EQMM, February 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Robbie sat down beside me on the blue mattress, a concerned frown clouding his face. “So what happened?"

  "I don't know. I don't remember a thing after about half-nine. They say I was drunk, but I can't remember having that much to drink. And I know I couldn't have killed this woman. I didn't even know her."

  Robbie thought for a few moments. “From the evidence I've seen, I tend to agree with you, mate. Who'd take utility bills and a passport round to their victim's flat so they can be discovered conveniently by the police? It doesn't make sense. Have you had a break-in recently?"

  I shook my head.

  "But if the killer found you unconscious, he could have taken your keys and helped himself. You're sure you can't remember having a lot to drink at the reunion?"

  "A few glasses of wine. Nothing out of the ordinary."

  "Could someone have spiked your drink?"

  I felt my heart lift. Of course. I had felt awful the next morning—certainly worse than a normal hangover. Why hadn't I thought of it earlier? “They can do blood tests for traces of drugs, can't they?” I said hopefully. “If they..."

  But Robbie interrupted. “I'm afraid some of these so-called date-rape drugs leave the bloodstream pretty quickly, and it's over thirty-six hours already so it's going to be hard to prove. But it's worth a try. Can you remember who you were talking to?"

  "Lots of people.” I recited some names, and Robbie solemnly copied them down. When I said Sebastian's name he looked up sharply. I knew he didn't like Sebastian. In fact, whenever his name was mentioned, Robbie usually changed the subject.

  "Did anything out of the ordinary happen?” he asked.

  I put my head in my hands, trying to remember. “I met someone when I was in town first thing this morning. He said he'd been at the reunion, but I couldn't remember him. In fact, I couldn't place him at all. I asked him to remind me of his name, but he never told me. It was a bit odd, really."

  Robbie looked down at the list in his hand. “I'll make some calls and get back to you.” He stood up and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Don't go away, will you."

  "Fat chance,” I replied as the cell door opened to let him out into the world of the free.

  * * * *

  Robbie turned up again a few hours later, just when boredom was turning to blind panic. This time I met him in the interview room, and he was carrying a file. He placed it on the table and opened it. Inside I could see a typed list of names and a selection of photographs. Middle-aged men in groups and individually. I could see myself amongst them, forcing a smile for the camera.

  "I got these from some of the people who were there—the wonders of digital technology, eh. Can you see your mystery man on any of them?"

  I studied them carefully, but I couldn't see the man I'd met on the Shambles. Then Robbie took his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and handed them to me. I gave him a grateful look. We were the same age and he understood. I slipped the glasses on and when I studied the pictures again I spotted the man in the background, standing in the shadows of a doorway, well away from the rest of my old classmates. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I had the impression he was watching. And the person he was watching appeared to be me.

  I pointed to him and returned Robbie's reading glasses. “There he is. I know most of these people from our year and I don't recognise him. He reminds me of someone, but I can't think who it is."

  Robbie frowned and said nothing.

  We both went through the list of names of those who'd attended that Robbie had printed out from the school Web site, matching them with the faces. Whoever this man was, it seemed his name wasn't there on the list. Which struck me as strange.

  I stared at the image of the mystery man. He definitely reminded me of someone ... someone I'd rather forget. In fact, I had forgotten him—put him out of my mind for thirty-five years. And now Paul Nebworth was crawling from the dark recesses of my memory like a portent of doom.

  I had been with Paul Nebworth when he disappeared all those years ago. I hadn't been able to keep up, so he had gone on ahead.

  I shut my eyes tight and saw the scene again. We were fifteen and out in the Lake District on a geography trip. I'd been cold and wet and my shoes had been giving me blisters. Paul Nebworth and I had been working together that day and he had barged ahead into the descending mist, in his usual devil-may-care way. Paul Nebworth had been oblivious to danger and a show-off. And I never saw him alive again.

  Suddenly I knew the identity of the stranger in the Shambles. It was Paul Nebworth. No wonder his face had seemed so familiar. But thirty-five years ago he had strode ahead of me into the thickening fog and disappeared from view. Everyone assumed that he had fallen into the ravine, but his body had never been found and laid to rest. Which was hardly surprising if he was still alive.

  I wondered whether to tell Robbie about my theory, but I was afraid he'd think I was having one of my customary flights of fantasy. Anyway, if Paul Nebworth was still alive, where had he been all these years?

  It was a stupid idea. The stranger had borne a strong resemblance to the young Paul Nebworth, but that didn't mean the boy had come back from the dead. And this little mystery probably had nothing to do with my current predicament.

  Robbie left. There were things to arrange. And after what seemed like hours I was released on police bail. There had been no fingerprints matching mine in the dead woman's flat and they hadn't managed to gather enough evidence to charge me.

  I walked from the police station half free. And that was when my troubles really began.

  * * * *

  I loved my flat on the first floor of one of the elegant Georgian townhouses lining Bootham, a long, straight Roman road just outside York's ancient city walls; but when I returned there that day, I had an uneasy feeling that someone had been inside. That my sanctuary had somehow been violated.

  Some things seemed to have moved slightly, and I was sure the place had been searched. I told myself that it must have been the police. And yet, they hadn't mentioned it.

