Long Time Lost

by Chris Ewan

  ‘Including Anna?’

  ‘Not her. But there are two others.’

  ‘And you think Lane’s men will go after them?’

  ‘Why not? Anna might be their goal now, but they must think my other clients are potentially valuable to them, too. They probably think they can get to Anna through them. Just like with Clive and Christine.’

  ‘Why not come for one of us? For you?’

  ‘Because they gambled. They took a chance on my iPad. They thought Anna’s details might be on there.’

  ‘And now they don’t know where we are.’

  Miller spun round, checking to see if they were being watched. There was nobody near them except the maintenance guy. He looked legit.

  ‘They know we had to come back here. But more importantly, they know where I’m going to be. They know I have to go and protect my clients.’

  ‘Where are your clients?’

  ‘Prague. And Arles, in the South of France.’

  ‘So have Hanson contact them. Tell them to run.’

  Miller phoned Hanson again, on speaker this time. But Hanson had more bad news.

  ‘I just tried sending them both private messages on the forum. I couldn’t do it. Our mystery computer expert has their usernames. Their accounts have been deleted. I’ll post a public message but I have no idea if they’ll see it.’

  Miller shared a look with Kate. Maybe he should have kept some of this from her, but after Christine, he felt she deserved to know what was going on.

  ‘Keep at it. And speak to Becca. Maybe she can think of something else we can try.’

  ‘Speak to her yourself. She wants to talk to you.’

  There was a moment of silence, then a series of muffled, shuffling noises as Hanson passed his phone across.

  ‘Hey,’ Becca said, and Miller could hear the torn quality in her voice. ‘About Christine—’ she began.

  ‘I know,’ he cut in. ‘Us too.’

  Becca fell quiet. Miller hated to rush her but there were steps he should be taking.

  ‘Was there something, Becca? Things have gone a little crazy.’

  ‘Don’t be mad, OK?’

  ‘What do I have to be mad about?’

  ‘I couldn’t stand Clive being alone. I couldn’t stand just waiting. So I had Hanson make me an ID. Not his fault, OK? It was all my idea. I’ve been Clive’s sister, Rebecca Benson, for the last couple of hours. I’ve spoken with Clive’s doctors. I’ve been by his bed.’

  Miller was silent for a moment.

  ‘I’m not mad,’ he told her. ‘I should have suggested it myself.’

  ‘He’s deteriorating pretty fast. I thought you should know.’

  ‘How long does he have?’

  ‘His doctor didn’t exactly say.’

  ‘You can tell me. Kate’s listening, too. She needs to hear it.’

  ‘The next twenty-four hours are crucial. That’s all I know. But I’m talking to him. I’m holding his hand. And . . . oh, wait, Hanson wants you back.’

  Miller heard the clunk and the shuffling noises again, then Hanson was on the line once more.

  ‘Our friend in the picture – Crab Man – I ran a check on my database of Connor’s known associates. Nothing came up. Then I tried Mike Renner and got a hit. His name is Aaron Wade.’

  ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘Not much. He has a record, naturally. Served eighteen months for GBH. But get this: it seems he had a disagreement with the manager of his boxing club. Guess how he resolved it?’

  ‘Violence?’

  ‘Specific violence. He took down a punchbag and strung the manager up in its place. He hung him upside down before he beat him.’

  Miller caught Kate’s eye and she nodded. She’d made the same connection. It was just like Clive. Just like Patrick Leigh.

  ‘It hit the tabloids in a minor way,’ Hanson continued. ‘Seems to have earned him a nickname, too. The Hypnotist. How lame is that?’

  ‘Lame,’ Miller agreed. ‘Until you’re the punchbag. Keep working.’

  He cut the call and cradled the mobile to his chest, staring at Kate, shaking his head, feeling foolish and vulnerable, more powerless than he had in years.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Kate told him. ‘You’ll come up with something.’

  ‘These people have a head start on me, Kate. They could be closing on my clients already. And I need to find them. I have to stop them. Stop this.’

  ‘So think: which witness will they go for first? Is one of them more vulnerable, or more likely to be in contact with Anna?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. They don’t have to choose. There are two of them. There’s Renner and then there’s this Aaron Wade guy. They can split up.’

  ‘Maybe. But you’re forgetting something – there are also two of us. So tell me, where do you want me to go? The Czech Republic, or France?’

  ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘Then ask Hanson or Becca instead.’

  ‘I need them in Hamburg. Clive needs them. And besides, they work the backroom. They’re not equipped to be front and centre.’

  ‘Which is why I’m volunteering.’

  ‘It’s a bad idea.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe all you have left to you now is bad ideas.’

  ‘You don’t have a passport any more.’ And also, he was thinking, the Kate Ryan alias was blown anyway. They couldn’t risk Kate travelling under the same name again. Eventually, Hanson would miss something. There’d be a gap he’d fail to plug. ‘You can’t fly.’

  ‘Neither can you.’

  Which wasn’t strictly true.

