The Sister

by China, Max

  She remembered what he told her. "Don't touch any of the items. Tip the newspaper out onto a clear area of his desk, the boot print must be facing up and pointed towards his chair," he sucked hard on what she assumed was a cigarette and inhaled noisily. "Are you with me so far, Trie?" another deeply drawn inhalation. "The phone, you must put that above his desk in the ceiling void."

  "How am I supposed to do that?" she asked.

  The caller issued her with a set of instructions.

  Theresa arrived at work a few minutes before 9 a.m.

  Contractors had been working in the voids above the suspended ceilings, and the works had been going on for weeks. The builders had set the project up to be completed in such a way as to cause the minimum of inconvenience, but as the project manager had said, when he was defending the things that had gone wrong so far. "You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs!" They were constantly creating dust and setting off smoke sensors, which in turn triggered fire alarms, which in turn led to evacuations. There were broken eggs, but not an omelette in sight.

  She pressed the buttons of the mobile through the plastic, as the caller instructed, and waited apprehensively as the phone rang. A male voice answered. Met with silence, the voice demanded. "Who is this? Make it quick, I'm busy!"

  Theresa stayed silent; the phone went dead after a few choice expletives. Barely a moment had passed before the man called back. She answered, but said nothing.

  "It's you again isn't it?" The voice said, "You think you can play games with me? When I find out who you are, you're a dead man, do you hear me!" Theresa cut him off.

  Out of curiosity, she decided to check the call history. There were ten or twelve numbers recorded there, including the last two calls. Then she spotted something; her telephone number was in the call directory too. Panicking, she made another wrong decision. She deleted her number.

  Next, she climbed onto the desk, pushed up a tile and unfastening the bag containing the phone, tipped it out on top of the adjacent ceiling.

  Getting back down, she was surprised how her heart hammered hard in her chest, scared that, at any moment, Kennedy, or someone else might come in. If they did, she'd say she thought she heard something vibrating up there. Lastly, she allowed the folded newspaper to slide out onto the top of the desk. Packing the empty sleeves away and smoothing her clothes down, she wondered what kind of game the caller was playing. How did you get yourself involved in this? She reassured herself, if things unfolded badly; she could always come forward and explain. He put me in an untenable situation . . . I needed to buy time for my daughter's sake. I didn't understand what he was up to. I had to keep him off my back, while I tried to figure how to bring what was happening to light. They'd understand.

  "After this, there's just one more thing to do, Trie, I want you to get some information for me. I'll call you Monday evening."

  He didn't say what it was that he required.

  She was more nervous about this final demand, than she'd been about the ones he'd made before.

  She wondered if this last thing would reveal his intentions more clearly. It didn't matter, once she did this; she'd be free from his demands.

  You don't realise how much you miss normality until you don't have it anymore.

  Theresa couldn't wait to get back to normal. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Chapter 76

  When Kennedy arrived at his office, he walked all the way round to the other side of his desk before he noticed the white detritus scattered across the surface. What on earth . . .? Curious, he crumbled bits of the debris from the desktop between his thumb and fingers and looked up at the ceiling. There was no light fitting above his desk. That ruled out the electrician doing maintenance. A tile looked as if it hadn't seated correctly. He climbed up onto the desk, and pushed the grid up to adjust it, trying to get it to sit right. When that didn't work, he lifted the tile clear. He wasn't tall enough to see over the grid into the void, even on tiptoes. Finding it difficult to balance, he placed a hand each side of the grid and manoeuvred a book into position with his foot, and using the extra height it gave him, peered in and saw something that looked out of place. He picked it up. It was a mobile phone.

  After climbing down, he scratched his head. How did it get there?

  The last time they refurbished the offices, they'd put in new ceilings. From what he recalled, the void was about two feet high, and there was no way the grid would support a person's weight, so the phone hadn't fallen out of a contractor's pocket.

  Someone stood on his desk and put the phone up there, but why? Did they use it as a makeshift torch? That had to be it.

  He checked the contacts list on the phone for clues as to who the owner might be. There were only two numbers on the phone with names; one read Danny and the other Marilyn, and both were recorded as the most recent calls, but from weeks before. Why hasn't the battery died?

  His suspicions aroused; he frowned, and checked the date and time on the phone. The time was correct, but the date was set exactly three weeks behind. If that were right, it would mean the calls had been made less than an hour ago! A feeling of dread came over him as he selected Marilyn's name to look at the telephone number. Melissa's! What the hell!?

  It was his window of opportunity, the chance to handle things correctly. He did not know then how much rode on his decision, so he took the path of least resistance, the one he thought was least likely to result in compromising him. He thought frantically. Who else knows about Marilyn?

  And if that was Marilyn - and it was - would it be too much of a coincidence, if 'Danny' turned out to be Danny Lynch?

  He already knew the answer as his eyes settled on the newspaper, a distinctive boot print on it just below the headline: Kennedy Assassinated.

