by China, Max
Stella was astounded. "So you can?"
Miller deflected her with a serious look. "Do you know what I'm going to say to Ryan, when I see him in the great hereafter?"
"Of course I don't!"
"I'm going to tell him to make sure he keeps my file locked away from you!"
Her face softened. Almost smiling, she raised the middle finger of her right hand and screwed it around in the air.
Chapter 137
"I don't want to go to his funeral, I hate anything like that."
"So do I, but if you don't go, you'll regret it."
"Do you think he'll mind if I don't?" Stella said, avoiding his gaze.
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind a bit," Miller lifted her chin, "but to not go . . . when you could have . . ."
She turned to face him. "Is what?"
"Running away, and I think he'd mind that."
Afterwards, at the wake in Ryan's favourite gastro-pub, they stood together, shoulder to shoulder with dignitaries from the world of psychiatry, ex-colleagues, associates - most of his friends were also doctors. A few former patients were there. Ryan's solicitor, who was also his friend, announced that it was Ryan's dearest wish that they should all come together for food, drink and merriment and to that end, he'd left one thousand pounds. There was a good, lively atmosphere generally, however, a diminutive and dapper grey-suited elderly man with silver hair and a light Scottish brogue approached them, his face suitably solemn. "Are you from the medical world?" Miller didn't quite catch what the man said and asked him to repeat it. He got his wires crossed and thought that the man was asking if he was with a newspaper called 'Medical World'.
The man walked away, still solemn, but bemused.
Stella came out from hiding behind Miller's back; eyes filled with mirth. "I don't know how you managed to keep a straight face, I was wetting myself!"
He grinned at her, happy that she was happy and then confided, "I had my hand in my pocket, pinching myself."
The man had circulated and latched on to another hapless victim, a woman who looked just as confused as Miller had; she searched the room for an escape route. Catching Miller's eye, she made her excuses, pointing in his direction, and then made a beeline for him, grinning from ear to ear as she came over.
They had a quick exchange about the man. "The trouble was that he was so softly spoken, and with his accent, I couldn't understand a word he was on about . . ." The three of them all joined in laughing.
"It's strange, but I'm getting the feeling that I know you. Have we met before?" he said.
She introduced herself, "Jackie Solomons . . . I was a patient of his . . ."
He shook her hand, "Miller… I was, too."
Stella shrugged her shoulders, feeling somewhat left out and extended her hand. "My name's Stella. I just worked for him."
The entrance door opened, and a veiled woman stepped in. Framed in the shaft of light she closed the door behind. Dressed in funereal black, her presence was striking. Wisps of rosé tinged hair protruded from beneath the hooded cape she wore. A few people stared at her, before returning to their conversations.
"Who's that?" Stella said, transfixed by her appearance.
Jackie answered, "That's The Sister . . . Oh, my God - I haven't seen her for years. I once caught Ryan visiting her . . ." She told them the whole story. "And she had this jet-black stone, plopped it into the palm of my hand and . . . well—"
Miller coughed discreetly, his eyes flashing theatrical caution at Jackie as The Sister approached from behind.
"Talking about me are you? Only nice things I hope," she said, her smile barely perceptible.
"You didn't say you were coming to the funeral," Miller said.
"I tend not to announce my movements in advance, what with the church pursuing me, and all."
Miller was sure that she winked at him from beneath the veil. Surprised she should mention such a thing aloud, he found himself double-checking he hadn't just heard it in his head, but she was closed to him.
"It's a long way to come for a funeral."
"Aye, it is. I have unfinished business to look after. You know some things have to happen, for other things to happen." She touched her nose, her eyes bright, alive and knowing, clearly visible, despite her dark veil.
Apart from The Sister, none of them seemed to notice the petite, blonde woman in her late fifties, who stood by the bar next to them, listening to every word they said.
Penny, intrigued by all that she'd just heard, put together a picture in her head of The Sister and Ryan. That medium, turning up dressed in black like his widow… She seethed, and for a second looked directly at the woman in black. Calm, the green eyes captured her miniature image and held her there. Unable to maintain eye contact, an idea bloomed. She suddenly knew exactly what to do.
On arriving home, Penny decided she would report her to the church. She hadn't any idea why they were looking for her, but it was about time they clamped down on seedy seaside fortune-tellers. Knowing the local priest wouldn't be interested, she switched on her computer and googled to whom she should report the woman's whereabouts.
Two thirds of the way down the screen, an interesting thread came up. The Church of the Resurrectionists of Monte Cristo, known among its members as 'The Church'. A shadowy organisation . . . links to corrupt political leaders . . . one of its bodyguards . . . wanted for the recent assassination of an African Bishop . . .
She thought awhile before digging deeper. Monte Cristo, Mountain of Christ, second comings . . . Although she realised this was not the church that was looking for The Sister - if she told them about the stone and the fortuneteller's alleged abilities . . . The Resurrectionists might just want to find her, too.
Chapter 138
Penny contacted the 'Resurrectionists', and after an exchange of emails - the last one had requested her telephone number - she awaited the arrival of a man who had assured her that he was a very distinguished member of 'The Church'.