  I was about to pour myself a drink when I had second thoughts. It might have been drink that had landed me in this mess in the first place. I'd just put the bottle back on the sideboard when the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver, my hands tingling with nerves. The events of the last twenty-four hours had made me jumpy. I said hello, but for a few moments there was silence on the other end of the line.

  Then the caller spoke. One word. “Murderer."

  I'd had enough. “Look. I never met that woman. I've been set up."

  "I know."

  For a few seconds I was lost for words. Then I heard myself say, “Who is this? What do you want?"

  "You killed Paul Nebworth and you're going to pay for what you did."

  I heard the dial tone and I stood frozen, staring at the receiver in my hand. At last I knew what was going on. Whoever set me up thought I was responsible for Paul Nebworth's death on that school trip all those years ago. The caller had withheld his number, but I was certain I knew his identity. It was the man I'd met in the Shambles, no doubt about it. The man who bore such a strong resemblance to Paul Nebworth himself.

  I put my head in my hands. None of this made sense. I closed my eyes and tried to relive that fateful day up in the Lake District thirty-five years ago. We had been working in pairs in that wild mountainous landscape when the weather had started closing in and we found ourselves surrounded by thick, impenetrable mist. These days, health and safety regulations would have stopped the trip taking place, but things were different back then. Robbie was somewhere ahead of us, having been paired with Sebastian Sitwall for some reason I've since forgotten: perhaps Mr. Goff, the geography teacher, had considered Robbie a calming influence. I'd been put with Paul Nebworth, a boy I didn't particularly get on with, but Goff never liked friends working together. Sebastian and Robbie had vanished into the mist and then Paul had dashed ahead, as though he was trying to catch them up. I had hung back b
ecause I couldn't be bothered hurrying. Then, when I looked for Paul, he was gone. And Robbie and Sebastian swore that he'd never reached them.

  I was questioned at the time, and I think I was believed when I told the police that Paul had simply disappeared. If others thought differently, there was nothing I could do about it. How could I prove my innocence after all these years?

  I picked up the phone and dialled Robbie's number. I needed someone to talk to; someone who knew that I was no murderer. And there was something I wanted him to do for me.

  * * * *

  Robbie turned up a couple of hours later. He looked as tired as I felt. Perhaps he was under some strain of his own that he hadn't told me about. He always seemed short of money, and his marriage had broken up some years before. Perhaps his ex-wife, like mine, was bleeding him dry. He never talked about her much these days, so I couldn't be sure.

  "So what have you found out?” I asked as he sat on the edge of my sofa.

  He studied a sheet of paper he was holding. “Paul Nebworth had a younger brother. His parents moved down south after..."

  "So the brother never went to our school?"

  Robbie shook his head. “From what I gather, the parents made a clean break. Moved miles away."

  "So our mystery man could be Paul's brother?” If he was, it explained a lot, I thought. Perhaps he'd only just discovered what had happened to Paul. Perhaps he had come to York bent on revenge for some reason. Revenge on me. But I was innocent.

  "And what have you found out about the dead girl? Elizabeth Uriel?"

  Robbie leaned forward, as though he didn't want to be overheard. “I spoke to one of her neighbours ... showed her that photo with our mystery man in the background. She was sure she'd seen him at Uriel's flat. Said she heard raised voices a couple of times."

  "We should tell the police about this.” I suddenly felt hopeful that the nightmare was about to end.

  But Robbie shook his head. “We'd better wait till we have more evidence.” He looked away, avoiding my eyes. “I'm sorry, Jack. You know what the police are like."

  I noticed that he was fidgeting with his shirt cuff, something he'd always done when he was nervous or agitated. Perhaps there was something he wasn't telling me. “I think it would be best if you just left it for now; wait and see what happens. The police aren't stupid. I reckon they know you'd been set up and that's why you were released on bail. They'll get to the bottom of it."

  "You should still tell them what you've found out, Robbie.” I looked him in the eye and I could tell he was uneasy. But I couldn't think why this was.

  "Like I said, let's wait and see. Sorry, I've got to go.” He stifled a yawn. I could see the strain on his face. Just then he looked ten years older than he had that morning.

  I saw him out and settled down for what was left of the evening. My flat wasn't luxurious, but it was comfortable and a million times better than that cell in the bowels of the police station. I'd have a long soak in the bath and a reasonably early night.

  And it was when I was lying in the bath, eyes closed, with the warm water lapping around my body, that I heard the metallic click of a key turning in a lock.

  I froze, listening. I could hear the front door closing followed by soft footsteps on the wooden floor. Then I remembered that whoever had set me up must have had access to my key at some point. It would be a simple matter to get it copied in any high street. I stepped out of the bath, towelled myself down, and grabbed my dressing gown. If I had to face an intruder, I didn't want to be naked and vulnerable.

  The intruder was moving about in the living room as I made my way quietly along the passage. The door stood open and I could see him. He had picked up a framed photograph of me and Robbie together, drinks in hand, at some long-forgotten function, and he was staring at it with intense concentration.

  I watched him for a while before I spoke.

  "Why are you doing this?” I kept my voice quiet, calm. I didn't yet know whether my visitor was dangerous.