  His blood froze. He thought frantically. Who had access to his office? Who could have left that newspaper and put the phone up there? He felt a small tug of disappointment. If someone else had said it was Tanner, he would never have believed it - not really, but faced with increasing evidence, it was beginning to look that way. He made no secret of the fact he resented his superior's promotion to DCI over him.

  He remembered something his dad always used to say. "Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer." Looks like you were right again, Dad.

  Tanner had barely warmed his chair when the telephone buzzed, he clicked the save button on the computer and picked up the phone. "Tanner," he said.

  "My office, five minutes," Kennedy said curtly.

  "Don't stand on ceremony, sir, not on account of me," he muttered at the telephone after he'd put it down. He pushed back out of his chair.

  Kennedy looked at his colleague strangely, as he entered his office. "Okay, bring me up to date with everything."

  He reached into his pocket to retrieve his notebook.

  "Just for once, leave your notes in your pocket. I'm fed up with the way you hide behind them, when we're speaking."

  "I'm sorry—?" he spluttered, looking as if he'd been slapped.

  "Oh, don't pull that stupid face at me, Tanner. Let's get on with it shall we?"

  Blinking with surprise and indignation, words formed, he hesitated. Was there any point trying to reason with the man when he was like this? He decided, not.

  "I have a question for you," Kennedy said, "What do you know about, Danny?" He looked directly into Tanner's eyes, measuring him.

  "Danny? Who's Danny, sir?"

  If he's lying, he's a great actor. "I think he's a friend of Marilyn's."

  "Sir, you've lost me . . ."

  Kennedy looked confused. If Tanner hadn't put the phone up there, who did?

  The door knocked, and Theresa opened it, popping her head through the gap. Seeing the two of them in the middle of a conversation, she apologised, "Sorry . . . if that's all, sir? I'll get home."

  Kennedy dismissed her with a curt wave of his hand; she made a face and her eyes looked hurt as she withdrew.


  "Was that really necessary?"

  "No, it wasn't, but she knows what I'm like. I'm just on edge that's all."

  "Speaking of which, in case you've forgotten," he said. "She seems to have been on edge herself. We're coming up to the anniversary of her husband's death. I thought you told me you were going to sign her off for a week."

  "Yes, I did have a word with her about that," Kennedy sounded vague, distracted by something else, "but she insisted on coming in, said she was better off at work." The germ of an idea began to bloom in his mind, no longer listening as Tanner spoke again.

  "She lost her husband last year, sir; she's certainly been going through it," he said grim faced. His chin took on a hint of dark blue in the harsh office light.

  Kennedy just stared at him.

  At the end of the meeting, after Tanner had left, he sat thinking. What if the two of them, have plotted this together? He quickly dismissed the likelihood, but something wasn't right, and he couldn't fathom what it was.

  Chapter 77

  John Kennedy senior helped his wife settle down for the night.

  Often plagued by the fear she might not wake up in the morning, she was especially anxious because she had a hospital appointment the next day. "Don't forget what's happening tomorrow," she reminded him.

  As if, I could forget.

  He didn't want her to call him for something in the night if he could avoid it, so once he was sure she had everything that she might need within reach, he said goodnight. If she disturbed him once he'd consumed his nightly half-bottle of whiskey, and she found out what he did when she was in bed, she'd put a stop to it. The oblivion it brought was his only respite, losing it, did not bear thinking about.

  She'd been bedridden over a year, and he was once again reflecting on how cruel and indiscriminate life can be. What she suffered with was late onset Muscular Dystrophy. Late onset . . . for that small mercy they were both grateful, but it was a cruel twist, because it happened within a month of his retiring. She would often ask him, what he thought she'd done to deserve such a life.

  "There are plenty of people out there, far worse off than you or me," he would tell her.

  "We all have our cross to bear," he whispered into his whiskey; he did not want her to hear. Raising his glass high, he toasted silently. To my cross!

  The cross she bore was bigger than the one he carried; lately it seemed to affect her mind. She called out, suddenly scared. "John - there's someone in the house! I've just seen them go by!"

  "You saw someone?"

  "A shadow . . . went through the door down the hall…" She looked panicky. Something was always spooking her. Being helpless, sometimes she resorted to attention seeking.

  He began a systematic search of the house, thankful that it was a bungalow, and there was no upstairs to worry about. Going through the motions purely for her benefit, he didn't really think she saw anything at all, but sometimes, she succeeded in spooking him, too.

  Going down the hall to Johnny's old room, he felt a draught on his face. His door was ajar.

  I don't remember leaving that door open . . . and she couldn't have done it . . . Someone is in there!

  John picked up a walking stick from the coat stand in the hall, gripped it tight, took a deep breath and pressed his back against the wall. His heart thumped erratically as it cranked up to a level it hadn't been at for years; he thought his chest might burst, but he was ready for anything. Pushing away from the wall, he jumped through the open door - head turning left and right - half expecting to see someone there.

  There was no sign of life. If it weren't for the net curtain, a gossamer sail billowing slowly into the room on the breeze of the open window, there would have been no sign that anyone had been in through it at all.

  The window was open a crack; he knew it hadn't been before, and she couldn't have done it. Someone had been in and then left the house that way. The window frame, on close examination, revealed no sign of forced entry. Nothing seemed to be missing, although he thought that perhaps Johnny's baseball bat had gone. That would be crazy . . . Why would anyone break in to steal a baseball bat? Then he started thinking his son might have even taken it with him, when he left years ago, he only knew it used to be there once. He couldn't quite recall the last time he saw it.

  He silently cursed his growing old; he hated what it did to people and their faculties. When Johnny phoned, he'd ask him about it, but would do it in a roundabout way. The last thing he wanted was to be told, "What's wrong with you, Dad? I took that with me when I moved out years ago."

  The sound of her voice shook him back from his thoughts…"John? It's gone quiet, answer me, John - I'm getting scared," her voice was higher and more fragile than usual; a slight quiver betrayed her fear.

  "It's all right love, nobody's here."

  "But I saw someone…"

  "Nobody's here!" he growled.

  He thought about calling Johnny, but now wondered if he might have opened the window and simply forgotten to close it. She'd managed to spook him; that's all it was.

  When John junior called that night, he didn't mention it.

  Chapter 78

  The night following the Kennedy break-in, he returned to their house. An hour after they'd gone to bed, the intruder crept back inside through the loft, dropping down onto the coffee table. He closed the hatch above and removed a clear plastic sleeve from inside his tunic. It contained a sheet of plain white paper with a boot print on it.

  "One I prepared earlier," he whispered, smirking. The paper slid out of the sleeve as he tipped it onto the white cloth on the table. He put the sleeve back inside his top - it wouldn't be long before the old detective was awake again, checking the whole house, finding the print he'd left for him.

  Taking the same route as the previous night, he climbed out of Kennedy junior's window, pushing it home to make it appear closed. The roof temporarily reinstated; he stowed the ladder back behind the shed.

  The night was still and quiet; the moon hidden behind clouds. A broom leaned against the wall by the kitchen door. He grabbed it and then held it high above his head, pushing it against the edge of a roof tile, moving it up, so that it grated noisily against the one below it. Inside the roof the noise would reverberate nicely, he was about to do it again, when he heard the tinkling of a bell coming from within. He guessed that must be her summoning the old drunk.

  John senior was slipping in and out of wakefulness; he opened his eyes, lay listening on the pillow, unsure if it was an aural hallucination. He was halfway down a darkened country lane in his head, about to check on the activities of two people he saw up to no good in their parked car - Ting! The sound of her little bell ringing drew him back; he blinked his eyes. Must get up! Allowing one leg to flop to the floor, he rolled out of bed.

  She called out to him. "John, I heard something in the loft!"

  He was still gathering his thoughts, not quite knowing where he was or had been. He'd recognised that car in the lane…

  "John, are you still awake?" The little bell rang again.

  "Yes," he said groggily. He sighed deeply and heaved himself off the bed.

  "What is it, love?" he said from the doorway.

  "I just heard something…"

  Although he'd been drifting off, he felt sure if there had been a noise, then he would have heard it.

  "Look love, I know you're scared of one thing and another, but you've got to stop this . . ."

  She looked at him sharply. "You don't believe me?" She shook her head in disbelief.

  "It's not that . . . it's just, I don't know; there's always . . . something . . ." he said, unable to bring himself to spell it out directly. He didn't want to hurt her.

  "John, I'm telling you I heard something, didn't you hear it - you were awake weren't you?"

  He stayed in the doorway; he didn't want her to smell the whiskey on his breath. Now come on, John, you'd have heard it - wouldn't you? Humouring her, he said, "I didn't hear a thing, but don'
t worry, I'll check it out right now!"

  He snatched the walking stick from its place on the coat stand. This is becoming a habit!

  Out in the hall, down by Johnny's room, where the passageway opened up into a circulation area, outside the bathroom and toilet, a sheet of paper with a faint boot print, lay on top of the cloth covering the table, below the access hatch. He hadn't noticed it before; he didn't seem to be noticing much lately.

  The week before, she was asking after something he'd put away up there in the loft, he tried first to get up there from the table. He'd moved the cloth. That was one thing he actually could remember, and he'd put it to one side. He didn't want to risk slipping on it, because he worried that if he fell . . . Well, who would look after her? He always used to be able to get up from there, but now that falling was on his mind, he fetched the stepladders.

  For a long while, he just stood under the hatch looking at it, his head cocked slightly to one side, listening with his best ear.

  She leaned out over the bed and opened the door with the crook of her stick so she could see him.

  "What are you doing?" She wanted to know.

  "It's okay," he said, "I'm just listening."

  "Can you hear anything?"

  " Shush!" he hissed at her.

  "What is it John?" she asked, complaining. "Nobody talks to me anymore."

  Suddenly, from above there came a sharp scraping noise.

  "Call the police!" he shouted.

  She fumbled at the phone with thin fingers that shook so badly, they refused to function.

  "I can't do it John!"

  He rushed to grab it off her, shouting a warning up at the hatch. "Don't even think of coming down here, I'm armed!"