by Chris Ewan
‘Frankly, neither do I. The death certificate is in there, signed by my predecessor. There’s also a top sheet confirming that a forensic autopsy was carried out by one of our senior pathologists who retired only a few months ago. He has a place somewhere in France, I believe.’
Lloyd flipped open the box and leafed through the few sheets of paperwork the coroner had referred to. The autopsy form was signed and dated by the pathologist. Stapled to it was a summary page that confirmed Melanie’s gender and listed brief details of her weight, height, eye colour, hair colour and ethnicity, with an additional note about the extensive burns to her body. After that came the formal death certificate, then the cardboard base of the file.
‘What else should there be?’
‘Notes and photographs. Transcripts of the recording the pathologist made during the autopsy. Various forms my predecessor would have signed off on.’
‘So where is it all?’
‘I have no idea. I checked Sarah’s file, on the off chance that somehow the papers got bundled together. That’s not the case.’
‘Could they have been misfiled somewhere else?’
‘That’s a possibility.’
‘How about electronic records?’
‘I had my assistant take a look. There’s nothing on the system.’
Lloyd was silent for a moment, listening to the gathering quiet of the building all around them. She could feel an icy cool at the base of her neck. A clenching in her gut.
‘My assistant is going to investigate this further in the morning,’ the coroner told her. ‘He’ll be able to get help from our IT department. It could be a simple glitch in our computer systems.’
‘You wouldn’t have called me here if you believed that was true. What is it you’re not telling me?’
‘You asked me if anyone had requested access to the files. We keep details of all requests in a separate database. It seems that somebody did apply, but only for Melanie’s records. The request was logged shortly after we released the body for cremation.’
‘Who made the application?’
‘A Fiona Grainger. The note on our system lists her as Melanie’s aunt.’
Chapter Sixty
Darren fell fast – much further this time – then the chain tightened off again, wrenching him to a halt. Miller heard moaning from below and cursing from above. Clutching his knife, he pushed to his feet and teetered towards a ladder, stumbling in his haste, grasping for the rungs, climbing to the top deck, where he swayed drunkenly for a moment, fixing on Wade, then lowered his head in a charge.
Wade had his back to him. He was busy fighting with the last loops of chain that had been tied off around the upright pole. The chain was stretched taut across the deck and the upright was creaking. The metal was under a lot of strain.
So was Wade’s body. He had part of the chain under his armpit and he was leaning all his weight on it, trying to work enough slack to slip his fingers beneath the tangled links so he could free the final knots. He kept fumbling even as he turned his head and saw Miller advancing on him with the knife in his hand. He smiled stupidly, perhaps believing another second or two was all it would take to undo the tangle.
But the chain was too taut, Darren was too heavy, and Miller was faster and angrier than he’d anticipated.
He slammed into Wade, grappling with his arms, driving with his shoulder, forcing Wade back so hard and so fast that his temple smacked off the upright scaffold.
The impact made a dull, hollow noise, like a golf club swung at a fridge door.
An average man would have collapsed and lost consciousness. But Wade just grunted through his teeth, eyes dimming for the briefest instant. Then he blinked and swung a massive arm at Miller, clubbing him behind the ear.
A fast follow-up blow slammed into Miller’s stomach – a closed fist, driven high, that forced the air from his lungs. He jackknifed on instinct, just as Wade lifted his squat thigh in the air and drove his knee into Miller’s face.
Wade was probably hoping for the nose or the jaw but he clipped Miller’s eye socket. Miller stumbled back, pressing his bandaged palm to his face, and Wade took the opportunity to grab his free arm and slam his wrist down against a scaffold pole until he dropped the knife in his hand.
The knife tumbled away, but Wade wasn’t done with his arm just yet. He pulled and twisted it, turning Miller round, contorting his wrist until he slumped to his knees, at which point Wade grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced Miller’s throat down against the chain that was stretched crossways in front of him.
He was going to break Miller’s arm or choke him out, whichever came first.
Throat bulging, his pulse thumping in his ears, Miller fumbled with his trouser cuff, digging his fingers beneath the hem of his sock. He ripped free a syringe that he’d taken from the veterinary surgery, trailing the swatch of sterile tape he’d used to secure it in place, then flicked the plastic cover off the needle point with his thumb and stabbed down to his side, plunging the sharpened point through the toe of Wade’s training shoe, striking bone.
Wade yelled and let go, withdrawing his foot, and Miller felt the syringe snap as he freed his throat from the chain, unravelled his wrist and probed at his neck. He squinted through tears and saw that the needle of the syringe had sheared off close to the top. And now Wade was lurching towards him, the rest of the needle sticking out through his shoe, embedded in his toe.
He looked furious, and for the first time in Miller’s life he experienced something he’d never truly known before. He’d always been bigger than most thugs he encountered. He’d always been stronger and smarter. But he was beaten here and he knew it. Wade was shorter, he was slighter, but he was ruthless. A killing machine, pure and simple.
He leapt forwards, springing off his good foot, diving with his arms extended and his fingers hooked into claws. He clutched at Miller’s ears and slammed his head back against the tensioned chain. Slammed it again and again, harder and harder, the links stabbing into his skull, every impact shaking loose a little more of Miller’s resolve.
He didn’t have long. A few seconds only. He waited for Wade to yank his head forwards once more and then he thrust his left arm up, aiming for Wade’s mouth. But he didn’t punch him. Didn’t strike him at all. Wade’s jaw was parted, his teeth bared in a wild-eyed, nostril-flared snarl, and Miller slipped his fingers in, then his balled hand.
Wade’s teeth gnashed against the wadded material protecting Miller’s flesh. He shook his head, trying to shake Miller loose. But Miller was already lifting the syringe in his right hand, already lining the shattered point of the needle up with the opening in Wade’s mouth.
He squeezed the plunger and a jet of murky yellow liquid spurted out, wetting his fingers, pooling on Wade’s tongue.
Wade gagged and reared back. He spat and retched.
But it wouldn’t help. Miller had been very careful to take his time and select the most potent drug he could find in the medical lockers at the veterinary surgery. He’d called Hanson on his mobile, asking him to google the meds on offer.
The vial he’d settled on contained a combination of Domitor and Torbugesic that resulted in a powerful horse tranquiliser. The drug didn’t need to be fully ingested. It just needed to spend a second or two in the mouth to be absorbed through the tongue or the cheeks.
And it was clearly working, because Wade was swaying and clawing at his throat, croaking hoarsely. He dropped to his knees and his lightless grey eyes blinked once, twice, then roved wildly around. His face sagged, his muscles slackened and he slumped down on to his side.
Chapter Sixty-One
Miller braced a hand against the scaffold. His throat felt swollen, his Adam’s apple crushed. His eye was already starting to puff up, restricting his vision. He probed at it with his finger. His skin felt tight and rubbery, and there was a deep ache in the back of his head from where Wade had clubbed him. A dull ringing in his ears.
He looked at Wade and ha
d a sudden urge to kick him hard in the ribs. But something stopped him. Not decency, exactly. It was more a fear that once he started he might not be able to stop.
Hanson had said that the tranquiliser would knock a racehorse cold for a minimum of two hours. Miller guessed it would be at least double that, and very possibly longer, before Wade came round.
Pushing off from the scaffold, he weaved towards the nearest ladder and laboured down many more until he could see the outline of Darren’s body pushing against the tarpaulin halfway between two levels of decking. He had no way of getting to him. He had no knife. But he had the vague beginnings of an idea, and so he made his way down the rest of the ladders to the ground, where he grabbed for the shovel that was leaning against the cement mixer and started the long climb back up.
He was out of breath and sweating profusely by the time he returned to the deck that was in line with Darren’s lower legs and his feet but he didn’t pause, lifting the shovel up by his shoulder, jabbing it forwards, the blade barely sharp enough for Miller to puncture the tarp and work a new hole.
Darren was still conscious, just, but he was gripped by terror, moaning and trembling, and Miller had to poke his head and shoulders out and shout several times before he processed his instructions and began to flail his head and upper body, building momentum, generating enough swing so that Miller could grab for his trouser leg and haul him towards him, bracing his heels against the scaffold and heaving him through the split tarpaulin on to the deck.
Darren flipped on his side, digging his head into the splintered planking, fighting his restraints. Miller dug a nail under the tape on his mouth, ripping it away, pinpricks of blood erupting across his skin.
‘Easy,’ Miller told him. ‘Take a moment. Catch your breath.’
He squatted and set about stretching the duct tape coiled around Darren’s wrists, nicking at it with the shovel blade, freeing Darren’s hands.
Darren cried out, snatching his arms in front of him, his face wracked with pain as the blood began to flow.
‘Where is he?’ he asked, through the blockage in his nose.
‘Don’t worry about that now.’
‘He’ll kill us both. He’s a psychopath.’
Miller shook his head.
‘Just breathe.’ He shuffled down to Darren’s ankles. Beneath the chains, his jeans were wet and stiff with blood. ‘This is going to hurt.’
It hurt plenty. The chains had bitten deep into Darren’s lower legs. There were friction burns around his shins. One gash in his left calf was especially bad, blood gushing between Miller’s fingers as he compressed the wound.
‘Tell me about Agata. Do you trust her?’
Tears were springing from Darren’s eyes. His lips were peeled back, his face contorted with pain.
‘Darren, do you trust her?’
Finally he nodded.
‘Is she a light sleeper?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because we need to wake her. She has to come take a look at your legs.’
*
Agata slipped in through the door at the back of the veterinary surgery, an olive raincoat belted around her waist, a leather medical bag at her side. Her blonde hair was mussed from her pillow, dampened down by the misty drizzle outside. Her face was pale and sleep-stung, lips puckered as she took in the scene.
First there was Darren, laid back on the metal treatment table in the middle of the room. He was propped on his elbows, his bare legs covered in a patchwork of sterile pads, his blood-soaked socks and jeans dumped on the floor. And then there was Miller, sitting on the counter with his legs dangling freely, one eye swollen shut, dabbing at the cuts on his hand and arm with pads of cotton wool dipped in a bowl of antiseptic.
Agata set her bag on the counter among the litter of vials Miller had pulled from the cupboards.