Unbeknown to Ryan, when he'd written asking for the return of her keys, she'd had them copied and kept the duplicate set. The original alarm was key-operated and had been for years. If she knew Ryan at all, he wouldn't have wanted to spend money upgrading the system. Always keen to make a good impression on any man, Penny had dolled herself up for the visit. When the doorbell rang, she had no misgivings about letting the man in. She found herself quite excited at the prospect of time alone with him, he seemed friendly enough, but there was a distinct air of danger about him. Penny toyed with the idea of holding out on the information and using it as a bargaining chip . . . Who knows what might happen?
The Churchman didn't take long in getting to the bottom of the story; she told him about the file she'd seen . . .
Twenty minutes later, the swarthy looking man returned to his hire car and placed a set of keys on the passenger seat. Within an hour, he was in possession of the file.
Penny had started a sequence of events she could not have foreseen when she contacted the Resurrectionists. The files they'd stolen illuminated a trail for them to follow. One by one, they would pick off their targets.
In Ireland, a black Fiat drove between the pillars of a run down dry-stone wall into the front driveway area and bumped into a large pothole. The tall man in the passenger seat hit his head on the inside lining of the roof with a dull thunk, he shot a look of displeasure at the driver.
Brenda Flynn looked out of her window as the car parked. It's late for visitors . . .
Brenda had had two or three of these visits over the years since Vera disappeared, emissaries of Rome looking for her. You'd a thought they'd a given up by now…When the two men arrived at her door, she was already waiting the other side. Opening it at the first knock, the unexpected visitors drove her backwards, inside.
The shorter, swarthy-looking beady-eyed man held onto her while the tall, thin man looked around, moving down the hallway.
"I don't have anything worth taking," Brenda informed them coolly. "B
ut you're welcome to look, why don't you!"
"Your niece, where is she?" The swarthy man demanded.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
"Just tell us where she is and we'll be gone."
"Vera? I haven't seen her in years," Brenda glared at them defiantly. "And even if I had, I'd not be telling you!"
"Which one is her room?"
"What do you want to know that for?" Brenda asked, genuinely bemused.
"It's this one," the taller man said, dipping his head slightly as he stepped through the door.
Brenda struggled to break free, but the swarthy looking man held her easily.
"Get off me!" she yelled. "What are you doing in there - get out of my house!"
"Stop struggling, old woman, we don't want to hurt you."
The tall man re-emerged from Vera's old room and nodded at his accomplice. "I know where she is," he said.
On the way out the taller one stopped by the front door and held his left hand out, hovering where once the water butt had been.
Once they'd gone, a mystified Brenda Flynn walked into Vera's old room. She never changed it at all, dusting round occasionally. Nothing seemed out of place. Except for the bed, it looked as if someone had laid on it.
Why would that be?
She notified the police.
Chapter 139
Tuesday April 10th
Wind blew through the air with a vengeance, twisting sheets of rain into phantom forms and sweeping the car park, filled it with puddles in seconds. The sunny spirits of the past few days were dampened, replaced by pervasive gloom. Trapped by the weather in the car, Miller and Kennedy waited for the rain to ease.
"By the way, there was a break-in at Dr Ryan's last night. I thought you might like to know," Kennedy said, looking grim.
"Well that's good of you, but what does it have to do with me?"
"They broke into his filing cabinet and took several files. According to the index, one of them was yours."
"Mmm, you say they broke into his filing cabinet. Did they not break into his office?"
"No, they had keys, they left them behind. We ran a couple of checks; Stella Bird still has her keys. We found the name Penny McAllister on the key holder records from a long time back. I think we can be reasonably sure they were hers."
"Reasonably sure - how can you be?" Miller said, perturbed. Kennedy was one of those people he just couldn't read at all.
"Because when we called to talk to her, we found her dead, strangled with one of her own stockings."
Miller whistled, "Jesus, is there any chance you can tell me who the other files were?"
"Patient confidentiality, it wouldn't be right to tell you." Kennedy tapped his nose. "Anyway, why are you so interested?"
"I'm not sure really, just yes or no . . . was one of the missing files that of Vera Flynn, or The Sister or someone like that?"
"Yes," Kennedy said, "it was. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious, I don't suppose you'll tell me which others are missing?"
Kennedy cleared his throat, "No other files were missing."
Miller sat in silent contemplation.
The detective continued, "We have intelligence from a good source that a pseudo-religious group is planning to kidnap her."
"Really . . . and why would they want to do that?"
"I don't know, but something's going on. Her aunt reported a strange incident yesterday. Two men forced their way into her home; they didn't take anything, but according to her, one of them said, after he'd been in Vera Flynn's bedroom: I know where she is … and when you take that piece of information, along with the email correspondence found on McAllister's computer . . . I think we can safely say Vera Flynn is in danger." Kennedy brightened. "Hey, look the rain's stopping. Give it another couple of minutes, we can go inside."
Miller looked at Kennedy and shook his head in mock dismay, "You're unreal."
"Before I forget . . . I didn't tell you about Jackie Solomons did I? She was in the cabinet at Dr Ryan's too—"
"Wait a minute; I met her at Ryan's funeral—"
"And?" the detective said.
