by Chris Ewan
‘Has he contacted you?’
‘No. But I wouldn’t tell you if he had.’
‘I’d like to come inside.’
Fiona looked away from her towards the trees, as though she was searching for something among them that would tell her how best to respond.
‘Would it make any difference if I told you to go away?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘If you’re planning on carrying out some kind of search, you’re wasting your time. He’s not here.’
‘I just want to talk. That’s all.’
‘Right. Because look at all the good it did me last time.’
But Fiona backed away and gestured for Lloyd to come past her into a kitchen that looked just the way Lloyd remembered it. The units were solid but uninspiring, finished with dark veneer fronts that contrasted with beige countertops. There was a lot of earthenware crockery, all of it crooked and warped, given to Fiona as cast-offs by an artist friend.
Lloyd drifted towards the window above the sink and found herself wondering, as she often had in the past, how similar it all was to the kitchen where Sarah had been killed. Instinct told her it would have been close to a mirror image, though she knew she was swayed by how alike Sarah and Fiona looked, which wasn’t the least surprising, given that Fiona was Sarah’s twin sister and sole surviving relative.
The twins hadn’t been identical – at least not in strictly biological terms – but they’d always been close. Which was the reason why, Fiona had told Lloyd the first time they’d met, she’d moved to a house that backed on to Sarah’s place following a messy divorce.
In the years before Sarah’s murder, the sisters had often walked through the woods to call on one another at all times of the day. Now that Sarah was gone, Lloyd found it hard to decide if Fiona had stayed because she had no place better to go, or because she sometimes looked out of this window and imagined Sarah walking towards her through the trees again; the ghost of a memory she couldn’t bear to leave behind.
‘You won’t find Nick, you know. Not if he doesn’t want you to.’
Lloyd turned to see that Fiona was leaning her forearms across the breakfast bar, picking at the paint on her fingernails. She hadn’t offered Lloyd a drink or closed the door to the garden. It was clear she wanted her to leave as soon as possible and Lloyd tried not to show how much she was stung by it. In the days following the fire, it had felt as if the two of them had become close. It was Fiona who first confided in Lloyd about the arguments Sarah had been having with Nick.
But as the months and years had passed, Fiona’s judgement of Nick had mellowed. She’d told Lloyd more than once that she regretted speaking about him in the way she had.
All of which was suspicious, of course. And then the fact that the two sisters looked so alike . . . Well, Lloyd had sometimes wondered if perhaps there had been an affair. Maybe that was the reason Nick had come running through the woods after the fire. And maybe, once it was clear that her sister and niece were dead, it was guilt and regret that had made Fiona criticise Nick so savagely.
Lloyd said, ‘You do understand why I’m here.’
‘Not in the slightest. Do you?’
‘If Nick contacts you, you must call me. We need to talk with him. We can help him.’
‘Right. Because helping Nick is your number-one priority. Anyone who’s seen the news appeals can tell that.’
Lloyd could remember when she was welcomed here. She could remember when Fiona had clung to her and wept.
‘What are you working on these days? Do you have a show coming up?’
‘Don’t play nice with me.’
‘Where’s that?’ Lloyd had spotted a picture that was stuck to the fridge-freezer with a magnetised frame. It was a mountain scene. There were snowy peaks in the far distance and a meadow of spring flowers in the foreground. ‘Are you planning a trip?’
‘Only in my head. It was a freebie with a travel magazine. Every morning when I come down for breakfast I stare at it for a few minutes. It calms me.’
Lloyd stepped closer. She could understand why someone would want to transport themselves to that flower-filled meadow with its view of raking mountaintops and dazzling glaciers and azure skies. She could understand the need to escape there, if only for a minute or two each day.
‘He won’t hurt her, you know. If that’s what you’re worried about.’
Fiona had moved to the far side of the kitchen. She had one hand on the open door, a signal that she expected Lloyd to leave soon.
‘Hurt who?’
‘The redhead. Nick is protecting her.’
‘That’s one interpretation.’
‘But not the one you favour?’
‘I honestly don’t have a preference either way.’
And that was when Fiona’s face twisted and Lloyd knew that she’d lost her trust for good.
‘I miss my sister every day. I miss my niece very badly.’
‘I know you do. I was here for you. I tried to help. Don’t forget that.’
‘I betrayed them once before. I let my grief get the better of me. But the truth is I know Nick loved them. Deep down I always knew that. And I know he’s out there now doing the best he can for them. I know that’s what he’s dedicated his life towards.’
‘You know it how?’
‘Because I know that’s the kind of man my sister would have wanted to spend the rest of her life with. And now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d really like you to leave.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
At just before 1 a.m., a full hour before he was scheduled to meet Kate, Miller walked towards the revolving doors at the front of his hotel. He was wearing black cargo pants, a lightweight black fleece and his small black rucksack, and feeling awkward about it, because the outfit reminded him of the dead assassin on the Isle of Man.
The doors were locked due to security concerns. But there was a night porter on duty and he flicked a switch below the reception counter so that Miller could exit, whereupon Miller offered him a quick salute and a glum smile and said, ‘Can’t sleep.’
Which was a lie, and almost certainly one the porter could see clean through, though possibly not for the reasons he had in mind. The porter probably assumed Miller was yet another middle-aged tourist heading off in search of the dubious comfort available to lonely men in the Reeperbahn, and if so, his suspicions would only have been confirmed had he been able to listen in as Miller ducked inside a taxi parked out front and asked to be taken to the fringes of St Pauli.
The driver was a middle-aged Turk with a receding hairline and way too much aftershave. He showed a lot of teeth in response to Miller’s request, then cranked the engine, punched the meter and swooped out on to the sodium-lit street, all the while grinning back over his shoulder.
‘You want girl? What kind do you like? I know great place.’
Miller told him he wasn’t interested in anything like that.
‘What about live sex show? I know best in the city. Best girls, easy. I take you there. We drink lots of beer, yes?’
Miller guessed the driver was on some kind of commission, and when he declined again, the guy frowned and his mood darkened, as if Miller was trying to bilk him out of his fee based on some misplaced sense of propriety.
So he tried a third time, at which point Miller switched to German and told him to shut the hell up and just drive him to where he’d asked to go, and the guy took clear offence, which he communicated via the manner of his driving, which featured a lot of abrupt acceleration and snappy gear changes and heavy braking.
All of which was fine by Miller, because he was perfectly willing to get to his destination as fast as possible and more than content to be left to his own thoughts.
His thoughts were of Clive. Hanson had emailed through a summary of Clive’s hospital notes not long after Miller and Kate had fetched their luggage from the train station. Like the orderly had said, he’d been discovered hanging upside down. There was bruising to his sto
mach and kidneys, broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and abrasions to his shins and ankles, one of which had been dislocated, but most of the violence had been concentrated on Clive’s head. He’d been beaten over and over. It was thought that a chair leg had been used as an improvised bat.
He was still alive, according to the update Hanson had texted through within the last hour, but his prognosis was dire. His doctors had inserted a shunt to relieve pressure from his skull, but if he emerged from his coma, it was likely he’d show signs of brain damage.
There’d been related news in a call Hanson had placed once Miller was alone in his hotel room.
‘Patrick Leigh,’ Hanson had said. ‘I hacked into his autopsy report.’
‘And?’
‘He was killed by multiple injuries consistent with a fall from a very tall building. Blunt force trauma to the head and chest. Severe fractures to just about every bone in his body.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘But get this: there were extensive abrasions on his shins and ankles. The pathologist spends a couple of paragraphs on them. She concludes that metal wire or chains were wrapped around his lower legs and he was hung upside down for a long time before he was dropped, possibly from a construction crane on the building site where he was found.’
‘Hung upside down like Clive, you mean.’
‘I thought you should know right away.’
‘So Lane is behind both attacks.’
‘Looks that way. And whoever he has working for him has a thing for stringing people up by their ankles.’
Miller hadn’t told Kate about the connection and he felt bad about that. He also felt bad about tricking her tonight, and he hated to think of how she’d react when she realised she’d been stood up. He was sure she’d be mad. She’d suspect that he’d deceived her. Eventually, though, he hoped she’d remember to return to her room, where Becca was prepped to phone her promptly at 2.30 a.m. and tell her that something had come up. She’d explain that she couldn’t provide details over an open line but that Miller would be in touch later in the morning.
Which was all good in theory, until Miller’s driver slammed on his brakes at the cross street where he’d asked to be dropped and Miller stepped out on to the pavement only to see another taxi swoop into the kerb directly behind him.
Kate jumped out.
‘Funny,’ she told him, ‘I could swear you told me we were meeting at two o’clock.’
Miller opened his mouth to reply but Kate rushed towards him and jabbed a finger into his chest before he could summon an excuse.
‘Don’t lie to me again. And don’t underestimate me. I’m coming with you, no arguments. So deal with it. OK?’
The taxis were idling at the kerb, both drivers bending low and peering out, paying more attention to their spat than Miller would have liked. He considered opening the door on the second cab and forcing Kate back inside. But she knew where he was going. She knew what he had planned. He couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t interfere.
And at least she’d gone to some effort with her appearance. She had on dark blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and the baseball cap she’d worn earlier in the day.
Miller stared at her, weighing up the alternatives. But in reality, she’d already made the decision for him. Again.
Grabbing a fistful of euros from his pocket, he paid both drivers, then turned and walked on, feeding his arms through the shoulder straps of his rucksack, texting Becca not to stay up to make the call.
‘That was not smart,’ he said, when Kate caught up to him.
They were a block behind Schanzenstrasse, the night pulsing with the blur of dance music from a late-night bar. A huddle of people stood smoking beneath the coloured bulbs strung up around a makeshift terrace.
‘Neither was sneaking out of your hotel to come here without me.’
‘The police will have the place under surveillance. Any slip-ups and we could easily get caught.’
‘Then let’s not slip up.’
Miller looked across at her. ‘If you’re coming with me, you’ll do everything I say and nothing I don’t. Those are the rules. Understand?’
‘More rules. You’re a real stickler for them, aren’t you?’
He had been, Miller thought ruefully. So what had changed? What was it about Kate that was making him act this way? She was stubborn, no question, but he’d had stubborn clients before.
But of course, he already knew the answer to that question, even if it wasn’t one he was prepared to confront. It was tied up with the insinuations Becca had made; a creeping truth lodged deep inside him.
He liked Kate. A lot. And the thought of it scared him on a far deeper level than the risks they were about to take.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Miller was right. There was surveillance in place. Down the street from the laundrette, just beyond the pool of light being cast by a street lamp, a grey Volkswagen Transporter van was parked beneath an overhanging tree.
Two men were slouched in the darkened cab, one of them pouring steaming liquid from a flask into a cup, the other with his head propped against the driver’s window. Miller had no doubt that they were police.
He took Kate’s hand – the signal they’d agreed on – and they hurried along the opposite side of the street.
‘Stumble a little,’ Miller told her. ‘Act tipsy.’
‘Where are they?’
He told her. ‘But don’t look. Focus on your feet. Lean into me, as if I’m holding you up.’
‘Why can’t I be the sober one?’
‘Just do it. Please.’
Kate did as he asked and he wrapped his arm around her, supporting her weight.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she whispered. ‘Ease off a little.’
It was his size. His strength. But also his nerves.
‘Better?’
‘Much.’
They walked beyond the van to the next cross street, then turned a corner and doubled-back along an unlit alley that smelt of rotting litter. Kate’s footfall echoed off the concrete, her pace picking up as she skipped clear of Miller’s embrace.
‘Will they be watching the back, do you think?’
‘I doubt it.’ He was a little thrown by how quickly she’d darted away from him. ‘Clive’s attacker gained access through the front. If he comes back, they’ll be betting he enters the same way.’
Kate was quiet for a few seconds. Perhaps she thought Miller had slipped up by mentioning Clive’s name. But he hadn’t. Kate had seen the pictures of Clive’s medical chart and he credited her with enough intelligence to have sneaked a look at his name.
‘What do we do if they spot us?’
‘You’re the athlete, Kate. I’d say running would be a great idea.’
There was a high garage behind the laundrette with a roll-up metal door. Miller slid his rucksack off his shoulders, unzipped a compartment on the front and removed a pair of latex gloves. He snapped the gloves on over his wrists, then tried the door handle. It didn’t budge.
‘What now?’ Kate asked.
‘How much can you lift?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You weigh what, one hundred and twenty, hundred and twenty-five pounds?’
‘I’m not going to answer that.’
‘Fine. Call it an even one-twenty. I’m a lot heavier than that. Think you can boost me?’
Miller took her hands and formed them into a bowl shape below her knees.
‘Size fifteen,’ he said, resting the sole of his boot in her palms and propping his hands on her shoulders. ‘Sometimes I wish I was a little more spry.’
‘Newsflash,’ she grunted, ‘you’re not any kind of spry.’
He bounced up, stretching his arms above his head, and grasped the tarred lip of the flat roof above the garage. One handhold was good. The other was bad. Something pierced his glove, breaking his skin. He snatched his hand free, then hooked his elbow over the ledge and heaved himself forwards as Kate push
ed at his tangled legs from below.
He rolled on to his back, panting up at the starless sky tinted green by the light spill from all the street lamps and neon in the neighbourhood. Pushing on to his elbow, he looked down to where Kate was gazing up at him, her face very pale in the darkness of the alley. The thought of leaving her behind crossed his mind and he guessed she must have sensed it from the way she jumped and flapped her hands.
‘Come on, Miller. We had a deal.’
And before he thought better of it, he found that he was leaning down and grasping her wrist, lifting her, the sudden weight digging his wedding band hard against the bones of his ring finger. She twisted around, kicking a foot off the garage door, scrabbling for something to hold on to.
‘Crap.’ She scraped her knee, banging her shin, before stumbling on to the roof.
‘OK?’
She sucked air through her teeth, clutching her leg.
‘Take your shoes off,’ Miller told her.
‘What? Why?’
‘I only have one pair of gloves. You’ll need to use your socks.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Does this look like a time for practical jokes?’
Miller peeled back his own glove and sucked at the trickle of blood oozing from the heel of his hand as Kate leaned on his shoulder and worked her feet out of her trainers. She removed her socks and slipped her shoes back on to her bare feet.
‘What now?’ she asked, in a squeaky voice, and Miller turned to find that she was using one of her socks like a hand puppet.
‘White socks? Really?’
He moved away from her, shaking his head, and began to pick a route across the roof.
‘That’s our entry point.’ He nodded one floor above them to a pair of glass French doors set back from a concrete balcony ringed by bowed metal railings.
‘And how do you propose we get up there? It’s pretty high, Miller. If I boost you again, I’m not sure you’ll be able to reach down for me. Or is that your big idea?’
‘The big idea is that I’m going to grab hold of the bottom of the railing and hang there. You can climb me like a ladder.’
