Never Coming Back (22 page)

“She knows who he is.”

“She might not—”

“She knows who he is!”

Schiltz felt his heels hit the wall. He had nowhere else to go.

Cornell stopped, and raised the knife. “I'm sorry, Eric,” he said quietly, a flicker of honesty in him for the first time. “But we can't protect you anymore. Not after this.”

•   •   •

Five hours later, as Cornell reached the Las Vegas city limits, his phone started buzzing on the passenger seat. He reached across, picked it up and looked at the display. LVMPD
/
DR. Ridgeway. One of the cops he'd paid off inside Las Vegas Metro.

He answered. “What is it?”

“I thought you might want to know there's been a guy snooping around, asking some questions about that whore you got me looking into back in August. Destiny.”

“I know her name. What questions?”

“Trying to find out who she is, her address, what car she drives—trying to ID her. He knows she was associated with Carl Molsson, and he knows Molsson was found dead in the parking lot on East Flamingo on 27 August. It all gets extra fishy when
you realize your friend Eric never reported the crime.” Ridgeway waited for a response, but got nothing. “Look, all I'm saying is, you put two and two together, like this guy probably has, and you start to think that Eric, the whore and Molsson's murder might be tied up somehow. And, believe me, I know this guy from way back. I used to work for him in Robbery-Homicide. He's good. He'll be a real pain in the ass if you're not careful.”

“What's his name?”

“Carlos Soto,” Ridgeway replied. “He runs security at the Bellagio.”

Six miles out of Princetown, we started to climb Dartmeet Hill, a twisting B-road that carved up across moorland, bisecting fields of brown fern and moss-covered grass. Rain drifted in the whole time, spattering against the windscreen. As we hit the highest point, four hundred feet above the valley, Lee turned to me, eyes distant, expression solemn.

“I shouldn't have agreed to come with you.”

“What else were you going to do?”

“Stay at the house.”

“It's not safe.”

“It's been safe for a year.”

“I found you.” I looked at him. “Cornell would find you too.”

•   •   •

By the time we got back to the village, the rain had stopped. Seagulls—just charcoal-colored swipes against the sky—squawked as they patrolled the shoreline, breaking the soft stillness of the bay; without the birds, there was only the crackle of waves breaking on shingle, and the gentle chime of boat masts, their hulls moored on the beach.

Once we were inside the cottage, I gestured for Lee to sit at the kitchen table, filled the percolator and then made a call to Robert Reardon, the professor taking Carrie's History MA. I'd got his cell number from Carrie's phone bill, but after twenty seconds it went to voice mail. I left a message, asking him to call me back urgently. When I was done, I headed through to the living room and booted up Paul's PC. Carrie's MA notes were still on there. I'd looked at them briefly once before, but this time I was hoping they might give me a clue as to who the guy in the photograph was, now I knew a little more. But it was just a chronology of postwar Russia and vague, indecipherable thought processes.

Back in the kitchen, Lee was staring off out of the window, his eyes fixed on the village below, on the houses and the hills he'd left behind for a life on the other side of the world. After about half a minute, he turned to me. “Do you think they're dead?”

The question took me by surprise. “The family?”

He nodded a second time.

“I don't know,” I said, and he seemed to cling to the ambiguity of my
reply. But as much as I wanted to deny it, the situation was looking increasingly forlorn. Schiltz had been shown no mercy. Muire, however much his death looked like an accident, had to have been eliminated for the same reasons. Lee would have just been bones and earth if he'd failed to escape Vegas and find a hiding place. The fact that Barry Rew overdosed after being clean for three years seemed like tacit confirmation that his sighting of them was accurate too. And everything, all the death, all the suspicion, was tethered to one man.

Cornell.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by my phone, buzzing across the counter. It wasn't a number I recognized, but I was hoping it was Reardon. “David Raker.”

“Mr. Raker, it's Katie Francis—Carter Graham's PA.”

I gestured to Lee that everything was fine and then took the phone through to the living room and pushed the door closed behind me. “Ms. Francis. Good to hear from you.”

“Well, I worked my magic,” she said.

“Mr. Graham can see me?”

“He's got a four o'clock slot this afternoon, here at the house. He can only spare you forty-five minutes, I'm afraid—I'm sure you remember that we've got a big charity gala this evening—but he says, if that suits you, then you're very welcome to come over.”

It was three-thirty.

I looked back at Lee. “Tell him I'll be there.”

“Great. I'll let Mr. Graham know.”

I hung up and went back through to the kitchen. Lee had helped himself to coffee and was seated at the kitchen table again, cross-legged, staring out across the bay. “Lee,” I said, and he started slightly, turning in his seat. “We need to go out for an hour.”

