Sins of the Master

by Catherine Taylor

  Brendan checked the exchange rate and whistled at what it would cost him in New Zealand dollars. The online form asked for minimal information, but required that images be attached in their highest resolution and be restricted to face only. The hotel reception had a scanner that he could use, but Brendan was still not quite ready to part with the last of his finances.

  He looked at some of the latest notes. Immigration had not yet got back to Lance Easton and several enquiries had failed to reveal anything of significance. Lance’s contact at Inland Revenue could only tell them that Dylan Tyler paid his taxes and was registered as the sole trader of a photography business. The last financial year had netted him a gross income of half a million dollars, but it was hardly the wealth that would make him such a powerful man.

  The registration plate from Tyler’s van was registered to a Kenneth Lister who had the same address as the tax returns. So far Brendan had avoided alerting anyone to his interest in Tyler, but with Adele coming that day, he had to do something. Brendan snatched up his jacket and headed down to the front desk, where the staff arranged a rental car for him and agreed to scan his photo.

  The Toyota corolla set him back another three hundred dollars, but came with a GPS navigator. Within half an hour, he had found a small double storey shop in the suburb of Porirua, which had an ‘open’ sign on the door. Upon entering, he found the gallery empty, except for several photographic canvases on the walls, depicting spectacular New Zealand scenery.

  He sucked in a breath as he spied two cameras up in the ceiling corners. Keeping his head down, he looked to a slightly open door, where he could hear muffled gun shots. Approaching it quietly, he slowly pushed it open. In the small adjoining room an old man was sat in an armchair, watching a John Wayne western on a big screen, while dipping a biscuit into a cup of tea.

  Looking surprised, he got up with some difficulty and greeted Brendan. “Feel free to browse and let me know if I can be of any help.”

  Brendan hadn’t expected to see Tyler, but posed the question anyway. “And this is where Dylan Tyler lives?”

  “That’s right, in the rooms upstairs, but I’m afraid Mr. Tyler is away at the moment.” The old man didn’t miss a beat, or show any sign that he was lying.

  “And you work for Mr. Tyler?”

  “I do, and have done for some time. Mr. Tyler was kind enough to employ me and give me a roof over my head. I look after the shop and collect his mail, when he is away.”

  And provide Dylan Tyler with a false address for the authorities, Brendan concluded silently. He imagined how many times journalists and fans of Tyler must have stalked this house, hoping to get a glimpse of this mystery man, only to be disappointed by a no show. He doubted if Dylan had ever lived here.

  Brendan introduced himself as Harry and the old man returned his own name, confirming that he was Kenneth Lister. Brendan was curious enough to spend the next half hour looking at the photographic works. A few times, Kenneth intervened to explain the location and history of the picture.

  “He really captures images well,” Brendan said casually. “I got a glimpse of him one time at an exhibition. Couldn’t get over how big he was.”

  Kenneth nodded. “Larger than life and with a heart to match. Nine years ago I was living on the streets, the result of too much booze and gambling debts. Some young punks, five of them, decided they wanted to use me as a punching bag. I didn’t stand a chance, and then, there he was. He knocked one of them off me with one backhand and the others backed off, but they weren’t going anywhere. He offered them the choice to walk away, but not these idiots. They wanted to have a go and he gave them the hiding of their lives, didn’t break any bones or such, but they were bruised, bleeding and crying when they hobbled out of there. He didn’t get a scratch.”

  “He’s Russian, isn’t he?” Brendan offered quickly.

  Kenneth frowned. “I think he’s British, but what do I know? He doesn’t say much, but when he talks, he makes a lot of sense. He told me if I wanted a bed, a hot meal and a job, I could have one. I took up his offer of the bed, thinking I would take off the next day, but here I am, nine years later and haven’t touched another drink.”

  “Is he married?”

  Kenneth chuckled. “He’s a bit of lady’s man, but I don’t think any of them have settled him down yet.”

  Brendan took a few more moments to study a picture and asked offhandedly, “So when do you think he’ll be back?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. Mr. Tyler goes all over the world taking his pictures.”

  “These ones are just of New Zealand. Where does he keep his other collections?”

  “If you’re interested in any of his works, he has an agent that you can make an appointment with for a viewing. Harry, isn’t it? Give me your number and I’ll get her to ring.”

  “That’s alright. I’m just thinking about it at the moment.”

  Brendan wished him a good day and left. Before heading back to Wellington, he looked at a list of addresses that Adele had compiled for him. He was tempted to get a closer view of Mairead Vaughn, but her Khandallah home was a bit too far to drive. Another house was much closer.

  It took him back to Wellington and to the outer suburbs, where Esther Manning’s mother lived. For a while he sat in the car across from the old timber framed house, wondering if it was possible to get access. The worry of getting caught dampened his enthusiasm, but he took time to devise a cover story.

  Mrs. Manning looked to be in her mid-fifties and much of her short, blonde hair had turned grey and white. Keeping the chain hooked on her front door, she peered out at him suspiciously.