  He swung round. It was him, the man from the Shambles. And he looked frightened, which wasn't what I expected.

  "Why aren't you in custody?” he said almost in a whisper.

  "Because I didn't kill that woman."

  He took a step back, recovering from the shock of being interrupted. I could tell he was biding his time, gathering strength.

  "But you killed her, didn't you?” I said, trying to keep my voice firm and confident. “You set me up. You drugged me at the reunion somehow, brought me back here, and took stuff to plant at her flat to incriminate me. Why did you kill her?"

  The man suddenly looked unsure of himself. “We quarrelled. It was an accident."

  "The police said she was strangled. You don't strangle people by accident."

  He took a step forward. “Okay, I lost my temper. Then I thought I'd turn the situation to my advantage. I've waited a long time for this."

  "For what?” I had a strong feeling of foreboding. This wasn't going well.

  "To get justice for my brother. I only found out a few months ago that you were responsible for Paul's death. My mother died and I went through her papers. I was much younger than Paul, you see. My parents shielded me ... told me nothing."

  "You're wrong. I had nothing to do with what happened to Paul.” Somehow I had to convince him.

  But he wasn't listening. “The reports said you were working with him when he died, but you denied seeing what happened to him. You must have lied. And when I looked up Semchester High on the Internet and saw that your year were having a reunion and that you were going, I..."

  "I had nothing to do with Paul's death. I swear,” I almost shouted. I had to make him believe me.

  He took a step toward me and my heart started to pound. I wrote about danger and murder all the time but the reality was quite different. I was scared.

  "You must have killed him. There was nobody else."

  "You're wrong. There were lots of other people around. And they never found his body, so how are you so sure he's dead?"

  This was obviously a question he hadn't expected. He frowned, considering the answer. “He must be dead. He wouldn't have gone away like that."

  He was beginning to have doubts, and I suddenly began to feel more confident. But then I remembered that he had killed once. And, what is more, I knew he'd killed—he'd confessed to me. He wasn't going to leave a witness to his crime. I was in trouble. Serious trouble.

  I looked round, searching for inspiration. The newspaper I'd picked up on the way home was lying, unread, on the coffee table and a headline caught my eye. “Actor killed in mystery robbery.” And beneath the headline was a posed photograph of Sebastian Sitwall displaying a row of perfect teeth. I felt as though the breath had been knocked out of me. I had only seen Sebastian a couple of days ago at the reunion and, even though I hadn't liked him, man or boy, I was distracted momentarily from my predicament.

  "What is it?” My unwelcome visitor's question brought me back to reality.

  "One of your brother's old classmates has been killed. He was at the reunion. Actor called Sebastian Sitwall. You still haven't told me your name."

  The man said nothing for a few moments, then he spoke. “It's better you don't know.” He reached in his pocket and I knew that this was life or death. He'd killed a woman in a fit of rage, then he'd tried to frame me because he thought he'd found evidence that I'd killed his brother. Only he was wrong. When Paul disappeared into the mist that day, I had no idea what had happened to him. All I knew was that I hadn't killed him.

  When the doorbell rang, I jumped. I hadn't realised I was so tense, but then it was hardly surprising in the circumstances. The bell rang again and my captor and I stared at each other.

  "Ignore it,” he whispered. “They'll go away."

  I had no choice but to obey. His hand was still inside his jacket, and I had a feeling that he had some kind of weapon in there. He was sure to have come prepared.

  Suddenly I heard th
e door being pushed open, and Robbie's voice calling hello. Instinctively I shouted back, “Call the police, Robbie. He's here."

  I saw a look of horror pass across the man's face as he shoved me out of the way. He dashed past Robbie, almost knocking him to the ground as he flew out of the door. A stunned Robbie steadied himself and caught his breath for a few moments before I sat him down and poured us both a drink.

  "We'd better call the police,” I said. “He confessed to killing that woman and said he set me up because he thought I'd killed Paul Nebworth. He's Paul's younger brother."

  "I know."

  I looked at Robbie. He was shaking.

  "I know all about Paul's family. I made it my business to find out all about them when..."

  "When what?” I didn't wait for the answer. “I've just read in the paper that Sebastian Sitwall's been killed. It said he must have disturbed some robbers at his home in Harrogate.” I pushed the paper towards Robbie so he could read it for himself.

  But he brushed it away. “I know. I saw it earlier. In fact, that's why I'm here.” He took a long drink and I refilled his glass. “Sebastian was a murderer, Jack. Sebastian killed Paul. I saw him do it."

  I felt confused. Robbie's words didn't make sense. But then I thought about it for a while and there did seem to be a horrible logic to it. Paul had gone striding ahead into the mist on that fateful day and he could easily have caught up with Robbie and Sebastian. “Why didn't you tell anyone?"

  Robbie shook his head. “It was misty and it all happened so quickly. I could have been mistaken. Sebastian swore it was an accident."

  "So what happened to Paul's body?"

  "Sebastian dealt with it. I don't know what he did with him."

  I was speechless for a while, staring at my old friend who had nursed this dreadful secret all those years.

  "I had to tell someone. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer."