroking the sheets somehow connected them, he fell asleep.

  He awoke to the vibration of his phone. He wasn’t sure how it had ended up on ‘silent,’ since he’d set it to ‘loud’ in case the detective rang, but here it was, only vibrating. With speed, he picked it up and saw the name ‘Fin’ on the screen. He briefly considered ignoring it, before answering with a croaky, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, buddy! How’re you doing?’ Fintan’s cheery voice came through.

  An answer refused to come to Nick’s mind.

  ‘Nick? Can you hear me, man?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Caught me at a bad time.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fintan’s tone turned gloomy. ‘I was gonna see what you’re up to. You want me to come over, hang out for a bit?’

  For a thoughtful moment, Nick closed his eyes. I need to start telling people at some point. ‘Yeah ...’ He figured his best friend would be a good place to start. ‘But, Fin ...’

  ‘Yeah, buddy?’

  ‘Something serious has happened. I’ll tell you when you get here. I’m just warning you ... don’t be expecting a party or anything.’

  ‘Erm. Okay.’ Fin was a confident man, but right now his voice was laced with uncertainty. ‘I’ll … head over. See you soon, mate.’

  Nick hung up, unable to say goodbye.

  It was late afternoon. He’d slept a long time. Before Fin arrived, Nick ate a microwave meal and spoke with Tom, assuring his brother he’d tell their dad everything the next morning, if not this evening.

  Fin showed up at quarter to six, and Nick let him in and led him to the snug. They sat down on an old sofa Nick had rescued from his dad, who’d planned on throwing it away. Tom was at home somewhere, most likely in his bedroom.

  ‘Jesus, Nick. You look rough. Are you alright?’ Fin had appropriate concern in his voice. He was as tall as Nick, blonde-haired, well toned, and wore all designer clothes. A while ago he’d completed a big contract in his work as a garden designer, coming up with balcony garden layouts for fancy London apartments, and he was still coasting off of that money. He was charismatic, and Nick had joked with him before about his looks, asking if his face magically re-sculpted itself based on each woman’s inner desires, seeing as so many women found him attractive. And, awkwardly, so did Nick’s brother Tom, who had made plenty of inappropriate comments about Fin, since coming out.

  Nick told his best friend the whole story of the night before. They’d known each other since lower school, and although it had been harder to spend time together as they grew up, their closeness showed in how easily Nick spoke to Fin, and how natural Fin’s responses were.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Fin seemed pretty shaken up. He’d known Kerra for as long as Nick had; they’d all attended the same upper school.

  ‘I don’t know what I can do except wait.’

  ‘Hmmm …’

  ‘I’ve never felt so useless,’ Nick admitted. ‘Another thing tormenting me is that I’d had nightmares of blood … and drowning … and shouting someone’s name. Do you remember I told you about them?’ He hung his head, shook it. ‘I ignored those dreams, when I could have done someth—’ His throat closed up.

  Fin leaned closer and put a strong hand on Nick’s shoulder.

  Six months ago, Nick had told his best friend about his ability to see the future. He’d tried to sound serious, but Fin had laughed. Fin sobered up, though, when it became obvious Nick wasn’t joking. At first, his attitude was, ‘If you say you can see the future, then I believe that you believe that.’ Then, after Nick managed to bring on a vision where he accurately predicted Fin would bump into one of their old school friends, and then also predicted a few weeks later that Fin’s mobile would ring at a precise time, Fin’s attitude turned to, ‘Now you’re creeping me out a little.’ It had taken just one more foresight, involving a fairly serious incident, to push Fin’s outlook to, ‘Well, buddy, out of the two of us, you have always been the weirder one.’

  He was a believer now.

  Since the first time Nick had brought on a premonition in front of Juliet, the only other person he’d tried to force visions in front of was Fintan. Nobody else. Even though his ability had given him a sense of purpose to begin with, he’d finally begun enjoying a stable life; why risk losing that by forcing a vision he might have to act on, like foreseeing another death?

  Now he wished he’d given his
power more attention.

  Fin touched Nick’s shoulder. ‘I don’t mind if you cry, buddy. Just let it out.’

  ‘I cried all the time when I was depressed. And not just over my mum going missing. Over anything, everything. I’d feel sad at least once a week, and I’d just cry. I think I found comfort in it, but I hated it, too. And now I should be crying over this. But I don’t completely want to. I’m afraid I’ll fall back into that pattern, just crying for the sake of it. How can I not be sad, though? I feel like a bad person whatever I do. If I just let myself get upset, then it’s like I’m saying she’s dead. If I don’t, then it’s as if I don’t care.’

  ‘Hey ...’ Fin said softly. ‘Nick, there’s nothing wrong with your feelings. Just let yourself feel however it is you feel. I know you’re not a bad person.’ He nodded to himself. ‘And I think you know that too. Whether you cry or not, it doesn’t mean you’ve given up, it doesn’t mean you don’t care. I know you’re hoping for the best, and I know you care.’ Fin rubbed the side of Nick’s upper arm.

  ‘I just feel pathetic.’

  ‘Nah.’ Fin shook his head, his styled blonde hair completely unaffected, and then leaned back in the sofa. ‘I designed a garden for this guy once. He acted like a proper tough man, told me he’d never cried in his whole life.’ He huffed. ‘Well, anyway, he was a real cold man ... I couldn’t get to like him at all, and even his wife and kids were distant from him. I never saw his little’uns run up to hug him hello, I never saw his wife smile at him or kiss him, or anything like that. You know? I think he was a coward. Afraid to care. Like, if you can’t even face your own feelings, then how could you care about anyone else’s? And if you don’t care about anyone else’s, then do you really care about those people at all? Not caring means having nothing to lose. Dude was a coward. Nothing like you, man.’

  Nick mulled over his friend’s kind words. Finally giving his emotions due attention, he figured out he didn’t want to cry because he didn’t believe Kerra was dead. He’d thought bawling his eyes out was expected of him, and maybe he’d subconsciously tried to force that response. ‘I think I’m okay. I just hate waiting, not knowing.’