Impact

by Robert Clark

  Then the doorbell rang.

  I looked down the hallway and feared it might be the police back for more. But then I heard Marie’s voice from the bedroom.

  ‘It’s the woman from next door,’ she called out. ‘Can you see to her?’

  I walked to the front door and swung it open. There she was. The old lady in the nineteen thirties nighty and fluffy grey dressing gown and curlers in her hair. She’d thrown on an oversized raincoat that I guessed belonged to a husband or son, and large gardening boots.

  In her hands she held a cat. A siamese cat glared up at me.

  The old lady foist the cat into my arms.

  ‘Nostradamus,’ she said bluntly, before storming away.

  Twenty

  The cat looked up into my eyes and hissed. Its claws dug into my arms, through the anorak and the jumper, right into my skin like a dozen razor blades. I swore under my breath.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I called after the old lady.

  ‘Nostradamus is your problem now,’ she called out, not turning back. ‘I have had enough of him.’

  The cat growled and hissed again. I held it away from my face like it was an explosive device.

  ‘I don’t want your cat, lady,’ I called out.

  That got her to turn back.

  ‘That beast is not my cat,’ she hissed. ‘Miss Giroux asked me to look after it, and out of the kindest of my heart I did so too many times. But I won’t keep it.’

  ‘So it was Amie Giroux’s cat?’ I asked.

  The old lady nodded.

  ‘He has diabetes,’ she said. ‘Miss Giroux didn’t like to leave him alone for long.’

  Nostradamus started to wiggle. Powerful muscles and sharp claws made easy work of my grip. I dropped him on the door mat and watched as he scuttled inside. I closed the door before he could scarper out and turned back to the old lady.

  ‘How often would you look after him?’ I asked.

  ‘Not much,’ she said, calmer now the cat was out of her sight. ‘She had someone to look after him while she was at work. I only had him when she went out of town.’

  ‘Why did she go out of town?’ I asked.

  ‘Hospital appointments, mostly,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t sure how long she would be sometimes.’

  ‘Did she mention what her appointments were for?’ I asked.

  The old lady shook her head. The plastic curlers wobbled.

  ‘Not for her. For her sister,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t ask what for. It’s rude.’

  Her sister? Marie didn’t mention anything.

  ‘Did she tell you which hospital she visited?’ I asked.

  ‘She wrote it down for me, in case I needed to get in touch. Hold on, I’ve got it inside.’

  The old lady turned and hobbled away. I watched her go, then heard a shriek from inside Amie’s house. I spun and opened the door.

  ‘What is that thing?’ Marie squealed, shrill finger aimed like a pistol at the cat.

  ‘Nostradamus,’ I replied. ‘Amie’s cat.’

  ‘Amie had a cat?’

  I fought the urge to question why she didn’t already know that. The cat wasn’t young. Unless she’d just adopted it, Nostradamus had been a mainstay in Amie’s life for several years.

  ‘Not a fan of cats?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m terribly allergic.’ Marie said, back pressed to the wall as she inched her way to the front door.

  ‘Should be alright with him, though,’ I said. ‘It’s the fur most people are allergic to, right?’

  She didn’t answer me. Instead, she bolted for the front door and swung it shut behind her like the whole place was about to explode.

  ‘Did Amie visit you up at the hospital?’ I asked when Marie had regained her composure.

  She looked at me blankly.

  ‘What hospital?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The neighbour is going to check. She cat sat for Amie while she was away.’

  ‘I haven’t been to the hospital in years,’ she said.

  She didn’t make eye contact. Another degree of separation between two sisters.

  ‘She said Amie went to visit her sister.’

  ‘I’m her only sister.’

  ‘Maybe she got it mistaken,’ I said, ‘maybe she meant a cousin or something.’

  ‘We don’t have any cousins. Both of our parents had no siblings.’

  The old lady returned. In her hand she clutched a slip of paper.

  ‘Saint-Claude,’ she said, waving the paper like a flag, ‘that was the hospital.’

  Marie stiffened, but said nothing. The old lady handed the paper to me, not Marie.

  ‘She never told you what she was visiting for?’ I asked.

  ‘Never,’ said the old lady. Her eyes lingered on Marie. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Marie Giroux,’ she said. ‘I’m Amie’s older sister.’

  ‘Marie,’ the old lady said. ‘I thought her sister was called Ines.’

  ‘I’m her only sister,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anyone called Ines.’

  ‘I heard her on the phone, just last week,’ said the old lady. ‘Spoke to a woman called Ines. When I asked, she said Ines was her sister. Said she was going to the hospital to meet her.’

  Marie walked the old lady back to her house while I went inside to deal with Nostradamus. With the house to himself, he had resigned himself to the remains of the bedroom, curled up in a hairless ball on the only pillow. I felt sorry for him. He didn’t know what had happened to his owner, and with a temper like that, he would struggle to find a new home anytime soon.

  I closed the door on him so we could have free reign over the rest of the house. With so little personality injected into the property, I knew our best bet for finding any answers lay inside the laptop’s hard drive. And without the password, there was only one way I could think of that we could use to get inside it.