  Brendan smiled warmly. “Mrs. Manning?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Gary Smith. I’m a friend of Esther’s. I was wondering if she was home.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t recall your name.”

  “Esther and I go way back,” he grinned. “She was going out with a good friend of mine… Dylan. I was hoping she could help me catch up with him. I’ve been living in Australia and I’m here on holidays.”

  “Esther hasn’t gone out with anyone that I’m aware of.”

  Brendan chuckled. “Yeah, old Dylan tends to keep his relationships under wraps. Maybe she didn’t even tell you about him.”

  “Esther has been living away for a few years now. I can’t help you.”

  “Maybe when you see her next…”

  The door was shut on him and Brendan sighed. Another wasted journey and more money down the drain. He returned to the hotel to contemplate a miserable future and enjoy the luxury while it lasted.

  Everything was still laid out on the bed with his laptop. With one last effort he checked his emails. There was a new one entitled “re: your lost brother.” He only had to read a few words to feel the excitement returning.

  To whom it concerns, your brother looks familiar to me. I have attached some images taken back in 1995 and believe the man in it is the same person. As you have not provided a name, I can’t be certain, but if you would be willing to share information, I will do likewise. Your brother may be a friend I have also been seeking.

  The email had come via a common online mail server and was simply signed off as George. Brendan frowned and opened the attachments and stared at three grainy images. A man was propped up with pillows and lying on his side in a hospital bed, hooked up to a drip and various monitors. He looked to be about thirty years of age, and there were bandages wrapped around his middle and disappearing under the sheets. His bare chest and arms were bruised and had large patches of raw skin. There were only two tattoos to see, a nautical star and a knife that seemed to be piercing his breast and emerging beneath.

  The photos had been taken at different angles and another showed his back that had several dressings patched over it. The exposed skin of his shoulder blades was painted with what looked like iodine. Brendan could only surmise that he had been badly burnt.

  The last photo was a close up of a
gaunt, ghostly face with his jaw slack and his eyes half open. He was clearly unconscious, but through the hooded eyelids Brendan could see the sliver of stark pale eyes.

  Brendan sat back and breathed out slowly. He studied the images again, before retrieving his own photo. Bringing it back to the computer he held it up, his eyes darting back and forth from the photo to screen.

  “Fuck, it’s him,” he whispered, standing up and rubbing his face before sitting down again for another look. He spoke loudly, “It’s him.”

  He read the email again, looking for any clues regarding the sender. There was nothing in the words or images that revealed a location or any further information. He brought up his own photo again and did yet another comparison, finding himself unable to look away.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Brendan whispered.

  The email was still sitting on his taskbar and he brought it up again. He was tempted to reply, but his instincts were holding him back. He had to wonder where this George had obtained those photos. They seemed clinical, official, the type that police would take as evidence.

  Brendan wondered if Interpol had picked up on his posted image of Tyler. The last thing Brendan wanted was for anyone else to break this case and lose his story to a hoard of foreign journalists. If Dylan Tyler was going to be revealed to the world, then he wanted to be the one to do it.

  “Sorry, George,” Brendan smirked, shutting his laptop. “You’ll have to wait your turn. This one’s mine.”

  He had just gone to retrieve a beer from the bar fridge, when there was a knock at the door. Opening it, he was pleased to see Adele alone, without her father shadowing her. She was dressed casually in trousers and shirt, with her long hair hanging loose and still looking much better than any woman Brendan had seen for a while. Inviting her in, he pulled out a chair for her.

  “I’ve just been to see my barrister,” she explained as she sat down. “He’s been successful in setting my trial date back again until early next year. At least I’ll be able to get through Christmas. It certainly pays to understand how the system works.”

  “Brilliant.” Brendan sat on the bed. “Time is just what we need.”

  “You’ll be wanting to get home yourself.” Her smile seemed cold. “Of course, I’ll pay for anything else that comes to light and proves helpful.”

  Brendan sensed the oncoming dismissal. “Actually, I’ve had a few leads.”

  She peered at him. “What have you found?”

  “Adele, at this stage, I want to keep things confidential, between you and me.” He adopted a sombre face, hoping to intrigue her. “I’d rather you not pass this on to your father or anyone. I’ve got things moving and I don’t want any interference. If you want this man, you have to let me do my job.”

  “Of course,” Adele replied tentatively.

  He told her of his meeting with Kenneth Lister and Mrs. Manning, and could see her interest stimulated, but not enough. Going to the table, he retrieved his laptop and set it on the bed where she could see it.

  “I’ve had a response to our photo.” He clicked the mouse, bringing up George’s email and the images he had been sent. “I’m fairly sure that’s our man.”

  Adele studied them intently, her breathing becoming audible. “It’s him. That’s Dylan Tyler.”

  “Yeah, a lot younger and with less tattoos.”

  She read the email. “And who is this George?”

  “I’m a little concerned that he might be some foreign cop. The pictures look like they’ve been taken for evidence or something.”

  “Have you replied to him?”

