by Alan Veale
‘Who’s that singer from Manchester?’
‘What?’ Billie looked up from his phone in time to see a road sign indicate they were now in England.
‘You know, frontman of The Smiths, great voice… got it… Morrissey! Let’s have a listen to his stuff seeing we’re heading for his home town. You got any favourites?’
*
Heavy clouds lay in ambush as they worked their way south past the Lake District. Ed switched on the sidelights and flipped the speed on the wipers as the rain’s assault alternated between full-on and annoying. They broke their journey for a fast-food comfort break at a service station north of Lancaster before reaching their destination at a Salford Quays hotel just after nine. As Ed walked ahead to the glass entrance door, it swung open from inside. A man with a ponytail exchanged a smile and stopped to hold the door open on his way to the car park.
‘Thanks. Okay, Billie, this is where you get big and brave and pretend we’re just married.’
‘Shut up, Slaphead. Your jokes are showing their age.’
Ponytail noted the banter as he let the door go behind the new guests. He walked on and beeped the electrics of his car before pulling out his phone and sliding into the driver’s seat. But he didn’t bother with the ignition. Instead he tapped, searched and scrolled the small screen in his hand until he found the images he was looking for. At least two photographs from the Glasgow Hilton lobby featured the men who had just passed him in the doorway. Right there, in cosy proximity to Emma Dearing.
Twenty
The morning was dry, but grey clouds still banished the sunshine as Ed and Billie met downstairs for breakfast.
‘There’s economy class and there’s budget,’ Ed observed, pushing his coffee to one side. ‘Then there’s something else… even the orange juice tastes like someone else passed it first. Shall we just skip the preliminaries?’
‘Sorry, Ed. Poor choice, I know. At least it’s got its own car park, and we’re within walking distance of Emma’s place. Should be right across the road.’
‘Hmph,’ his friend grunted. ‘The benefits and perils of Google Earth. Pity they didn’t tell you no one ever stays in this place more than one night. Come on. Let’s see if we can play detective this morning, and if we need another night in Manchester just leave it to me to make the booking.’
They threw their belongings into their bags and took them out to the car, unaware of the interest in their movements from a window three flights above. Then they walked out past the car park barrier and turned right along the street leading to Emma’s apartment block.
‘You sure it’s one of these?’
Billie nodded. ‘I’m sure. Egbert House. That’s it, right in front of us. But I can see a problem straightaway. Security gate and no intercom. Look.’
They were standing opposite a brick and concrete apartment block comprising four floors built over a ground-floor car park and utility area. Its identical twin (Cuthbert House) shared the site behind a six-foot-high metal fence. The gate Billie referred to sat at the base of the first block, a push-button keypad presenting an immediate barrier to their investigation. Ed looked for an alternative solution. It didn’t take long.
‘How about that?’
A hundred metres to their right the roadway turned a bend into a private car park, linking with those underneath the two apartment blocks. They approached the entrance and found the electronic sliding gate was jammed open with a tree branch thrust between the upright bars.
‘Bad news for someone. Good news for us.’
They continued into the car park, following the road past a scattering of vehicles in various states of repair. An elderly Vauxhall had at least a dozen parking fine notices plastered across its windscreen. One more hurdle remained to negotiate: an entrance door to the apartments themselves, but with a keypad and intercom barring them from the lobby and stairs.
‘Okay,’ said Billie. ‘I guess it’s my shout now.’
He looked at Ed and drew a deep breath before pressing two buttons: a green ‘3’ and a yellow one with a bell-shaped image. Several seconds passed.
‘Hey there! What you selling?’ The voice was female, but the accent more Beatles than Morrissey.
‘Emma?’
‘Close but no… this is Emily. Who’s asking?’
‘Emily? Er… I’m sorry. It’s Billie. Er… my name’s Billie. Look, I’m a little confused.’