"Nothing . . . just seems a strange coincidence, that's all."
"Where was I? Oh, yes. Do you know something, Miller? The man that tried to kill her - she said he reeked of tobacco smoke. It stuck in my mind for ages afterwards. It was such a general thing, not much of a clue, but she kept saying it to me back then as if she didn't want to forget . . ."
Miller half-turned towards him in driver's seat, his stomach growling with hunger, he couldn't wait for the rain to stop so they could continue the discussion over breakfast. It was such a cold case; there wasn't any need to worry if someone eavesdropped on them.
"And after the reek of tobacco, it was how big his hands were . . ." his frown deepened as he struggled to recall the details; he was doing well without any notes. "No, not his actual hands, but the knuckles. They were big and scarred, like the knuckles of a boxer or bare fist fighter. She never got a look at his face; he ordered her to look down . . . her friends weren't close enough for a good look, so all we had was three things."
"Three things?"
"That's right. He's a fighter; he smokes, and he left his semen at the scene of the crime, in a manner of speaking," Kennedy said, with an apologetic grin. He looked for a reaction, but Miller remained impassive. He cut a smear with the edge of his palm and peered through the condensation on the windscreen, looking skyward, to see if the rain showed any signs of stopping. Miller settled back into his seat, before finally making a statement.
"No matches, even after all these years . . ." his head shook from side to side, in silent disapproval. "To my way of thinking, there are a number of things to consider—"
Kennedy interrupted him. "There was actually something else she said; it was a really hot day, but he wore a boiler suit. At the time, we guessed he might be a mechanic or something like that . . ."
Miller paused, thought about what Kennedy had just said, and continued, holding up the forefinger of his right hand. "Whether or not it was the first and only time he intended to kill that day, he dressed for it - to avoid cross-contamination between them. He inseminated her so we can conclude he intended to dispose of the body quickly. If her friends hadn't intervened, you wouldn't have found her. I believe he's done this before. This man has never come up on the radar, never had a sample taken." He fixed Kennedy with an intense stare. "Do you know how many young women go missing without a trace every year? This character could have killed many times before."
Kennedy sighed, "We considered all those things and more . . . It's also possible he died before committing another crime, or before we got to him."
Staring up into the dark clouds, Miller didn't hesitate in his response, "He's not dead."
"You can't say that, Miller," Kennedy retorted, "not without a shred of evidence." He stared through the misted glass. "I, on the other hand, can. You know, a few weeks ago, I was in a lift with a character, a big, rough looking man. I'd never seen him before. There was only him and me. He was looking down, but I noticed him watching me, caught the devilish glint of them from under his eyebrows. And I noticed the smell of stale tobacco, so strong and overpowering . . . I didn't need to look at his hands. I knew what I'd see. Yes, that's right - the hands of a bare-knuckle fighter. My gut told me I was in the presence of the man who had committed that crime. I just knew it. If you could arrest someone on a gut feeling, I'd have arrested him there and then. We made the briefest eye contact. I knew then he was going to attack me, but the lift stopped, and more people got on. He hesitated, and then got off.
"Afterwards, I tried to disregard my instincts, but you know what? I remembered a case in Gibraltar in the late eighties; the SAS had shadowed some IRA suspects. One of the SAS men exchanged a look with one of the suspects a split second before the shooting began. At the inquest afterwards, the soldier testified there was recognition on both sides of what was about to happen. H
e seemed to know . . .
"It was the same in that lift. The minute I laid eyes on his knuckles, and he saw me looking, he knew. Whether he left the lift early because of that, I couldn't say, but I know it was him, and although I curse I missed my chance, I also know he wouldn't have come quietly. It would have been like a ten-year-old trying to arrest a full-grown man. I also got the impression," he paused for reflection, "that he knew me, not from any kind of instinct though. I think he knew my face; I got that feeling as well."
Miller looked sideways at him. "So you get a feeling, and that's okay?"
"You know, you've just reminded me. It didn't seem so important at the time; I mean we are talking about a lot of years ago now . . ." His eyes looked slightly out of focus; he rubbed them with his knuckles until they were pink and bloodshot. "I was just a rookie detective back then, when Jackie Solomons was attacked. I checked the records to see if there had been any reports of any other incidents around that time, in the few months before. I can remember being in the pub just talking generally, making enquiries . . ."
Miller looked at his watch.
"Am I boring you?"
"No, no," Miller said tapping to show the time on the watch. "But if we don't make a run for it now, we're going to miss breakfast."
Inside the cafe, they located a table in a relatively quiet corner. The place was busy, a sign of good food. Miller placed their orders at the counter. A young girl in a bibbed red and white striped apron brought over the order. Kennedy heaped a spoonful of sugar into his steaming mug.
"Would you like my toast?" Kennedy asked. "It's too heavily buttered for my liking."
"No, what I have is plenty enough, thanks."
"I hope you don't mind if I slip out of my detective's overcoat and talk to you as a friend," Kennedy said. "It just might be easier to forget I ever was a detective and listen to the story I'm about to tell you."