  I heard the front door open.

  ‘Where is it?’ called Marie.

  ‘In the bedroom,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, I closed the door on it. You’re safe.’

  I heard her come through and shut the door behind her.

  ‘I have an idea,’ I said as she poked her head into the room, ‘but it might take a while and cost a lot.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘We could hire someone, a professional to hack into your sister’s laptop. That way we can see if there’s anything on there we can use.’

  ‘Is that legal?’ she asked.

  ‘Must be,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know if your sister had a will, but I’m guessing most of this stuff is yours now. Must be thousands of people every day who get left with computers and laptops with passwords protecting them. So long as you can prove it’s yours now, I don’t imagine it is a problem.’

  ‘Where would we find someone like that?’ she asked.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Are there any electronics stores around here?’ I asked.

  ‘Not that I know of. You would have to go elsewhere for that.’

  ‘Anything close to this Saint-Claude hospital?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Then we should take it with us,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to check out this hospital and see if they can tell us anything. Do you know where it is?’

  She nodded her head, just a short, stiff movement, like a ventriloquist’s doll. Her face scrunched up and her eyes began to water. At first, I thought she was about to cry. Then she sneezed.

  ‘That damn cat,’ she croaked.

  ‘You know, sooner or later you’ll have to deal with Nostradamus,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The cat. That’s what Amie named him, I guess.’

  ‘I’ll find the number for a rescue,’ she said. ‘Now come on, we should go.’

  ‘He’s diabetic.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard, I guess, looking after a cat with diabetes. I feel sorry for him.’

  ‘You are welcome t
o take him, Mr Callahan.’

  I smiled. Wasn’t about to go into detail about all the reasons why that was a monstrously bad idea. I picked up the laptop and headed out. Before I stepped outside, I stopped and handed Marie the laptop.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the car,’ I said.

  She just nodded and left. I headed back to the kitchen and took a bowl from the cupboard. I filled it with water from the tap and put it on the floor. Then I looked for something a cat might eat. Either Amie had run out of cat food, or the old lady next door hadn’t returned any. I checked the fridge and found a loaf of bread and a block of cheese. I cut up a bit of each and put it on a plate beside the water. Hopefully it would do for now. I had no idea if the food would be enough, or if he needed insulin. Amie hadn’t left any behind, and the old lady hadn’t brought any over with her. I decided it would be best to leave the neighbour with the keys, just in case she’d forgotten it.

  Before I left, I opened the bedroom door and checked in on Nostradamus. He was asleep on the pillow.

  ‘Hope you’re okay,’ I said to him, before heading out to the car.

  Twenty-One

  Saint-Claude was an hour’s drive south in Saint-Quentin. Marie did the drive in near silence. I sat in the passenger seat, laptop on my lap, stomach putting up a protest. The clock on the dashboard told me it was close to three o’clock in the afternoon. Daylight was nearly spent.

  ‘He was my husband,’ said Marie after a long stint of silence. I looked up at her. Her eyes were fixated on the road, but they were raw and sullen.

  ‘Who was?’ I asked.

  ‘Andrew. Amie mentioned him in her…’ she tailed off for a few seconds. ‘He passed away last year at Saint-Claude. Bone cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. She gave a curt smile.

  ‘It was quick,’ she said. ‘Just three weeks from diagnosis to…’ She cleared her throat. ‘He spent most of the time in a hospital bed. The doctors say it was painless.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Why? You never met him. You only just met me. What is there for you to be sorry for?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘It’s just what you say, isn’t it? I wish you hadn’t gone through all this.’

  Marie pursed her lips, but offered no follow up comment. I left Marie to the navigation. She didn’t seem to have any problem with it, not that I’d have been able to help much. The signs that flew past my window made not a shred of sense to me. So I just sat back and watched as the rain from yesterday caught up with today.

  ‘Where should we go first?’ Marie asked as Saint-Quentin appeared into view.

  I thought about it for a moment. My first instinct was to head for the hospital. If Marie could work her magic and convince the staff to talk about her sister’s records, we might be able to find out what she was doing out here. But doctor-patient confidentiality was a serious deal. Doctors could lose their license to practice for that. And jumping in front of a train was hardly a medical condition.

  So I guessed we should go to find an electronics store. It made sense. Shops would start closing in a couple of hours, and if we chanced the hospital first, we might miss the opportunity to hack the laptop. But then, what was the procedure there? Surely, not everyone who works in an electronic store is smart enough to do something like that, and ethically, not everyone who could would want to. All we might get was the name and number of someone who might be able to do it for us, provided we could show them proof of ownership et cetera, et cetera.

  And the last time I’d checked, electronic stores liked to have their gadgets and gizmos switched on for everyone to look upon in awe. They’ve got to show something on those screens. Why not put the news stations on? Going there might be like walking into a gallery dedicated to myself. I could be on every screen across the shop. Not exactly ideal.

  ‘We should try the hospital,’ I said. ‘You could ask to talk to someone about your sister. Say you’re trying to understand why she did what she did.’