‘Don’t be! If you’re looking for Emma, you’re in the right place. It’s just you got her sister instead. Come on up.’ A buzzer replaced the sound of the Mersey.
‘Her sister?’ Billie’s eyes met Ed’s as the door clicked open. ‘This is getting weird.’
‘Like it wasn’t before? Come on, let’s try and get some answers.’
The two men entered a small lobby containing little more than mailboxes and dust, passed another fire door and climbed two short flights of stairs to reach apartment number three. A girl stood in the doorway to greet them. Dressed in tight grey leggings and a baggy cream top, she wore her brown hair long, but with bleached blonde tips. The height and build were similar, but one look at the narrower face told Billie this was not the girl he sought.
‘Oh, there’s two of you. I hope you’re friendly and you brought some milk? No? Okay, in that case I’m not putting the kettle on.’ She pushed the heavy apartment door wider and led the way through a hallway into an open-plan kitchen and living area. The place was immaculate.
‘You do look a bit like Emma.’
‘So what’s new? She’s my sister. My twin, although obviously not identical.’
Billie felt a shudder of disappointment pass through his body. The resemblance was superficial, with thinner lips and a slight gap between two of her top teeth. The nose too was a little misshaped, and the jaw line squarer, but still attractive to the eye. The girl acknowledged his appraisal with one of her own, leaning back against the kitchen island and folding her arms defensively across her chest.
‘You the new boyfriend? She not mention me?’
‘Er… no! No, I’m not… But she... she… Ed, help!’
‘Sorry about my friend. I’m Ed Fersen and this is Billie Vane. You say your name is Emily? We were looking for Emma Dearing.’
‘Me too. Got in late last night but there’s no sign of her, as you can see.’ She hesitated, dropping her gaze to the floor while the two men scanned the room in helpless confusion. Their prize had not hidden herself behind the soft furnishings. Billie switched his attention back to the girl in time to see a frown vanish from her face. She replaced it with a question. ‘D’you mind me asking what your connection is? Does Emma owe you money or something?’
‘No,’ Ed responded. ‘She’s… well, if you’re her sister you’ll know about her writing?’
‘Oh, yes. The porno stuff, “Sex lives of the Rich and Famous”. You’re not into all that, are you? Hey, are you famous? Or rich?’
Billie exchanged a look with Ed. ‘Not that sort of thing… and no, neither of us. We’re talking about the Titanic?’
‘Oops! Oh yes, the serious stuff she got from her mum. Our mum. This one?’ She steered past him and pulled a copy of The Tragic Sister off a bookshelf.
‘That’s it. Yes, we’re helping with research for the next book. Only Emma… sort of, lost touch? She’s not answering her phone, emails—or anything.’
‘Yeah… that’s about it. That’s why I came over.’
‘From Liverpool?’
‘What gave me away? Look, have you and him got some ID to prove who you are? You could be anyone.’
‘Er… I’ve got a credit card and… this is my pass for the library, where I work.’
Ed pulled out his wallet. ‘My driver’s license.’
‘Okay. So, you’re a librarian. And you? A New York cop? You look like one!’
‘That’s right,’ said Ed. ‘How’d you guess? Look, Emily, it’d be good if we could see some ID too?’
‘Suspicious bugger, aren�
�t you? Okay, but you’ll have to come down with me to the car. You only just caught me. Is there anything you wanted to check out in here?’ She grabbed a small bunch of keys off the kitchen worktop and led the way back to the door. ‘Looks to me like your bird has flown. No laptop. No phone or knickers, so no change there.’
‘Sorry?’
‘No change. It’s like a joke. Hey! Don’t tell her I said that! Come on if you’re coming.’
Billie made a determined effort not to react, aware his companion was also avoiding eye contact. Passing their hostess in the doorway they made their way down the stairs, but then she stopped them as Ed reached to open the lobby door.
‘Hang on. Might as well check for post.’ She glanced at an envelope left propped on top before sliding a small key into mailbox number three.