  “Not yet.” He didn’t want to tell her that he had only just received the email. “I have a few concerns about this guy.” He pointed to the tattoos. “Aren’t they something like what the bad guys have in Russian mafia movies?”

  Adele looked doubtful. “Are you saying that Tyler is Russian mafia?”

  “No, but he may have been once. Who knows what he was involved in?”

  “I don’t know,” Adele frowned. “I think we should reply to this man and see what he can give us. This is the best lead we’ve had so far.”

  “And we will,” Brendan assured her. “But not until I find out more, maybe ask him a few more questions before we get too involved. For all we know, he could be a friend of Tyler’s.”

  “He says these photos were taken back in 1995,” Adele commented. “That’s nearly twenty years ago. Dylan first arrived in New Zealand in ’96…”

  Brendan frowned at her curiously. “How do you know that?”

  “Immigration got back to Dad yesterday,” she explained casually. “I was going to tell you, today. You were right about his origins in England. Since living in New Zealand, he has made dozens of international trips to Europe, Australia and Southeast Asia on the premise of photography.”

  Brendan was annoyed that he hadn’t learned this earlier and wasn’t convinced she had meant to share the information. With all her charm, he was beginning to see a highly manipulative side to Adele.

  “What about the year Mary was murdered?”

  “He was there,” Adele beamed. “He was in France at that time. Dylan Tyler murdered Mary Whittaker.”

  “Wow.” Brendan sat back, shaking his head grimly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well it just shows you what this guy is capable of. Adele, if he gets wind of you investigating him, well… I don’t mean to alarm you, but if he can kill one woman, it’s easy to make it two.”

  Adele frowned. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  Brendan could see that his words had made an impact. It was time to do some manipulation of his own.

  “I just wish I had the funds to stay here and help you. That way, I could be the front man and you’d just stay behind the scenes.”

  “But then you would be at risk.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Brendan nodded grimly. “But I have a lot invested in clearing my name. This arsehole ruined my life and nobody wants him exposed more than I do. That’s worth risking my life. It’s just a pity I have to go.”

  Adele studied him. “I suppose you have to get back to your job?”

  “Sure do. Cost me enough coming over here, even with your help. Pre-Christmas sales are on and I’m missing out on some bloody good commissions.”

  “And would you even want to stay?”

  Brendan grinned. “It’s been great being home again. I miss this place, but I can’t make the money here I make in Aussie, not as a salesman anyway.”

  “What if you had a position that paid well, such as being in charge of this investigation? Of course it would be temporary, but if we do get to expose Tyler, I imagine it would be a spectacular return to a career in journalism.”

  “It would and all,” he grinned as he peered at her. “What are you suggesting?”

  “That you stay on,” Adele replied. “My mother has an investment apartment in the city. Dad uses it when he has late nights and early mornings at the Beehive, rather than drive all the way home. We could move you in there, tomorrow.”

  Brendan frowned. “I couldn’t afford much rent. As it is, I had to hire a car today to get around which nearly drained my funds.”

  “Of course your living costs would form part of your retainer, and I’ll reimburse you for the car. Would a twenty thousand dollar advance cover your losses until the New Year?”

  It took all his effort not to jump up and cheer. “Well, yeah, but I have to admit, I’d feel guilty for getting paid to do something I want for myself.”

  “Which makes you the most qualified for the job. I could hire private detectives but they wouldn’t fully understand the nature of Dylan Tyler as you do, and if they did, they might not care for the dangerous aspect of the work.”

  “Which doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “Perhaps we could discuss it more over dinner,” Adele suggested. “Why don’t you freshen up and we’ll go downstairs to the restaurant.”

  “Sounds great
.”

  Brendan grinned as he walked off to the bathroom. His next two months were secured and the New Year could herald a whole new life for him. Of course, now he had to produce some results, and later that night he would send the scanned picture off to see what it produced. He could even choose the expensive option to get faster results.

  He thought about the woman he had kicked out of his bed that morning and considered his chances of getting Adele to come back for a few drinks. Despite his recent luck, he wasn’t that optimistic, but it didn’t matter. With twenty thousand dollars in his account, a few phone calls would provide a much more suitable companion for his needs.

  * * * * *

  When she heard the shower running, Adele got up and looked at the email still open on the screen. Taking a USB drive from her bag, she copied it, and proceeded to go through his files, copying anything related to the investigation. While Brendan had made some progress, Adele doubted he would get much further, but she couldn’t dismiss his warning.

  She hadn’t really considered the risks of her manhunt. Up until then, Tyler had only been an elusive hacker, but now, having confirmed his presence in Paris, it was possible that he was a cold blooded killer.

  Clicking on the images, she peered at the nautical star on Tyler’s body and the sinister knife that pierced his breast. Casually, she brought up a browser and did a search of Russian mafia tattoos. The results were sobering, with images of many brutal looking thugs sporting similar stars. Many of them had tattoos of knives going through their necks, but upon reading, Adele learned that most knife tattoos were symbolic of murderers. It sent a shiver through her and she quickly closed the browser.