Never Coming Back

by Tim Weaver

  My eyes lingered on Graham for a second more, on all the questions that would go unanswered, and then I headed off along the hallway. I didn’t stop to look in at Katie Francis again. She’d made bad choices, and she’d sided with the wrong man, but she didn’t deserve what had been visited upon her. I couldn’t bear to look at her again.

  I headed through to the library, eyes gliding over every surface, trying to find anything that might connect Graham, connect any of this, to Kalb; anything at all that might give me an idea of who he even was. Pulling my sleeve down to cover my hand, I opened and closed drawers and pulled books out of shelves. But there was nothing.

  Rocastle was still swearing at me.

  I cut in. ‘Just listen to me for two seconds, okay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s someone here in Devon. I think they’ve been sent by a–’

  ‘No,’ he said again, almost screaming it down the phone. ‘I’m going to make this very simple for you. Wherever you are at the moment, you’re going to head home. There, DC McInnes and two uniformed officers will be waiting to arrest you.’

  I sighed. ‘There’s no time for this.’

  ‘You had us wasting hours yesterday searching a barren fucking hillside, so don’t talk to me about having no time!’

  Rain swirled in as I got down to the front steps of the house.

  ‘Raker?’

  ‘Do what you have to do,’ I said – and then hung up.

  51

  As soon as I got back on to the main coastal road, I took the first turning back off it and followed a series of ten-foot-wide lanes west, in the vague direction of the village. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I knew I didn’t want to pass Rocastle as he came the other way, towards Farnmoor. I needed time to think, to plan out my next move.

  If I thought my home was off-limits before, the likely destination for a killer looking to finish the job, then it definitely was now. If I let myself get arrested, nothing got solved: the Lings wouldn’t be found and Cornell would disappear, having closed the loop. I was the only one left now, the only one with any kind of connection to the photograph, to whoever Kalb was and why he represented such a destructive risk to Cornell. And yet, basically, I knew nothing. I didn’t even know Kalb’s first name. We were miles apart.

  Suddenly my phone started buzzing in my lap. I glanced at it, expecting it to be Rocastle. But it wasn’t. It was a number that I didn’t have logged. An Exeter area code.

  Reardon.

  Carrie’s university lecturer.

  I jammed it into the hands-free and pressed Answer.

  ‘David Raker.’

  ‘I’ve got three messages to call you.’ He was so indignant, he didn’t even introduce himself. I’d decided against mentioning Carrie in any of the voicemails – it was a risky strategy, but I wanted to come at him cold. Using Carrie as bait would have given him time to gather his thoughts before phoning. ‘What exactly is it you want?’

  I felt underprepared for this phone call – my mind still turbulent – but I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to speak to him.

  ‘I want to talk about Carrie Ling.’

  There was a brief hesitation. ‘Oh. Carrie. What about her?’

  ‘I don’t have much time, Robert, so I’m going to cut to the chase: her family have asked me to find her, and I think you can help. You ever heard of a man called Kalb?’

  ‘I don’t think I–’

  ‘He was part of her MA.’ I left that hanging there, rain lashing against the roof of the car, the cold, barbed winter air crawling its way inside. ‘Robert?’

  ‘I can’t discuss private matters–’

  ‘Look, I haven’t got time for this dance. I want to know what her MA was about and I want to know who Kalb is. And you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that.’

  ‘Are you listening to what I’m saying?’

  ‘I heard–’

  ‘It’s the reason she and her family disappeared.’

  ‘I don’t know … You can’t …’

  ‘Would you prefer it if I didn’t find her?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. No, of course not.’

  ‘Do you want that on your conscience?’

  ‘I have a clear conscience, thank you.’

  ‘What about if they’re dead?’

  No answer.

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘Do you think they’re dead?’

  He sounded different now – his bluster gone – and I knew where the question had come from: the point, probably a few months after they went missing, when he started to realize Carrie and her family weren’t coming home again, and he began to wonder why.

  ‘Do you think they’re dead?’ he said again.

  ‘I think there’s a good chance of that, yes.’

  I let that soften him up even more. Then I went at him again. ‘Did Carrie ever show you a photograph of a man named Kalb?’

  He seemed unsettled by the change of direction.

  ‘A photograph?’

  ‘It would have been taken in about 1971.’

  A pause. ‘She said she had one in her possession.’

  ‘You never saw a copy of it yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you request one?’

  ‘I told her I’d like to see it. She said she’d send it to me.’

  ‘But she never did?’

  ‘No. I don’t know why.’

  I thought I could take a pretty good guess: Lee Wilkins would have been telling Paul that the photograph could land them in trouble; Paul would have told Carrie the same. She was wrestling with her conscience.

  ‘Did she tell you where she found the picture?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She only described it to you?’

  ‘Yes. We only ever talked about Kalb over the phone.’

  That had probably saved Reardon’s life. Cornell and his people would have been through Carrie’s emails and found no mention of Kalb. There was no mention of him in the dissertation notes she’d left on Paul’s PC either. If she’d referenced him even once in an email correspondence with Reardon, the professor would have been in the ground like everyone else. He couldn’t begin to understand how lucky he was.