Billie had spotted something. ‘Hey, that’s my name! 30 James Street? Ed—look!’ He snatched the envelope and passed it to Ed. It had been franked about a month earlier and re-sealed with sticky tape, then an old address had been covered over with a gummed label. Written in block capitals: MR W VANE, 30 JAMES STREET, LIVERPOOL.
‘Well, well… she’s full of surprises, that one. Looks like she was expecting you after all.’
Neither of the men noticed the expression on Emily’s face. They were preoccupied with the envelope in Ed’s hands. He passed it back to Billie.
‘Open it.’
Billie’s fingers tore at the edge and withdrew a single sheet of paper, folded in half. Emily barely glanced at the circulars and bills she had retrieved from the mailbox. Aware of the men’s excitement she peered past Billie’s shoulder at the wording on the page: 401Dox@PROV427
‘Cryptic?’ She was the first one to speak.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Billie asked nobody in particular.
Ed shook his head. ‘Not what I expected.’
‘What were you expecting?’
‘Excuse me,’ said Emily. ‘While you figure it out, I’ll just get my bag. Back in a minute.’ She slipped out of the lobby while Ed and Billie took it in turns to examine both paper and envelope in the vain hope they’d missed something.
‘Best I can offer is a private email address, but without a dot com?’
Billie’s frown deepened. ‘Grant you, the @ symbol would indicate that. But why not give the full address? If she wants me to contact her in a safe way, then why not just leave a contact number? I don’t get it.’
‘I’m with you, kid. Too weird for me. Anyhow, leastways she left you something, so it proves my theory in part.’
‘What?’
‘That email to your boss was purely to force you into getting the time off. It could have been Emma herself who drafted it, even if her agent actually sent it. If she’d been serious about lodging an assault charge, she’d have used a lawyer. No question. She was expecting you to come to Manchester. I’d even say she was banking on it. Listen, remember what I said yesterday? Emma’s running scared but she needs you to do something to help her. If all this stuff about secret agents and politics is for real then she could be in deep shit. She’s trying to tell you something with this, and she went to great lengths to hide it in plain sight. 30 James Street? The Titanic Hotel in Liverpool? That’s brilliant! Who else passing through this lobby is going to make that connection? Even her own sister didn’t notice.’
Billie stared at Ed as both men recognised what was now missing. ‘Emily. Did she say she was just going to her car? Come on!’
They turned right out of the door and entered the car park, relieved to spot a familiar and distinctive feminine hairstyle only yards away. She had her back to them and appeared to be speaking to someone in a dark blue Mercedes SUV. Positioned halfway along under the apartment block, Billie’s view of the driver was obscured by the girl. He saw her head turn, and then low-profile tyres were screeching in protest as the driver floored the accelerator. The girl stayed where she was. It was Ed who reacted first, running to his right as fast as he could towards the open gate.
Billie glanced at the girl, then chased after his friend. Ed was a head taller and several pounds heavier, but unlike his English partner he had history on the wing of a football pitch. He was already fifty yards in front. By contrast the Mercedes had the longest route to take and no opportunity for a shortcut.
Ed sprinted harder in a last effort to reach the entrance to the car park. He heard the Mercedes accelerate after rounding the building, and knew there was no chance of closing the gate in time. With heart and head pounding, he reacted by instinct. As he ran into the roadway by the entrance, his feet and legs did what they could to break his momentum. Ed tried to turn on the spot and stretch out his arms as a barrier to the vehicle’s path. It was a forlorn hope. Even Ed’s large frame did little to block the roadway as it curved behind him towards the gate. His vision reported the danger to his brain but the warning went unheeded. The car braked just enough to take the bend.
Then came the impact.
‘Nooo-o-o!’
Billie cried out as he saw his friend fall to the ground, and the Mercedes sped away towards the Quays.
Twenty-One
Billie was in shock. His body was responding automatically: walking, talking, making phone calls. But another part of him seemed to be out on loan, no longer in his control. This couldn’t be his own brain. At least not one he recognised, brimming with a stranger’s news: My friend is dead or dying and it’s all my fault. It became a mantra in his head, remorseless by repetition.
The clean white walls of the hospital were transparent to Billie’s eyes. Through them he could still see Ed’s broken body lying beneath some shrubbery. But there had been no blood and no pulse. I can’t find a pulse! Then someone at his side, he had no idea who. A stranger reaching out for signs of life, shouts that were distant and yet so near. Hands grabbing his arms and a female voice in his ear.
‘What happened? Are you okay?’
‘Yes… NO! No, of course I'm okay! But look at ED!’
There were so many questions, from the paramedics and the medical staff here at the hospital, but mostly from the police. No, the driver didn’t stop. No, I didn’t see the license plate. No, I’ve no idea who was in the vehicle. No. No. NO.
He wanted answers himself, not the least of which was: Where was the girl, Emily? But above all else, he needed to know that Ed would pull through. He needed something positive to hang onto. With hindsight he recognised it was Ed who’d so often offered that form of input in recent years. Had the pursuit of this girl been worth it?
*
The important answer was provided by a sympathetic medic at around ten o’clock that night. Billie was sitting in the hospital café nursing a cold cup of coffee and a headache when a man displaying a badge with an unpronounceable name slid onto the opposite bench—and smiled.
‘He was lucky. If he’d been a few years older, or less fit, he would almost certainly not have done so well. You said yourself he’d been running hard. I believe his body was still moving at the moment of impact, which substantially reduced the trauma. He was also fortunate in being knocked onto soft ground, so while his injuries appear serious, they are largely confined to his left leg and pelvic area. No spinal damage, and no tearing to his spleen, liver or kidneys. It could have been a lot worse.’
Billie was urged to go home as there was no chance of seeing Ed until he had been examined again in a few hours. But on hearing that ‘home’ was some two hundred miles away, the surgeon nodded and suggested he explore some of the public areas of Salford Royal in search of a comfortable chair. It was almost a lost cause, but as he haunted the antiseptic spaces of the appropriately named Hope Building, Billie’s brain began to feel more like his own. He settled for a while in an area designated for Outpatients, avoiding the parts where cleaning fluid was being applied to the already spotless surfaces. It gave him time to think, and to remember.
At some point while waiting for the ambulance he realised the woman who spoke to him at t
he scene was a stranger. She was one of three nameless people who had rushed to assist from the street, or from a parked car. Then a police officer arrived in a fanfare of sound and light, his vehicle ablaze with patterns of white, blue and yellow. He’d taken charge, cautioning against the use of CPR and exerting a calm authority. Many more agonising minutes of helpless frustration passed until paramedics attended and confirmed Ed was still breathing but in a serious condition. Billie wanted to go with him in the ambulance but the police officer needed a statement. A lift to the hospital afterwards was the only consolation, so he took the officer back to where they had first seen the Mercedes. On the ground were some scattered circulars and envelopes, presumably dropped by Emily when the car sped away. Billie remembered being asked if anyone else saw the car. He had no idea why but something stopped him from mentioning Emma’s sister. We’d just been trying to call on a friend at number three, but she wasn’t at home. The officer bent down to examine some skid marks on the concrete but showed no further interest.
Over twelve hours later, exhausted and with the first real pangs of hunger gnawing at his empty stomach, Billie tried to make sense of the events of that morning: A sister for Emma had been found, and then disappeared. A cryptic message had been left, aimed at him personally. The driver of a Mercedes had spoken to Emily and then driven off at speed, prompting Ed to run and try to stop the car. Was it someone Ed had recognised? Whoever it was took a risk, and nearly killed Ed in the process. Now Billie felt alone and bewildered. With only one thing left to focus on, he pulled out Emma’s envelope from his pocket.