  Miller didn’t say anything. But then, he didn’t need to. He could see from the look in Kate’s eyes that she understood there was something he was keeping from her. Not that it mattered. He checked the station clock above her head. It was gone 9 p.m., and even if he could leave for the airport immediately, he doubted he’d make a flight to the Czech Republic or France in time.

  Kate took his mobile from him and hit redial.

  ‘We’re calling Hanson back. We’re going to ask him to make me a new passport. And you’re going to tell him to find a way to get it to me as soon as possible.’

  So Miller did. Because she’d asked him to. And because all he had left to him now were bad ideas.

  *

  Miller had been right about being stuck in Rome. There was no way he could have made a flight.

  It was different for Renner and Wade. They were already at Fiumicino, staring up at the electronic departure boards. There were no flights to the South of France until early the following morning, but Czech Airlines had a direct flight to Prague, departing at 21.45. Check-in closed in ten minutes.

  Wade said, ‘One of us should get on that plane. We should keep up the momentum. We should start looking right away.’

  He was thinking the person to go should be Renner. This was his gig. He answered to Mr Lane directly. Wade was sub-contracted. And besides, he was wiped out. He wanted a night in an airport hotel. He wanted a hot shower and a room-service meal. After his breakthrough with the iPad, he deserved to lie flat on a sprung mattress and sleep for six or seven hours straight.

  ‘I agree.’ Renner gave him an uncompromising look. ‘One of us definitely should go.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The three-star hotel Miller selected was one of many similar places only a few streets away from the train station, on the corner of a doglegged alley. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and removed enough cash to cover a couple of rooms for the night.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pressing the cash into Kate’s hand. ‘Check us in, get some rest, take a shower. Do whatever you need to do. Oh, and do me a favour. Check yourself in under a different surname, OK?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Variety. Try Grant.’

  ‘Why Grant?’

  ‘Because it’s not Ryan and it’s not Sutherland and I can remember it. Grant was my old headmaster.’

  ‘How lo
ng will you be?’

  ‘Not long. Don’t go out before I’m back. Lock your room and don’t let anyone else inside. I’ll bring food with me.’

  Kate peered in through the yellowed glass in the door to the hotel reception.

  ‘What if they’ve followed us here?’

  ‘They haven’t.’

  ‘But you’re worried about my name, which suggests you’re worried that they could track me down. And what if they find you?’

  ‘They won’t. They’re on their way to Prague or Arles already. They have no idea where I’m going.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  Miller stepped closer, lifting her chin. ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise. OK?’

  Kate held his gaze, then fixed a wry smile on her face and shrugged her shoulders before stepping away and entering the hotel.

  Miller waited across the street next to a pavement restaurant, faking interest in a menu board that featured aged colour photographs of the meals on offer. He counted off four minutes and declined two attempts by a waiter eager to get him to sit.

  When he was finally satisfied that Kate wasn’t going to reappear, and that nobody had followed her in, he turned and broke into a jog.

  *

  He was back in under an hour, by which time darkness had fallen and trade at the restaurant had picked up. The terrace was filled with sunburnt English couples, overweight men in football shirts and teenage backpackers. The night was humid, the air perfumed with the scent of charred pizza dough and sun lotion.

  Miller walked into the hotel and approached the woman on duty at reception. She was late fifties or early sixties, short and stocky, with a swollen, pouched face and a matted wig that looked about as tired as her attitude.

  Miller told her a friend had arranged a room for him and she scanned his duplicate passport without a great deal of interest before using a biro to enter his name and passport number into a form on a carbon-copy pad, having him sign it and passing him his tear-off receipt along with a room key. Letting the receptionist note down his passport details was a risk, but not a big one. The hotel facilities were basic and Miller didn’t get the impression she was likely to upload his information to a computer database that could jeopardise his stay.

  His room was on the second floor of the hotel, immediately opposite an antique caged elevator, and when he let himself in, he found that it was already occupied.

  Kate was sitting on the end of the bed. She switched the television off with the remote in her hand and turned to face him. The room was brightly lit. Every available lamp and bulb seemed to be on.

  ‘You made it,’ she said. ‘Got your passport?’

  He lifted it in the air, feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious. He took a step inside and let the door fall closed behind him. He didn’t know how to stand, where to move.

  What was she doing in his room?

  ‘I suppose I could ask how you got that so fast, but I suspect I’d rather not know. Did you show it to the woman on reception? It’s still in the name Miller, right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She was giving me a hard time about not having ID myself. She almost wouldn’t let me check in. I told her we’d been mugged. Did she ask you about it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m pretty sure she hears all kinds of stories from people wanting a room here on short notice.’

  ‘I guess she does. It’s kind of interesting that you asked me to check in under a different name when you’re still going by Miller. Care to explain why?’ Kate hitched an eyebrow and held his eye for a beat too long before he feigned a sudden intense interest in his new passport. ‘Well, maybe it’s better I don’t know. So, anyway . . . Kate Grant is going to take that shower now.’

  She stood and passed through an open doorway on the far side of the room without looking back. Miller heard the squeal of taps being turned on worn washers, the splatter of water, the creaking and banging of the pipes running under the floorboards beneath his feet. He waited for Kate to close the bathroom door but the door remained open.