  I moved up through the gears.

  ‘So who’s Kalb?’

  A long, deep breath came down the line, sounding like a burst of static. He was still hesitant, a man brought up on traditional values, on the protection of people’s privacy, their ideals, their integrity. But those values were worthless when you were already in the trough with the pigs. We weren’t dealing with incorruptibility.

  We were dealing with killers.

  I heard a door close. ‘What is it you want to know about him?’

  ‘Let’s start with Kalb’s first name.’

  ‘Daniel.’

  Daniel Kalb.

  D.K.

  ‘He was going to be the subject of Carrie’s dissertation,’ Reardon continued. He sounded different now, forlorn. ‘Are you familiar with the Yalta Conference?’

  ‘I probably need a refresher.’

  ‘Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin met there in 1945, on the shores of the Black Sea, along with about seven hundred other diplomats, to organize the post-war make-up of Europe. They discussed a range of things, but arguably the most complex debate was over Poland’s future. Churchill wanted free elections for the Soviet-liberated countries of Eastern Europe; Stalin wanted to maintain the USSR’s power in that part of the world and argued that twice in the preceding thirty years Germany had used Poland as part of an, if you like, “invasion route”. Roosevelt was somewhere in the middle, but basically needed Stalin because he needed the Soviets’ military help in the war against Japan.’

  ‘And Carrie was interested in the post-war Soviet Union?’

  ‘Yes. Especially Poland.’

  That tied in with the notes I’d found on Paul’s PC.

  ‘She wanted to use Yalta as a
springboard for her dissertation,’ Reardon went on. ‘At that stage – the stage when she first started talking about it – she didn’t have much more than that. She indicated she was interested in the seven years between the end of the Second World War and the moment the People’s Republic of Poland came into being in 1952; essentially, a Soviet puppet state. I told her that it was too broad a canvas, that she needed to pare it down. She went away and I didn’t hear from her for a few months.’

  ‘Did those couple of months coincide with her trip to the States?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when she got back from the US, things had changed?’

  The line drifted slightly. Reardon said something, but the reception dropped out. I was coming into a black spot. Rainwater washed across the narrow lanes, spraying everywhere. There were no lay-bys and I couldn’t stop – if I did, no one would be able to pass. Instead, I took my foot off the accelerator and slowed to a crawl, trying to prolong the signal for as long as I could.

  ‘… the photogra … entire course …’

  ‘I lost you for a second. Can you repeat that? You were saying that things changed after Carrie got back from the States – they became more focused on Kalb?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Which meant what?’

  ‘Which mean … changed the entire cour … of her MA. Her outline used Yalta as the pivot still, but she turned … on its head.’ I leaned towards the phone, trying to pick up on the words that kept dropping out. ‘From the end of May, maybe the start of June, her dissertation didn’t become about the years after Yalta, it became about the years before it. Specifically, she beca … terested in the seventeen months between … and …’

  ‘Wait, what dates?’

  ‘… and Carrie had done a hell … lot of reading: Polish history, Soviet history, the major beats of the Second World War. All of it. By … she was … and was knowledge …’

  ‘Can you repeat that?’

  ‘… so she already knew about So–’

  And then the line died.

  Damn it. I reached forward and pressed Dial again. It rang three times and then stopped. I heard a snatch of Reardon’s voice, the vaguest sense of a hello, then nothing.

  I tried again and he came on a little clearer this time. I looped the conversation back round to where we’d left off, but then he started talking about something else: ‘Carrie sent me a very strange text on the day she disappeared.’

  That rang a bell. I remembered Reardon had been one of seven people – the rest, friends and family – that Carrie had texted on the day she’d disappeared.

  ‘Strange how?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just said, “Dissertation is in the laptop.” ’

  ‘Laptop?’

  ‘That’s … she …’

  He was breaking up again.

  ‘Her laptop?’

  ‘… don’t know.’

  And then the call bombed out again.

  Dissertation is in the laptop.

  As far as I could tell, Carrie didn’t own a laptop – certainly she hadn’t left one in the house – and when I’d been through Paul’s PC, I’d found only some vague, typed-up notes about life in the Soviet Union in the 1950s. I’d always assumed she’d used his PC, most likely during the day when he was at work.

  Clearly, Reardon had no idea what she was talking about either and, in the police investigation, no laptop had ever been recovered and attributed to Carrie. McInnes’s team hadn’t interviewed Reardon in any formal capacity, but they would have seen the text sent from Carrie’s phone on the day she disappeared, and he would have told them the same thing he just told me, that Carrie had sent him a weird text.

  Dissertation is in the laptop.

  I looked at the clock. Midday.

  I needed to get a signal on my phone and spend some time finding out who Kalb was. But, more than that, I needed to stay hidden – and I needed to work fast.

  52

  I knew I had to get off the grid as soon as possible, but a couple of minutes after Reardon faded out, the signal kicked in on my phone again and it started buzzing in the cradle. I glanced at the display, expecting it to be Reardon; instead it was a ten-digit US phone number.

