Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories

by Simon Kernick

  He died instantly.

  Lucas Mortish sighed with relief, then stood up, staring down impassively at the body of the deranged lunatic who’d abducted him from the street the previous afternoon, chloroforming him in the process. He was hungry. And thirsty. The lunatic’s head was pouring out blood onto the uneven concrete floor and already the corpse was beginning to smell. Lucas Mortish wrinkled his nose and stepped over it, making for the steps that would take him to freedom.

  It had been an uncomfortable experience, and one in which he’d had to use all his natural cunning to survive, but it had also been a very interesting one. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends about it. And his father. His father especially would be proud of the way he’d thought on his feet, catching his kidnapper out so smartly.

  His father had taught him so many good lessons. That words can tear an opponent to pieces far more effectively than even the strongest blade.

  And of course that in law, as in life, there is no place for sentiment.

  So what if the lunatic’s son had died? His death had had nothing to do with Lucas, nor with his father. His father had simply done his job. Why then should they be made to pay for this other man’s misery?

  He mounted the steps, opened the door and walked out into the Hayers’ hallway. Ignoring the photographs on the wall, quite oblivious to them, he went over to the phone, even allowing himself a tiny triumphant smirk as he dialled the police.

  Didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. Only knew that something was wrong when the phone suddenly went dead before it was picked up at the other end. As if it had been unplugged.

  He turned round slowly, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.

  Saw the man.

  Stocky, with close-cropped hair and narrow, interested eyes. Dressed in an ill-fitting blue boiler suit. Stained. An unpleasant familiarity about him.

  Found his eyes moving almost magnetically towards the huge, gleaming blade of the carving knife in the man’s huge paw-like hand.

  The fear came in a quivering rush.

  Now it was Patrick Dean’s turn to smirk.

  The Glint in a Killer’s Eyes

  1

  It started on a stiflingly hot summer’s evening in late April 2008, not long after the end of Songkran, the annual water festival that celebrated the start of Laotian New Year. I’d been living in Laos for about eighteen months then, running a guesthouse in the northern city of Luang Prabang.

  I was having a drink at a corner table in the guesthouse bar, minding my own business, when a Western man at the wrong end of middle age with a florid drinker’s face, a khaki suit in need of a good iron and a battered Panama hat came in. He had a battered old satchel – the kind I remembered from school in 1970s England – draped over one shoulder. He glanced round the room and seeing me there – a fellow Westerner – he gave me a small nod that I returned, and took a seat at the bar with his back to me, ordering a beer from Chan the barman in an educated, and surprisingly soft, Irish accent. The place was quiet, but then it usually was. You were never going to make big money out here. There was too much competition around, and most of the tourists were backpackers, and they’ve never got deep pockets. But I didn’t need a lot of money to live, and a quiet bar suited me just fine. When you’re a man on the run, you prefer to keep things low-key.

  I finished my beer, thought about ordering another one, but decided against it. I didn’t want to get caught in conversation with the guy at the bar. There might be a chance I looked familiar to him, and I didn’t want to have to explain that one away. It might have been seven years since I’d fled the UK, when my double life as a police officer and an occasional contract killer had become exposed, but as you can imagine, it had been very big news at the time, and it would have stuck in some people’s minds. I’d changed my appearance since then, with several expensive bouts of plastic surgery, which had thankfully been subtle enough to look natural, but the price of being identified was too high not to be very careful.

  I got up and quietly left the bar, then went upstairs to my room, where I sat and had another couple of beers on my tiny balcony looking out over the rooftops of the town, down to the mighty Mekong River. I remember that I was feeling maudlin that night. The life of a fugitive can become lonely, and although I’d had enough time to grow used to it, there were still moments when it got to me.

  And so that night I made a mistake. Rather than just hitting the sack, I headed back down to the bar. It was gone ten by this time and I figured the place would be empty, which meant I could have a chat with Chan, a nice kid who spoke good English. Although I liked to keep the bar open until midnight, just in case returning guests wanted a late drink, no one usually did. But as soon as I turned the corner, I saw that the Irishman was still sitting there in the same place, nursing what looked like a very large whisky. I would have turned round but he looked over and spotted me, giving that nod again, and if I’d gone back upstairs then, it would have been far too suspicious.

  ‘A beer, Mr Mick?’ said Chan with a big smile, getting off his chair.

  ‘Sure,’ I said and sat down a couple of seats away from the Irishman, who’d already turned away and was staring down at his drink.

  At first I thought he might have been drunk, but after a few seconds I realized that his expression was too intense for that, his eyes too alive. I didn’t like that look, although at least it wasn’t aimed at me.

  Chan raised an eyebrow as he handed me my beer, making me think that the guy had been sitting there a long time. I decided to finish my drink quickly and get out of there.

  Unfortunately, I was only halfway through it and doing my level best to avoid a conversation when the man turned my way. There was a deep and terrible sadness in his bloodshot eyes that almost made me flinch. So much so that I even asked him if he was all right.

  He smiled at this, but there was no humour in it. ‘I’m as okay as I’ll ever be. My name’s Bob, by the way. Bob Darnell.’

  He put out a hand that was very steady for a man who’d been drinking whisky for the past two hours, and I took it. ‘Mick,’ I said, giving him the name I used these days. I didn’t add anything else.

  ‘Well, it’s good to meet you, Mick,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry I’m sitting here so maudlin.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I told him. ‘You can be as maudlin as you like, as long as you pay the bill.’

  He smiled at that. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay. So do you own this place?’

  ‘I have a share,’ I said, turning away from him to signal that I wanted the conversation to end.

  But he was one of those persistent types. ‘It must be a good place to live. Warm, friendly, peaceful.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, finishing the beer with a big gulp.

  ‘Do you want to hear a story?’ he said.

  That was the last thing I needed, so I slipped off the stool. ‘It’s late. Maybe another time.’

  He stared at me then, with the kind of expression that told me he was carrying a big, big weight on his shoulders. ‘It’ll be the saddest one you ever hear.’

  ‘I’ve heard some sad ones in my time,’ I told him.

  ‘None as sad as this,’ he said.

  I was intrigued in spite of myself. My day-to-day life is pretty dull, if I’m honest. I don’t usually hear stories from people, sad or otherwise. So I sat back down and asked him what it was about.

  He told me to get myself another drink, that it was on him. ‘It’s about a man and his daughter,’ he said when I’d got myself another beer, and we’d settled at the far table, out of earshot of Chan. ‘The daughter’s name was Erin, and she was the most beautiful girl in the world.’

  I saw his eyes glisten then, as the memory came back to him, and I wondered what I was letting myself in for.

  He took a deep breath, looking thoughtful now, and began. ‘Erin was an only child. Her parents didn’t think they could have her. Her mother had had three miscarriages previously and this was prob
ably their last chance at having a child, so when she arrived – healthy and so, so beautiful – it was like a blessing from God. The years went fast, as they always do, and she grew up into a gorgeous young girl with raven-black hair and sparkling blue eyes, just like her mother. Everyone loved little Erin. She was a happy, inquisitive, polite girl and so pretty that everyone knew that one day she’d break some hearts.

  ‘They were a happy family, these three. They lived in a village close to the sea where the air was fresh and people looked out for one other. It was like they were cut off from all the terrors and problems of the outside world in their own little paradise. And then …’ He paused for a second before continuing, looking down at the gnarled wooden tabletop. ‘And then one day, when Erin was nine, her mother Barbara came home from a walk to the shops and said she wasn’t feeling well. She went up to bed, saying she needed to lie down, and when Erin hadn’t heard from her for quite a while she made her mum a cup of tea and took it up to her.’

  Darnell took a deep breath, struggling to keep his emotion in check. ‘The doctor said later that Barbara had suffered a massive aneurism. She would have died almost instantly. And just like that, the happy family was no more. Have you ever lost anyone close to you, Mick?’

  I didn’t have to think about that one. ‘Yes,’ I said. I felt a need to elaborate then, but stopped myself and waited for him to continue.

  ‘Then you know what a terrible, empty feeling it is. And for a child of nine, it’s even worse. Especially as it was Erin who found her. It affected her very deeply, more so even than her father, who loved that woman so much it was almost indescribable.’ He sighed. ‘But they carried on, because what other choice is there? The problem was the village no longer felt like home. Even though the community rallied round and did everything they could to help the two of them get through their grief, it didn’t work. They needed a complete change. So the father, who’d done well in his job and had some money set aside, took Erin out of school, and they travelled. They drove through Europe and they saw Paris, they saw Rome. They walked up Mount Vesuvius; they rode horses in the Camargue; they hiked through the Alpine forests of Austria and Switzerland. They did everything.

  ‘At first Erin didn’t like it. It was all too much for her. But slowly, very slowly, she came out of her shell and realized that she was actually enjoying herself. So the two of them kept going. They drove all the way to Athens, sold the car and got on a plane to India. For four years they travelled like that. Erin blossomed, she truly did.’ He paused and shook his head in wonderment at the memory. ‘She became independent, self-sufficient and so inquisitive. She learned French and Spanish. She embraced the world and, although she never forgot the memory of her mother and carried her picture everywhere, she became happy again. And so did her father. The village they came from became a distant memory, and neither of them wanted to go back to Ireland and reality. They were happy as nomads.

  ‘The father was no fool, though. He knew they were going to have to return home eventually. But he wanted them to have one last adventure together, so they travelled down through Central America, a place they’d been to before, and where Erin could practise her Spanish.’

  He sighed. ‘It was when they were on the island of Roatan in Honduras that it happened. Honduras can be a dangerous place, but Roatan’s different. It’s popular with Americans because of the diving there, and it’s considered safe, so when Erin wanted to go for a walk to explore a nearby beach, her father didn’t stop her. He should have done. She was only thirteen. But she was a careful girl, and she’d been travelling long enough to know how to handle herself. And it was daylight and there were people about. Ordinarily, her father would have gone with her, but they’d had an argument that morning – as they sometimes did, being so close to each other the whole time – and neither was feeling quite right around the other. So she went alone.’

  I saw his shoulders crumple then and I knew what he was going to say before he said it, but still I remained silent.

  ‘The father never liked it when she was away from him for too long. He’d already lost his wife, and Erin was all he had left, so he was naturally very protective over her, and when she didn’t come back after a couple of hours, he went looking for her.

  ‘But she was nowhere to be found. The beach she’d gone to must have been a mile long and there were only a handful of people on it. He asked them if they’d seen her, but no one had, so he walked the whole length of it, calling her name, and then when that didn’t work, he struck inland through the woods that the beach backed onto, becoming more and more worried. By the time night fell he was beside himself, and he went back to the guesthouse where they were staying and called the police.’

  The silence felt thick and heavy in the room and I could tell that he was struggling to continue. He took a deep breath, his face screwed up in pain, and gripped the whisky glass so tight I thought he might break it. ‘They searched everywhere: the police; the father; even some of the tourists and locals. But there was no trace of her anywhere, and after three days of searching, the police concluded that she must have gone into the sea, got caught in a current and drowned. But the father didn’t believe it. The sea had been flat calm that day, and Erin was a strong swimmer. Still, there was nothing he could do. The police said they’d keep the case open, but they were no longer interested.

  ‘The father stayed in Roatan another month – waiting, hoping, searching, wandering the beaches and the back roads, calling her name, showing her picture to anyone he saw, but it was no use. No body washed up, either. Anywhere. It was as if she’d disappeared off the face of the earth.’ He sighed. ‘As the months passed, the father – this man who’d finally found a semblance of happiness after the death of his wife – began to lose all hope. He wanted to die, to throw himself from the highest cliff, to stab himself again and again until there was nothing left. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t die, even though death was a blissful release he utterly craved. Not until he knew for certain what had happened to Erin.’

  ‘And did he ever find out what had happened to her?’ I asked, hoping there was some closure to this story.

  This time he nodded. ‘Yes. Four years ago, there was a landslide in Roatan after heavy rains, and bones were discovered amongst the mud. They were DNA-tested and found to belong to Erin. So at least the father had some closure, and now his daughter can rest in peace at home alongside her mother. But it also meant that her death was no accident. The landslide happened up in the hills more than half a mile from the beach. Someone buried her up there after they’d killed her.’

  ‘And I’m assuming the killer hasn’t been brought to justice.’

  He looked at me, and there was something in his eyes I didn’t like. ‘Not yet. But I know who he is.’

  ‘And I’m guessing you’re her father.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s that obvious, isn’t it? Look at me. I’m a husk of what I was. I’ve spent the whole of the last fourteen years wandering the world, unable to settle. At first I was still trying to find Erin, hoping that by some accident she’d appear in front of me. But then, since her body was discovered, I’ve been trying to find justice for her. When I get that, I can finally rest.’ He sipped the whisky and wiped a sleeve across his eyes to get rid of his tears. ‘I’m sorry. Even after all these years I get emotional.’

  It was an emotional story and one that had affected me as well. I may be a killer, but I’ve always thought of myself as a good man who’s done some bad things, and I felt for this man and his lost family.

  I looked across to the bar where Chan sat reading a book. He didn’t appear interested in this conversation between two middle-aged farang, which was just as well. I told him to go home and to lock the bar door on the way out.

  As he left, I turned back round and saw there was a battered black-and-white photo about four by six on the table between us. It was a professional shot – the type you get in a Who’s Who – of an avuncular-looking white man in his si
xties with a neatly trimmed beard and glasses. He was trying to look serious, but you could tell he liked to smile and there was definitely what my mother would have called a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Bob Darnell softly. ‘The man who killed my daughter.’

  I stated the obvious. ‘He doesn’t look much like a killer.’

  ‘Ah, and that’s the thing now, isn’t it? The clever ones never do look like killers. Only someone like him would have caught Erin off-guard, although he would have been younger then. That’s a recent photo.’

  ‘How do you really know for sure it’s him?’

  ‘Because I’ve spent the last four years searching for the killer. And it wasn’t just me looking, either. I’ve spent most of what I’ve got on private detectives. I’ve created a full dossier of the case. It’s all in here.’ He patted the satchel next to him.

  ‘So why don’t you tell all this to the police? Either in Honduras or Ireland? That way, you know you’ll get proper resources working on the case.’

  ‘I’ve tried it. No one’s interested. They think I’m a foolish drunk.’

  He must have seen the scepticism in my expression because he continued quickly, tapping the photo. ‘The man’s name’s Roberto Moretti and he’s a highly respected Italian surgeon who now lives in Venice. He was staying in a house on Roatan with his family at the time of Erin’s disappearance. It was only fifty yards from where the bones were discovered, the nearest house by far.’

  ‘But that’s not evidence,’ I told him.

  ‘There’s more, much more,’ he said, his words coming faster now. ‘Murder follows this man around. Erin disappeared in 1994, but a local girl of a similar age went missing in Bali in 1998, less than half a mile from where Señor Moretti was staying at the time, and in 2002 an eleven-year-old girl disappeared in Slovakia, again when Moretti was in the vicinity. There are almost certainly others as well, but these are the ones we know about.’