by John Moralee
“No. Forget it.”
“Cordy, please.”
She relented. Feeling extraordinary relief, he walked back to his car and drove her home, by which time he’d patched up the damage done. The house was in darkness, surrounded by midnight blue sky. Cordy opened her car door a crack, but didn’t get out. She looked at him. Her face was barely lit by the orange glow of the dashboard. He could see her teeth as a white line. They were perfect. She wanted to say something … He wanted her to say it, whatever it was … in her own time. In the gloomy interior, the heat flooding out of the car from the open door, Nolan’s mood was somewhere between melancholia, excitement and dread. Dread in case she didn’t want to see him again. Excitement in case she did.
“Well …” Cordy said. The thought was left uncompleted.
“Can I –” he said, before the sentence faded. “Can I see you again?
“I would … like that.”
She would? Yes. He grinned. He leant forward, and she leant forward, the leather seats creaking, creaking, until their lips joined. It was a sweet, gentle kiss. Not too fast, not too slow. He looked at her eyes, so close, so deep. Her pupils looked like eclipses, with a slight orange corona. Soul to soul contact … He didn’t want it to end. But it did. She detached slowly, her lips slipping away, leaving his tingling with the memory. Flustered, she said goodnight and hurried to her door, waving as she went inside. He waved back.
*
Tommy called the next morning. Nolan was in bed, having a lie in. It was nearly noon. Tommy woke him up.
“They’ve checked the crash site.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Those boys and gals are pros.”
“Right. Thanks. I owe you one, buddy.”
No sooner had he put down the phone, it rang again.
“Hi.”
“Cordy, how are you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that kiss.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah … What are you doing today?”
He hadn’t thought about it. “Nothing yet. You have any ideas?”
“I have,” she said coyly. “Alas, I’m working. Why don’t we do something tonight? I know a place we could shoot some pool, talk.”
They arranged it. He was awake by then, which was when Judy phoned. Her first question was abrupt.
“What’s the situation?”
“The crash theory is a dead end.”
A pause: “I see. This has nothing to do with the persuasive powers of Cordelia Harker, would it?” Icy.
“No, Judy.”
“So what can we do next?”
Nolan squeezed his brow. “Did Ken keep an appointments diary?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s in his desk. You want it?”
“I’ll come and get it right after I wake up, Judy.”
“Is she there with you?”
“Who?” he said. But he knew whom.
“Cordelia Harker.”
“I’m alone, Judy.” Not that it’s any of your business, he thought. “I swear I’ll be right over.”
“Good.” She hung up.
Like a vulture perched on his shoulder, Judy watched him reading the diary. Ken’s almost photographic recall had been an asset during his NASA training, but it meant he didn’t keep detailed notes. Nolan could see that Ken’s schedule had been frantic. One day he had been in New York at a trade conference; another, Paris; the next, London. Ken was more like an ambassador than a glorified sales rep. But on the Monday that had changed his behaviour, the page contained just one entry, unusually circled in red ink.
13:00 Hrs - H.
That was it. Brief. “What do you know that starts with a H that would mean anything to Ken?”
Judy shrugged. “I can’t think of … well, there’s Harry Gallani, Hugh Jones, Mitch Harrison … that’s it, I think.” They were NASA guys, nothing to do with what Ken was doing, Nolan didn’t think. He would check, though. “Oh, Cordelia Harker, of course. But why would he have an appointment with her?”
Nolan’s throat was dry. Cordy didn’t have an affair with Ken, did she? The H could have been anything. Anything. H for Howdie Doody.
H for Cordelia Harker.
To get his mind off it, he asked Judy for Ken’s phone records. Maybe the numbers called on the Monday would give a clue. Judy handed him the records, then she excused herself. He heard her in the kitchen, clanking bottles, starting early with the booze. He’d seen her refrigerator – it was like a bar for Oliver Reed. Earlier, he had been in the bathroom and noticed several bottles of Listerine on the shelves next to the Nurofen and Paracetamols. He had heard how some alcoholics resorted to drinking Listerine. He hoped Judy hadn’t descended that far.
Ken had made dozens of long-distance calls that, starting with one at seven a.m. Nolan would have to go through them one by one. He didn’t look forward to the task.
Judy returned with two orange juices with crushed ice. He accepted his warily.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Yours isn’t spiked.”
“And yours?”
“Let’s just say Mr Smirnhoff is swimming in it.” She laughed a cold, bitter laugh. It was the kind of laugh faded movie starlets made when thinking about their loss of beauty.
He was afraid she was trying to drink herself to death.
“Oh, Judy, you need to see someone. A counsellor. A therapist. Someone.”
“I hate trick cyclists. Besides, if I want to drink, who has the right – the qualifications – to judge what I can and can’t do?” She gulped the drink, her mouth twisting as the vodka went down. “I’m going out to the shops. Shopping therapy. I’ll see you later, Moonwalker. Bye.” She put down her drained glass and strode away, shaking off his attempts to stop her. He didn’t want her driving in her condition. But then she elbowed him in the solar plexus – knocking the wind right out of him. She burst into tears. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” But she hurried out anyway. She was in her car accelerating away before he could catch up. In the blinding sunshine, staring at the receding vehicle, Nolan was left clutching the phone records, possibly the only solution to the entire mess that he’d somehow embroiled himself in.
Feeling hungry – remembering he’d not had breakfast or lunch – he locked up Judy’s house and went to a McDonald’s. He sat at the window and called telephone numbers while eating lunch. Vapour trails crossed the sky throughout his meal. He thought about flying. At home he had a humble Cessna, but he hadn’t flown the baby for six months. He would like to take Cordy up; he was sure she’d love it. The cockpit of the Cessna provided an awesome view. Cordy … Why was he thinking about her when he should have been thinking about Ken? He pictured Ken and Cordy together. He didn’t like the image. Ken was charming. Cordy was beautiful. H for Cordelia Harker … He focussed on the calls. Time after time, he got nowhere. It was routine stuff. Work related. Innocent.
But then –
The ten-fifteen call.
When Nolan hung up, he knew who Ken’s killer was and the reason why.
He pushed his plate aside, feeling ill. He was in his car before he had formed the conscious decision to leave the diner – as if in his haste to move he’d transported himself directly behind the wheel. The engine was running. It was strange how he could do something like that and not remember doing it. He pulled out of the parking lot and froze, not knowing which direction he wanted to go. The front of his car was sticking out over the line. A passing driver in a rust-bucket Ford had to swerve around him. Nolan picked left just for the sake of it. On the highway, he gathered his thoughts into something approaching sense. One more call confirmed everything. He called Judy’s number. There was no answer. The answering machine switched on. He told her to call him back ASAP. Next, he called Cordy’s work number. Her secretary Phyllis answered. “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s not here. I think she’s at home.”
Nolan looked at where he was. He was near her home, so he
turned off the highway. He stopped at her house and approached the door. He rang the bell, but noticed the door wasn’t fully shut.
“Cordy?” he called out.
His voice sounded hollow, scared.
He pushed the door with his foot.
And a cat hissed and dashed between his legs … fleeing.
He could see the other cat lapping at a red pool on the carpet. The blood was near some stairs going downwards. The cat stopped licking, ears bristling. Its eyes fixed on Nolan. Its fur was splashed with red. Its paws were soaked. It had left a trail of blood prints wherever it walked. Nolan walked over. The cat didn’t flinch. Nolan saw the body lying on the floor, its face turned away. There was a rock – no, a piece of coral used as a paperweight – beside her. Her hair was matted with blood. Her skull was too dented for there to be any doubt about her condition.
He had to look. He had to confirm the worst.
Dear Cordy …
She was dead.
And he’d never had time to say he loved her.
There was something stuck to her blood. Something moving. Fluttering.
It was a butterfly.
*
Nolan found Judy in the gazebo. Her eyes were half shut until she saw his shadow fall upon her, then she looked up. He could see the dark stains on her hands. Her hands clutched desperately to a Southern Comfort bottle. She tipped more whiskey into a glass, filling it to the brim and letting some spill onto the table.
She was so drunk she was verging on catatonic.
“Are the cops with you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But I asked them to wait for a few minutes.” He wanted to hate her, but seeing her suffering with her guilt and loss, he couldn’t do it. “I wanted to talk to you first. I want you to tell me why you killed her.”
“The little tramp seduced my husband. Then she tried to fool you into believing her lies. I couldn’t let her get away with it. So I asked her to see me at her home and when her back was turned, I killed her. I made sure it was quick. Quick and painless ... But it didn’t make me feel better. I just want to feel better, Geoff. I loved Ken so much …”
“Judy, you made a mistake.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I found out what the H stood for.”
“Yes, I know. Cordelia Harker.”
“No.”
“No?”
“It was short for ‘hospital’. Specifically, the oncology department at the John Hopkins. Ken had been getting bad headaches for weeks, Judy. I’ve seen the painkillers in your bathroom. Ken was taking them for his migraines. He made an appointment with a specialist. I called the number and his doctor told me that Ken had an inoperable brain tumour. He had less than three months to live. Three months of pain and suffering and madness. He didn’t want anyone to know or worry – especially you. That was why he kept it a secret. The knowledge must have been eating him up. He knew that if he killed himself then you wouldn’t be able to claim on his life insurance. I know that because I called the company. Suicide invalidates any claim. So Ken decided to make his suicide look like an accident. He knew exactly how to do it. There was nothing wrong with the plane that Ken didn’t make wrong. He deliberately crashed it so nobody else would suffer because of his illness.”
“She had nothing to do with it …”
“No,” he said. “She was innocent.”
Judy put a hand to her mouth. She winced, making a whimper. “I’m sorry, Geoff. I’m sorry.”
Nolan barely heard.
“One last drink?” she said, pleading.
“One last drink,” he murmured. “Make it a big one.”
The Uncertainty Principle
A girl was missing that morning. Riley’s police car raced towards her parents’ home. The motorway cut a smooth path across Cambridgeshire, straight to the clouded horizon. To his left and right he could see rice fields. Rice was Britain’s most successful crop after the global warming. The sky looked bronze over the floodplains. Everything else was sepia, like an old photograph. Mile markers flashed by, one every ten seconds.
Detective Constable Lee sat in the driving seat, but he wasn’t driving. The police car was on full automatic steering, taking the shortest, fastest route. Lee was dressed in a plain black suit and shirt with a Chinese mandarin collar. The creases of his clothes were so sharp they looked as if they’d been ironed by a ninja. The journey gave the detectives a few minutes to talk. Lee looked at Riley.
“Are you celebrating?”
“Celebrating what?”
“Your birthday.”
“Oh. Isla’s planning a party. My kids and grandkids are coming. I’m not supposed to know.”
“How’d you find out?”
“I overheard Isla. She’s been secretly arranging it for weeks. I’ll have to remember to act surprised.” During breakfast Isla had given Riley a birthday card that had put him in a bad mood because it reminded him of his true age. In the locker room he had made the mistake of telling Lee it was his birthday. Lee had been badgering him ever since to know how old he was.
“Sir, I love birthdays. Why won’t you tell me your real age?”
“If I tell you, will that shut you up?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“I’m ninety.”
“That means … you were born in 1970?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Happy now?”
“No offence, sir, but you’re ancient. My great-grandmother in Hong Kong isn’t that old. How many times have you been rejuved?”
“I don’t know. A lot.” It seemed like once a month forever. He hated his doctor’s appointments. He had an aversion to needles. But without the regular injections he’d start ageing, like people used to do before rejuve. Riley’s physical age was thirty, but he had another sixty years of memories. He had once been sixty, balding, suffering arthritis, gout and a sagging belly, but the rejuve had slowly restored his youth. His partner was only 25 in real years. He hadn’t even started on the rejuve.
“Do you like remember the dinosaurs?”
“Ha,ha.” Riley sighed. “You said you’d shut up if I told you my age. You didn’t shut up. Do you want to find out what it’s like being thrown out of a police car going 360?”
“Boy, you’re a grumpy old man this morning.”
The car slowed down at the junction for Quantum Hill. Lee resumed driving manually as they entered the town. Quantum Hill was a satellite town of Cambridge, created in the 2020s for employees in the technology industries that had taken over the greenbelt. Its streets were wide, clean and tree-lined. Because of the poor weather – it was the middle of monsoon season – not many residents were outside. Riley saw a few dog-walkers in the parks and some more people on the high street. The boutiques and cafes had steamed up windows. The figures inside looked like impressionist paintings. Everyone looked between twenty and thirty, though some would be older than a hundred, thanks to rejuve. Rejuve had been invented in 2030 and it was free to all British citizens. It cured old age, making its users effectively immortal as long as they continued to take it regularly. Old people were a rare sight. Noticing people who actually looked their age was a habit of Riley’s. An old couple leaving a Church of Natural Life caught his attention. They belonged to a religious cult that believed rejuve was Satan’s blood. It was literally a dying faith.
“Quiet town,” Lee commented.
“Yeah, it’s not London.”
The houses were large and mostly American suburban-style circa 1950s. They pulled up outside one that was more unusual: it looked like a beautiful alpine lodge made from Norwegian wood. It was a housetree - an organic home, grown naturally like a tree. As the years past, the house would actually grow more rooms if required. It looked quite large enough already. There was a black SUV in the driveway with a Green Party tax credit on the window. A local police vehicle was outside. An overweight PC stepped out of it, greeting them with a gruff hello.
“I’m PC Keller. You
’re wasting your time here, I reckon.”
Exiting his police car, Riley could feel the cold air creep over his skin. “Yeah, why?”
“I think it’s just a runaway - turn up in a few hours crying to come home - but the family insisted I call in you CID guys.”
“She’s not an ‘it’, PC Keller. Maybe your attitude is why you’re out here waiting for us.”
PC Keller’s eye twitched at the rebuke. “Can I go then?”
“You might as well stay around because my partner might need another vehicle.”
“Keen to get rid of me, huh?” Lee grinned.
“Very.”
Riley and Lee walked up to the house. The door opened by itself into a wood-panelled hall with several arched doorways and a stairway. Luminous globes added subtle light to surrealist paintings on the walls. Riley saw himself in a mirror. His brown suit looked like it had been under the wheels of a truck. Riley liked his clothes baggy, so he could wear his stun gun under his jacket in a shoulder holster. He wished he could be as smart as Lee. Lee preferred to have his weapon on his hip, visible.
The concerned parents stood in the doorway of the living room, holding hands. They were Amy and Stephen.
“I’m DS Riley.”
“And I’m DC Lee. We’re CID.”
“Thank Gaia you’re here,” Amy said. “You have to find our little girl.”
Riley accessed their personal information. Data appeared unobtrusively in his periphery vision thanks to his i-ware. Like most adult citizens, Riley had a neural processor hardwired into each optic nerve, linking him to the net. His i-ware also recorded what he saw and heard on duty, providing an unimpeachable witness.
Amy and Stephen were ecosystem designers for Globe Core Designs. They were ex-hippies, who’d met during a road protest rally in the 20th century. Stephen had a criminal conviction for trespassing and criminal damage at the head office of an arms manufacturer, but that conviction was twenty years old, no other convictions since. They were members of several leftwing organisations, including the Green Party and Amnesty International. They seemed to have given up their radical politics to design organic furniture for homes. Amy had a PhD in bioengineering. Her husband Stephen had a master’s degree in ecology. They had only one child – Rachel. The missing girl.
