The Sister

by China, Max

  From his vantage point across the street, the intruder watched DCI Kennedy arrive, closely followed by the police.

  Old man, I'm going to put the bite on your boy so hard. By the time I finish with him, he'll do whatever I tell him.

  He slipped away, unnoticed.

  Chapter 79

  DCI Kennedy stayed the rest of the night with his parents. Reassured by his presence, his father had a few nips of whiskey before bed. When his mother called out, several times before she finally drifted off, it was not to his father, but to him. She just wanted to know he was alert and still there.

  Finally, he clambered into bed, turning the light out around three o'clock. He'd already checked it earlier, but he double-checked the window lock again, before adjusting the gap in the curtains with a quick tug to close them. In the lamplight across the street, he thought he saw the figure of a man standing there, legs apart, facing in his direction. Tiredness caused it to register only after he drew the curtains. When he whipped them apart again, no one was there.

  "You're tired, Kennedy," he told himself. "Bone tired."

  His old bedroom didn't feel the same, it did not feel safe, and he didn't sleep well. He slipped into a strange level of consciousness and stayed there, not actually sleeping, closer to wakefulness, his eyes flew open at every slight sound.

  In the morning, he arranged for scenes of crime officers to conduct a fingertip search from the loft all the way through the bungalow, inside and out. They dusted for prints, took photographs, and checked anything that looked out of place, or unusual.

  "Look at this, sir." One of them called him up into the roof space. He climbed the ladder carefully; lack of sleep had left him feeling edgy, shaky and hung-over. At the top, he stepped onto the floorboards and looked along the dusty racks of shelves; he smiled at his dad's orderliness. In the beam of light against the inside of the roof, the method of entry was clearly visible; the battens were out of line, replaced with metal straps, the felt lining cut through in a rough square.

  "So that's how they got in. Not through the unsecured window downstairs, as we thought."

  "That's right, sir, they pushed out a few tiles and just squeezed in."

  "That means they went out through the window downstairs," he spoke slowly as he considered the evidence. There was something wrong. From what his father had told him, he thought that someone might have been in the house before and left the window open. "I didn't want to worry your mum with it, Johnny. I thought it was me going senile."

  Whoever it was, had been wearing latex type gloves, so apart from a few smudges and the boot print, they found nothing they could use.

  Kennedy puzzled over the intrusion at his office with some concern. In both cases, there had been a boot print and in both cases, he appeared to be the common factor. Access, or apparent access from above . . . Once is chance, twice is coincidence. It had to be that, just a coincidence . . . there was a third part to the saying, what was it?

  Being on newspaper, the other footprint was not so distinctive, but from what he could recall, they looked the same. He shook his head at the thought, chastising himself. You can't say that Kennedy, all boot prints look similar.

  He couldn't run the risk of implicating himself by mentioning the similarities of both incidents to anyone else, because he hadn't reported the original occurrence. He'd compromised his position. If anyone asked questions, he'd struggle to explain. Deciding he didn't want to be part of the next big police scandal, or newspaper headlines, he made another bad choice; he kept quiet about it.

  Kennedy tied off the loose ends one by one; who knew where his parents lived and who had a motive to get at him…The thought shimmered like a phantom taking form. Tanner? For the first time, he considered the possibility someone might want him to think it was Tanner, and if that were true, he needed to know why.

  Later that morning, a couple of thoughts struck him. The call he'd taken the week before, the single word: Jack . . .? He assumed it had been a wrong number. The newspaper left in his office. It couldn't be the same one. Could it?

  Climbing back into the loft, he looked through his boxed up magazines. The glassine sleeve that contained it was still there, the newspaper was not.

  Chapter 80

  Monday March 12th

  Theresa spent the whole evening in a high state of anxiety. Every time the phone rang, she made a mad dash for it. Each time it was someone else calling. She was relieved that Terri was out with a boy; at least she didn't have to worry about her. He was a friend of the family, and she knew he'd make sure he bought her home safely.

  She sat in her favourite chair. The telephone on the coffee table next to her was plugged into an extension cord. It was now almost bedtime and still she'd not had the call. Why do people say evening, when they mean night?

  Unable to concentrate on the television any longer, she found herself staring at the phone as if she were somehow able to transfer her force of will down it, to connect to him, to make him call her. It was ridiculous; she decided, so she prepared for bed. Unplugging the phone, she wound up the extension lead and put it away; she didn't need any awkward questions from Terri when she came in. Plugging it back in, it rang immediately. Her heart stopped. She grabbed for it.

  The front door opened. It was Terri. She thought she would burst as she forced herself to say, "Hi," as if nothing were wrong. Terri waved with her fingers as she walked by. Theresa half smiled as she echoed her gesture.

  "You sound relieved to hear from me. Last but not least," he said it with an air of finality, but as though he was bored, and the whole thing was a chore to him. "I want the file on Kathy Bird."

  "I can probably get you a copy."

  "That's all I want. An updated copy of the file, contact details, everything; and once you've done that for me, Trie - you're off the hook."

  A deep sigh subconsciously escaped her. The caller's next words held her remaining breath in check. "You sound relieved, Trie, but you're not off the hook just yet, not until you deliver . . . You have until Friday this week."

  He was gone before she could say anything.

  She slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. From the very first time he'd telephoned, something about his manner bothered her, now she had an inkling of what was. He sounded like Kennedy.

  "Hey, Mum, you okay?"

  She nodded, smiled and excused any potential suspicions aroused, by saying, "I'm just really tired; that's all."

  The rest of the conversation was carried out in a state of automation; a throwback to how she coped in the days and weeks following her husband's death, one of her friends called it safe mode, functional, but not in possession of all the faculties normally at her disposal.

  They watched television together until Terri went to bed at eleven o'clock. Five minutes later, she came back down. "Aren't you going to bed, Mum?"

  "I don't know what's wrong with me. Earlier, I was tired, but now, I don't feel tired at all. It must be my age."

  "You know you're getting old when you start making excuses like that!" Terri said with a smile. "Goodnight, Mum."

  Stooping to kiss her on the cheek, Terri caught a glimpse of the worry in her mother's eyes. "Mum, are you sure, you're okay."

  "I'm fine, honestly. You go on up; I'll have a little nightcap, and then I'll go to bed."

  Terri frowned. She knew her mum hadn't been like that since dad died. She shrugged her shoulders. "Okay, if you say so, Mum."

  Two shots of brandy later and she was ready to sleep.

  Theresa's eyes snapped open. She lay with her head on the pillow confused for a moment. Unable to remember getting herself to bed, she glanced at the display on the illuminated clock: 3:01 a.m.

  Recalling something from when she was sleeping, she realised the caller had invaded her thoughts. For an instant, she thought she knew what he was up to; it was in her dream. The harder she tried to focus on exactly what it was, the further away it went, she simply could not remember.

  S
he stayed awake for a long time, trying to fathom what the caller was really up to.

  Chapter 81

  Thursday March 15th

  It was Thursday already; the deadline for obtaining the file was looming. Theresa was finding the task harder to fulfil than she'd imagined and for the first time she was worried about what might happen if she didn't deliver. The file wasn't where it was supposed to be. Later in the morning, when she took in Kennedy's coffee, she noticed he had the file she wanted on his desk. Kennedy followed her gaze to the file and slid it into his top drawer without taking his eyes from her.

  She smiled awkwardly, and he smiled back.

  Later in the afternoon, when Kennedy was out, she opened the drawer; all she needed was a copy for Christ's sake.

  The file had gone.

  Chapter 82

  Almost a week had passed without incident, and DCI Kennedy felt it was safe to return to his own home. John senior began to believe they had just been the victims of some sort of prank, or it could even be a case of mistaken identity. That happened sometimes. In his later years on the force, a killer murdered an innocent man in a revenge attack, simply because he called at the wrong address.

  Age had taken its toll on him. If he were honest, the drinking had too; he wasn't as sharp as he used to be. Something was nagging at him, something not quite right about it. Finding a pen and pad, he wrote. Suspect comes in through roof, goes out window. I find window open. I close it. He comes back in through loft, goes back out window. Both times, he conceals the entry point. Why come back twice? Did he come back more than twice? Was he looking for something he didn't find the first time?

  After concentrating for a few minutes, he gave up, no longer having the wherewithal to figure it out, he thought about Johnny. As so often happens when you think about someone, the telephone rang. If I had a pound for every time that happened . . . That'll be Johnny now.

  Half-lifting and part bending down to the receiver; he aligned it with his ear, the arthritis in his arms and shoulders severely limiting his range of movement

  "John?" His son's voice took him aback; he'd never addressed him by his Christian name before.

  "Johnny?"

  "John Kennedy?"

  The old man's face creased with consternation. "This isn't you, Johnny. Is it?"

  The caller ignored him, questioning him further. "John F. Kennedy?"

  "No, that's my son. Now, who is this?"

  "Don't worry, John. The name is Harvey."

  He considered the chances of someone sounding just like his son making a call of this nature. "What kind of a game are you playing, Harvey?"

  "No game, John, it's Lee Harvey."

  The heat of anger flushed his cheeks, now he was older, it took a lot, but once it was there . . . he began cranking himself up. Oswald. Is the caller going to say Oswald? "Listen, you've picked the wrong person to play games with. I am a former chief of police and my son is a DCI and you are calling an ex-directory number, how did you get it?"

  It always made him laugh, these people with ex-directory numbers, who left them stuck on the front of their telephones for all to see. Out there on view, for deliverymen, dinner guests, anyone really. Someone, who maybe shouldn't see it…Okay, fair play this one hadn't left the phone on display, but it was still on the front of the old phone they'd discarded in the cupboard.

  A full ten seconds passed; he made out the sound of the caller inhaling deeply. Whoever this is . . . is smoking a cigarette. He's actually enjoying this.

  "Well, are you going to answer me or not? How did you get my private number?"

  The caller exhaled evenly, blowing smoke into the receiver. "Don't worry, John. It's not you, I want. It's your son, Jack."

  The phone clicked down.

  "Who was that, John?" Rose's voice startled him; he was relieved she hadn't been awake at the beginning of the call. If she had been, she'd have listened in; then there would be a lot of explaining to do.

  "Just a wrong number, don't worry. I put him right."

  When she fell asleep again, he quietly returned to the hall.

  He dialled the number slowly, to keep the noise down. The dial whirred softly each time he released it. It wasn't really an old black Bakelite phone; it was a modern reproduction, a present from Johnny to replace the old one, whose innards were so badly worn it just kept misdialling.

  The purr-purr of the dial tone was so loud in the earpiece; he was sure it would wake her at any moment. He tried to muffle the sound by cupping his hand round, holding it tight against his ear.

  Come on, Johnny. Pick up the phone!

  Finally, he answered.

  "Hello, Johnny, is that you?" he half whispered.

  "Hi, Dad," he chuckled, "You dialled my number, who else is it going to be?" He looked at his watch, 10:30pm. It was late for him to be calling. "What's up . . . is everything okay?"

  "Yes son, everything’s fine. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

  "Why do you sound like that, Dad, what's going on?"

  "I just had a call from someone pretending to be Lee Oswald, son. Lee Harvey Oswald."

  Fear fluttered up from the depths of his stomach, catching in his throat, he fumbled over his words. "It's all right . . . I'm okay. It's probably just someone playing silly buggers."

  "But he said he knew you."

  "Dad, it's just a nutcase, go to bed now, or you'll start worrying, Mum."

  "He said your full name. He said he always called you… Jack."

  The assumed wrong number . . . Jack . . . the assassination headline. . . the pretending to be Lee Harvey Oswald . . . his heart sank, but he played it down, "Look, I think it's just a prank caller. We'll keep an eye on it, okay?"

  "Do you really think so? I might be getting old and stupid, but it didn't sound that way to me . . . Anyway, you're a big boy now, if you say it's okay, then it's okay."

  "Yes, really, it's fine. Tell mum, I'll be over tomorrow . . . Oh, look at the time! I have to be up in a few hours."

  His father chuckled softly down the phone. "Well I haven't!"

  "Goodnight, Dad," he said.

  It was past eleven o'clock when Kennedy put the phone down. He walked down the hall turning off the lights, starting with the kitchen as he always did; a routine he carried out automatically, without thinking. He started thinking about how no one else had his mobile number apart from Marilyn. He considered calling her to ask if she'd given his number out. She's far too discreet to do that. Then he remembered giving the number as an emergency contact the last time he was with his mum at the hospital. I'm not often home; I'm a detective. He'd said it apologetically, as if it explained everything…You can always reach me on this number. He'd given his name. Was it possible someone with a grudge happened to be within earshot when he did that? He had one foot on the bottom step on his way upstairs. The phone rang and startled him. It reminded him of his old school bell. No matter how ready you were for it, when it rang; you still jumped.

  Lifting the receiver, he said, "Okay, Dad, what did you forget to tell me?"

  "Is that you JFK?"

  Apprehension twisted his stomach into a knot that tightened all the way up into his chest. Kennedy struggled to breathe normally.

  "What is it you want?"

  "What do I want? I want a favour, Jack, I'll be in touch."

  For a moment, he stood still listening to the handset, as if he were unsure the caller really had gone. He dialled 1471. A disembodied voice recording played down the line. You were called today, at 11:05 p.m. The caller withheld their number.

  Chapter 83

  Sunday Evening March 18th

  The caller's tone was insidious and persuasive. "Trie, there's something else you need to do, to prove your love for your daughter…"

  Her natural instinct was to ask who the hell he thought he was, to ask her to prove her love for anybody, but she stayed calm.

  "What's that?"

  "You're going to meet me for sex."

&nb
sp; "That's preposterous, you're sick . . ."

  "Here is my number . . . write it down." She did as he asked, and wrote it down on a scrap of paper. Just the number, no name, and then hid it in the index box. She put it under T. Her thinking was that Terri wouldn't have to look up her number in the index and with no other name under T that Terri would ever need to call, it seemed as good as place as any.

  "You have until tomorrow to decide. Think of it as insurance for your daughter's future. You are concerned for her future aren't you? Oh, and Trie, don't do anything silly, will you?" It wasn't a question. It was an instruction.

  If she reported him now, everything would come out, the information she'd planted and the secrets she'd passed. Theresa slumped by the phone considering her options; he had her completely snared. When the police found out, she would go to prison. When that happened, when little Terri found out, she ran the risk of losing her. She made her decision.

  Opening the index, she retrieved the scrap of paper with the number on it, hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialled.

  Chapter 84

  John Tanner was divorced. He always thought it would be selfish to bring a child into the world and not be there for it. When it became clear to his wife, Maggie, that he wouldn’t relent, she left him, apparently returning to Scotland to be closer to her family. It soon emerged that she’d started an affair with one of his colleagues. There were some ugly scenes, culminating in a fight, in the station car park.

  Originally tipped to take over from Kennedy, his rival's position became untenable, and he managed to pull some strings to get a transfer to headquarters in West Lothian. Once there, it wasn't long before he moved in with Maggie.

  At first, Tanner had assumed that the chief had helped smooth the transition for him, and he resented him for it. He had the feeling that the situation, though not of his making, had harmed his prospects.