  ‘She died because that evil man murdered her,’ Marie sniffed.

  ‘We know that, but the rest of the world thinks it’s suicide. Play on that, and we might get somewhere.’

  Marie nodded stiffly and navigated the car towards the hospital.

  Saint-Claude hospital was made up of two large rectangular buildings, one painted an ugly mustard yellow, the other a dull blue-grey, as though the architects and owners had quibbled about which miserable colour best depressed those destined to walk through the doors. Marie found the patient car park and killed the engine, and together we got out.

  ‘Maybe you should do this alone,’ I said, looking up at the main entrance and all the hundreds of people walking in and out. ‘It’s a personal matter after all.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I need your help. I am paying you.’

  Which was true, but I didn’t expect to see a second payment, especially if I walked inside and half a dozen people screamed “terrorist” at me. But staying outside didn’t feel like an option I could reasonably do. Not without drawing concern from Marie. In my charity shop clothes, maybe I could get away without being spotted. Who, after all, would expect a British fugitive to wander into a French hospital?

  Cops. That’s who.

  With the rain nice and fierce once more, I opened my umbrella and pulled the hood of my anorak over my head. Best job I could do at short notice. Together, we headed for the entrance. Streams of people flowed like a current through glass double doors, into a hot, humid reception. A claustrophobic’s nightmare. Marie headed for the counter while I took a seat in the corner, close enough to a drunk man slouched against the wall so that the rest of those waiting averted their gaze. There was always a guy like him in a place like this. Must be part of the Feng Shui, like the potted plants or rows of uncomfortable chairs. No one paid me any mind, and the drunkard didn’t stir, so I sat and waited for Marie to return.

  She did so after several minutes of hushed conversation and several concerned looks from the hospital staff. She glanced uncomfortably at the drunkard, but sat down beside me, nonetheless.

  ‘How’d it go?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ve asked for someone to come and speak to me,’ she said. ‘They said it might take a while.’

  It was a while. Ninety four minutes, to be precise. I counted them down on the clock above the reception desk. I kept my head bent low, like I was praying or anticipating bad news so that no one saw my face. Marie was doing the same thing, albeit for different reasons. The flow of people sitting around changed with every minute as they were called in or got up and left with people leaving. Only the drunkard remained. His acrid odour reached my nostrils. It was not a pleasant smell.

  Finally, a young woman came through a door behind the reception, bent low to speak to her colleagues, then headed over to us.

  ‘Mrs Giroux?’ she asked, looking at Marie, then me.

  ‘Oui,’ said Marie.

  ‘Is this your husband?’ she asked.

  ‘No. He is my colleague.’

  I smiled and nodded.

  ‘My name is Ines Paquet. I am the hospital’s grievance councillor. You wanted to speak about your sister, Amie?’

  I glanced from Ines to Marie and back again. Marie nodded. Ines smiled and beckoned her towards the reception.

  ‘If you would like to follow me,’ she said, then she looked at me. ‘Unfortunately, we are only allowed to speak with family members regarding personal matters.’

  Marie looked at me.

  ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ I said. ‘Have another go with the laptop.’

  Marie dug out her car keys and handed them over, then the pair of women walked away through a door to the right.

  I headed back out into the rain. With the umbrella up and the keys in my hand, I hustled back to the car park.

  ‘Nows your chance, James,’ whispered the Wolf. ‘She gave you the keys. Get out of here.’

  ‘Not until we know the trut
h.’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got her car. You could be halfway to Paris before she’s finished in there. And it’s only a matter of time before she figures out who you are. Don’t test fate.’

  ‘Not until we know the truth,’ I said again. ‘And that’s non-negotiable, you hear?’

  ‘It’s your funeral,’ he said, disappearing before my eyes.

  I unlocked the coupé, shrugged off my coat and put it and the umbrella in the trunk so I wouldn’t soak her seats. Then I climbed back into the passenger seat and opened the laptop on my damp lap.

  The screen lit up with a blurred out image of two people. I couldn’t make out the details of it, but at the centre of the screen a little grey box pinged up with a smaller, whiter box inside, ready for the password.

  At which point, I realised I was running blind. I barely knew anything about the woman whose laptop I was looking at. Amie Giroux was her name, owner of a run down home in Northern France, and an angry siamese cat. Lover of a rather eclectic selection of DVDs, and a big enough fan of one French film she had stuck up on her living room wall. I didn’t know her age, her date of birth, her friends, her interests, her job, her hobbies, her reasons for living, her reasons for dying. And yet, I was trying to break into her laptop to find some shred of evidence as to why she had come into contact with Charles Neagley and a speeding train. I didn’t know anything. Not nearly enough.

  Back before my life had flipped upside down, I had been a journalist. Small time stuff, mostly. I ran a series of stories on security, and how every reader could do things to improve. I interviewed a guy who showed me how to break into a car and hot-wire the engine, and a woman who taught me the best way for a woman to defend herself against a rapist. And I interviewed a tech whiz on cyber security.