  ‘David Raker.’

  A short, echoey buzz. ‘Mr Raker, it’s Carlos Soto.’

  ‘Mr Soto. Thanks for calling me back.’ Just up ahead was a small passing point in the lane. I pulled in to it, trying to save the signal I had. ‘It must be late there.’

  ‘I’ve just finished my shift.’

  ‘I appreciate your time.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was hoping I could talk to you about a man you might have come into contact with at your casino. His name’s Jeremy Cornell. I think he organizes a get-together–’

  ‘I know him,’ Soto said. ‘What concern is he of yours?’

  ‘Concern?’ I stopped. Soto was polite but terse, probably because Cornell brought in a shitload of money for the casino and he didn’t want to rock the boat. This was going to be hard work. ‘His name came up in an investigation I’m putting together over here.’

  ‘Who do you work for again, sir?’

  ‘I work for myself.’

  ‘You’re a private investigator?’

  ‘I trace missing people.’

  ‘And who’s gone missing – Mr Cornell?’

  ‘No. Not Cornell.’

  A pause. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Cornell may know some things that could help me – but unfortunately I can’t get hold of him. However, as I understand it, he spends a lot of time at the Bellagio.’

  ‘So you want me to fill in the blanks?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I can’t comment on individual customers, sir.’

  He was playing a straight bat, as I’d expected him to. I backed out and came at him a different way. ‘Okay. Fair enough. Let me ask you something else: how long have you been in charge of security at the casino?’

  ‘What’s the relevance of this?’

  ‘I mean, I’m sure I can find out, but …’

  I didn’t finish the sentence, just let it hang. He didn’t answer immediately, as if he was trying to pinpoint the reason I might ask. Then, eventually, he said, ‘Two years.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t have worked there when Cornell did?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have worked at the casino at the same time as he did.’ That meant Soto was immediately redundant. ‘Is there anyone else who might remember him?’

  ‘Sir, I think you may be confused.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Mr Cornell never worked here.’

  That stopped me. ‘At all?’

  ‘Not before I arrived, and certainly not since.’

  Certainly not since. There was a hint of something in Soto’s voice – defiance, animosity – but I let it go for the moment and wheeled back to what he’d said before that.

  Mr Cornell never worked here.

  Which meant it was all one big lie. He’d lied to Graham, lied to everyone in the high-rollers group – about his history, about who he was and about what he did.

  ‘What do you make of him?’ I asked.

  ‘Of Mr Cornell?’ A pause; one that lasted longer than it should have. I recalled what he’d said earlier: Not before I arrived, and certainly not since. ‘I don’t particularly have an opinion of him either way,’ Soto said eventually. ‘He’s a valued customer.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘He’s just a customer?’

  A moment’s hesitation. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s nothing else?’

  The line shifted slightly. ‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.’

  This time, I didn’t respond.

  ‘Mr Raker?’

  I glanced in my rear-view mirror, checking for cars. ‘Look, I’m not here to get anyone into trouble, I’m just trying to f
ind some people that Cornell might have known.’

  ‘I don’t know what that has to do with me.’

  ‘You’re familiar with Cornell.’

  ‘I’m sure a lot of people are familiar with him.’

  ‘I think you have an opinion on him.’

  He didn’t reply this time.

  ‘And I’d like to hear that opinion.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘What, are you a mind-reader?’ The tone changed instantly. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say – or why you called.’

  ‘I’m trying to find a family.’

  Silence on the line.

  ‘I’m trying to find a family who went missing. They spent some time in your part of the world between February and May last year. I think Cornell knows where they are.’

  More silence.

  I wondered whether I’d played this right. For all I knew, Soto could have been working for Cornell. But, somehow, I didn’t think so. The way he’d sidestepped questions, trod carefully around them, was deliberate; a man trying to stop himself being cornered.

  ‘I can’t help you, Mr Raker.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure?’

  ‘Look, I just want to find out about–’

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said, his reply suddenly loaded with venom. He’d lowered his voice too, as if it was the only way he could keep a lid on his anger. ‘I don’t give a damn about your case. Is that clear enough for you? I don’t care about the family, and I don’t care about you. All I care about is staying alive – and going after Cornell is like rocking the hornets’ nest. You make him angry, and everyone on your radar gets stung. Just leave it alone.’

  A second later, he was gone.

  Ring

  Monday, 25 June 2012 | Five Months Ago

  On the northern fringes of the Southern Highlands golf club, south of Las Vegas where the I-15 started its gentle, lonely journey into the desert, was the house belonging to Carlos Soto. Part of a small, gated community in San Sevino, it was tucked away in a triangle of land between South Highlands Parkway and Dean Martin Drive. From the Parkway you could see some of it, hidden behind a six-foot wall: a window on the side for one of the three bedrooms; a door beneath it, leading out of the kitchen and into the backyard; a covered area immediately outside the rear doors; and then a small, ten-metre swimming pool. You couldn’t see the backyard or the pool from the road, only the gentle shimmer of the water reflecting off the cream-coloured exterior walls.