  He looked about the room. It could have been any one of a hundred other cheap European hotel rooms he’d stayed in these past few years. The bed was a queen, sagging in the middle, the pillows lumpy, the mattress soft, all of it concealed beneath a dark green throw. The dressing table and the wardrobe were cheap self-assembly items, the laminate peeling and scratched. There were plastic drinking cups wrapped in cellophane on a tray by the bed, along with a dusty bottle of sparkling water and a rotary-dial telephone. And, apparently, there was an en suite with a working shower and a door that wouldn’t close.

  Miller crossed the room to a fabric armchair positioned beneath a window. He rested a knee on the chair, pushed open the window and looked out at the view. The view was of the grimy plaster of the wall opposite and a corroded drainpipe with a Vespa locked to the bottom of it, but if he craned his neck he could glimpse the pavement restaurant. He could hear the restless noise of the city, and he could feel wisps of shower steam drifting out the window past his head.

  He turned and dropped into the chair, gripping hold of the armrests. He thought of Kate standing in the shower. He thought of the water cascading down over her body.

  What was it about that door?

  Had she left it open as an invitation, and if so, was it one he dared accept?

  Or was it an indication of how secure she felt in his company, or of how scared she’d been by what had happened to Christine?

  He heard laughter from the restaurant and the faint, caterwauling strain of guitar music.

  He crossed his legs. Uncrossed them again. Kate had arranged for the receptionist to hand him a key to this room in particular. There was only one bed. There was the open door and the shower steam and then there was the wrench of taps being turned and the fading hiss and slow drumming of water and finally there was Kate coming through the doorway, wrapped in a white bath towel, her hair swept to one side in a dark red curl, the line of stitches a little raised on her forehead.

  The towel wasn’t all that big. The material was thin and it was wrapped very tightly around her body, extending from the tops of her breasts to the tops of her thighs. Miller could see a whole bunch of contours and dimensions, all of them good. No way of avoiding it. She was breathtaking.

  She padded across the room, her feet leaving dark prints on the carpet, and sat down on the end of the bed, next to the television remote. She stroked the bedspread, then her hands came together on her thighs, fingers entwined, and she plucked absently at the frayed hem of the towel.

  Looking up at him, she said, ‘You’re probably asking yourself about the room situation. You’re probably wondering if I have a key to another room.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do you want one?’

  He didn’t say anything to that.

  ‘It wasn’t like in Hamburg. You didn’t say we’d be staying in separate hotels. You could walk fifty metres in any direction from the front of this place and find fifty other hotels to stay in.’

  Still Miller didn’t speak. He was looking at her eyes, the way they were slightly downcast, the lids half closed. But his gaze wasn’t focussed. His pupils were fully relaxed. He was taking in more than just her face. He was letting his gaze blur and cloud around the entirety of her. He couldn’t look away.

  She said, ‘I thought that you wanted this. I thought you knew that I wanted it, too.’

  Miller kept sitting. He kept staring. He didn’t trust himself to move just yet.

  ‘I don’t normally shower for that long, Miller. Nobody showers for that long.’

  An invitation. An open door.

  Finally he stood and moved closer, standing before her at the end of the bed. He lingered a moment before reaching out his big hand and cupping her chin, tilting her face. He smiled and then he lowered his hand and he hooked a finger into the top of the towel, where the cotton rested snug against her breasts. He pulled her to her feet.

  ‘I do,’ he said.
‘When I have company.’

  *

  Later, lying together in the muggy dark, the soft mattress caving in under Miller’s weight, rolling them together, their legs and arms entangled, a warm, gritty breeze drifting in through the window, Miller stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the woman he was holding now and the woman he used to hold, asking himself if he deserved this, if he was allowed it, if he could be trusted to care for another person again.

  ‘You forgot to bring food,’ Kate whispered. ‘You said you’d bring dinner back with you. That’s when I knew for sure.’

  He touched his nose to hers. He could feel a strand of her hair on his cheek. Her hand low down on his abdomen.

  ‘I thought we could go out,’ he said. ‘There’s a restaurant opposite the hotel.’

  ‘It’s gone midnight, Miller.’

  ‘If you’re hungry, I could fetch a takeaway.’

  ‘No,’ she said, her hand sliding round to the back of his thigh, pulling him towards her. ‘I wouldn’t like that at all.’

  Part V

  Arles, France

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Peter Kent, as he was now known, stood in his pyjamas at the bottom of the stairs with a bowl of breakfast cereal in each hand, listening to his daughter, Emily, sing a nursery rhyme in her bedroom. She was singing in French, which mesmerised and confounded him. His daughter’s adjustment to their life in France had been much better than his own.

  It wasn’t long now until Emily would start as a pupil at the local primary school. She’d be taught in French and her friends would be French. With every day that went by, a little more of the Emily he knew would fade from him, and he feared the process of letting go.

  There were important arrangements to be put in place before then, of course; contingencies to be planned, responses to be rehearsed. And there were the smaller, more ordinary matters to be taken care of. Like buying Emily a new bag for school.