‘You are not Darren’s friend,’ she told him. ‘A friend would take him to the hospital.’
‘That’s not an option.’ Miller squeezed the cotton wool he was holding over the bowl. Scarlet threads drained down, blooming in the oily liquid.
Agata tutted and grabbed for his wrists, inspecting his hand.
‘You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.’
She glanced at his eye, then released him and approached Darren’s legs, pausing a moment before peeling away a corner of a bloody, puss-stained pad.
‘Who did this to you?’
‘Better you don’t know,’ Miller told her.
‘And if I help?’
‘We’ll talk about that afterwards.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You talk now.’
With his good eye, he could see the muscles bunch in her jaw as she reached a finger towards the back of Darren’s hand, stroking it lightly, looking up at him, seeing the wretched truth on his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked.
‘You’ll have to leave the city,’ Miller told her. ‘At least for a few weeks. Possibly longer. The men looking for Darren could come for you. He can never come back.’
‘So this is how it is.’
But it wasn’t all of it. Not by a long way. Miller had been preoccupied with thinking about what Wade might try when he came round from the sedative, but there was Renner to consider, too. Kate had got Pete and Emily away from him in Arles, but Renner could stick around and try to work some leads. Perhaps he’d threaten Pete and Emily’s friends or find a way to search their home before the police got to it. Unlikely, but possible. And Wade would attempt something similar in Prague. He’d want to know for sure if there was anything that might lead them to Anna Brooks.
Miller didn’t think there could be. He’d always been uniquely careful with his very first client. He was cautious by nature but he’d been extra cautious where she was concerned. It was why he hadn’t stored any details about her online. It was also why he hadn’t needed to. She was the beginning of it all for Miller. He knew everything connected to her safety and security by heart.
Agata touched Darren’s face. ‘This is what you would not tell me.’
‘Some of it.’
‘And the rest?’
‘We don’t have much time,’ Miller pressed.
‘The rest?’
There was a dignity to her that shamed Miller for what he was asking of her, for what he was making Darren ask of her, too.
‘We’ll talk,’ Darren muttered. ‘I promise. After we get away from here.’
And for once, though he was aware of the possible repercussions of that decision, of the unseen risks and future pitfalls, Miller didn’t feel any urge to intervene.
*
Later, he stood in the damp chill of the alley and watched the tail lights of Agata’s car until they were swallowed up by the rain and the murk, and then he turned and walked away from the surgery, eager to leave Malá Strana and the memories that had ambushed him here.
The wounds to his hand and arm had been swabbed and dressed, wrapped carefully in cotton bandages that smelled of the astringent lotion Agata had applied to his skin. The bruising to his eye was so severe that he could barely see out of it.
Agata had cleaned and stitched Darren’s wounds, tearing open more sterile patches and dressings, leaving the wax paper wrappers scattered across the floor. There were yellowing contusions across his ribs and abdomen and abrasive marks around his wrists. His lips were cracked and bloodied, his mouth ringed by a pink crescent-shaped discolouration from the duct-tape gag.
‘I didn’t tell him much,’ Darren had said, as Miller had helped him off the treatment table, Darren’s arm draped around his neck, his left leg bent at the knee, too painful to set down. ‘You didn’t ask, but I wanted you to know. I told him a little about you. About what you’d done for me. That’s all.’
‘Did he ask you about someone called Anna?’
Darren nodded. ‘But I couldn’t tell him anything. I kept saying I didn’t know about anyone else.’
‘Did he believe you?’
&nb
sp; ‘I think so. But I don’t think it mattered all that much. I’m not even sure he was really listening. I think he just enjoyed hurting me.’
Together, they’d made their way out to Agata’s dated Nissan and Miller had opened the passenger door, easing Darren inside, his face straining beneath the glow of the courtesy light. Agata had clambered into the driver’s seat, fingers tapping the steering wheel restlessly as Miller squeezed Darren’s shoulder and told him to take care, to be cautious, to heal up and wait for him to get in touch.
Back on Karmelitská, alone once more, Miller paused and stared at the entrance to the three-star hotel across the street, at the revolving doors and the alternative worlds they might once have led to, then he raised an arm and flagged down a cab, the driver contemplating his injuries for a prolonged moment before finally beckoning him in, leaving him to stare out the window in silence as the sad fairy-tale city glided by.
At the train station, Miller hobbled through the hushed late-night calm to a bank of public payphones, where he snatched up a handset and looked out through the scratched bubble of Perspex at a trio of backpackers sprawled on the floor, listening to a platform announcement in Czech, then English, about a sleeper train that was due to depart for Vienna.
‘Kate,’ he whispered, when his call was connected, and then he had to pause and gather himself, clinging on to the metal cradle, mashing his head against the Perspex dome. ‘Darren’s OK. I got him out. But I’m calling because there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Somewhere I need you to come. Will you do it?’
‘Come where?’
He swallowed against the rising lump in his throat – a lump he wasn’t sure would ever go away – until finally he said it, letting her all the way in.
‘Switzerland, Kate. It’s Switzerland. Will you meet me there?’
Part VII
Brienz, Switzerland
Chapter Sixty-Two