“Where?”

“I've got a meeting with Carter Graham.”

“Carter?” His face lit up. “He's home?”

“He's at Farnmoor for a couple of days.”

“Okay,” he said, getting to his feet, “let's go.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you should be there. I don't want him distracted. I've got forty-five minutes with him, and I can't afford for it to be a trip down memory lane. I know you'll be desperate to give him your theory too—about him, and Ray, and Eric
Schiltz—but I want that to come from me.” I let that soak in, the smile sliding from his face. “I want you to come with me, because I think you should stick close given everything you've told me, but I need you to stay in the car—at least until I've got all the answers I need. Then you can go in, say hello, whatever you want.”

Lee sat down again by the window.

“Lee?”

“What's the point?”

“In what?”

“In coming with you?”

“Because I promised to keep you safe.”

“I'm not a kid.”

“I never said you were.”

He looked at me. “Kids stay in the car while their parents go in and chat with the big people. You're treating me like I'm ten years old. Why the hell am I even here?”

“I didn't say—”

“I survived for a
year
. You're not telling me what I can and can't do.”

“I can't have you in there—”

“Then I stay here.”

“Listen to what I'm trying to tell you: I can't have you in there
at the start
. I need forty-five minutes with him, the
whole
forty-five minutes, then you can sit on his knee and make him tell you a story for all I care. But I'm having that forty-five minutes.”

“Do whatever you have to do,” he said quietly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I'm staying here.”

I took a few moments. “You're coming with me.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“You're wasting time,” he said, looking at the clock on the wall.

He was right.

It was a twenty-minute drive on a clear run to Farnmoor, which meant I had to leave now if I didn't want to eat into the time I had with Graham. This might be the only shot I had at him, face to face, until Christmas—if he was even coming back then.

I looked around the kitchen and out into the living room.

The reality was, no one even knew Lee was back in the country, let
alone here. No one had seen us approach, no one could see us from the road. Lee had no car and nothing to his name. Taking him with me would have lessened any risk, but the risk remained pretty small, even if he stayed. I wanted him close, because that was just how I worked, but he would only be twenty minutes down the road. And, ultimately, short of physically dragging him to the car—which
would
draw attention—I couldn't force him to come.

“Lock the doors and stay in the house, okay?”

He didn't reply, turning back to the window as clouds gathered over the beach and some of the light fizzled out. “Why did you even bring me back here, David?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because you're trying to save people.”

I scooped up my car keys. “We're all trying to save someone.”

The gates were already open at Farnmoor so I nosed the BMW up the drive and followed a series of signs around to the back of the house. A temporary parking lot had been set up for the gala. I quickly called Lee, to check everything was okay, and he sounded like he was still pissed off with me. That suited me fine as long as he remained where he was. Once I'd got back around to the front of the house, I saw there were three men, all dressed in black shirts, just inside the door, sheltering from the rain. Security. They looked like they'd come off a production line: shaved hair, wide torsos, pinch-faced.

“Can I help you, sir?” one of them said.

“My name's David Raker. I'm here to see Mr. Graham.”

He didn't seem surprised, which meant Katie Francis had probably prepped him. He beckoned me toward him, briefly patted me down and then pointed along the hallway, toward the stairs. “Ms. Francis is on the first floor. She says you know the way.”

Following the hallway around to the left, at the end beyond the stairs I could see two more security men at the back entrance. I wondered if they were Graham's personal security or just grunts hired to police the gala.

Upstairs, Katie Francis wasn't around.

I backed out. “Ms. Francis?” No response. “Katie, it's David Raker.” Again, no response. The first floor was a mirror image of the ground floor. A couple of the doors were closed—I guessed Graham's bedroom, or his bathroom—but the rest were open: attractively decorated function rooms, a games room, then, right at the end, a library.

The library was the type of room you only ever saw in Hollywood movies: wall-to-ceiling shelving, except for a bay window immediately opposite; leather-bound books filling every space; a desk in the center, with a globe and a cigar box on it; studded, tan leather chairs, one behind the desk, two on the other side, and two matching sofas parallel to them. Finally, in the only concession to modern living, a new iMac. It was off.

As I circled the room, I saw the books were a mix of classic literature, reference material and brick-sized encyclopedias. Graham also had a section of the library dedicated to modern fiction, each of the books
recovered in red, yellow or green leather to match the rest of the collection. The only other space, apart from the window, that wasn't dedicated to the written word was a narrow piece of paneling behind the door itself where twelve photographs—all black and white—ran in a vertical line.

I moved in for a closer look.

They were all of the same building, but at various stages of its construction. The first picture was of a dry patch of land, all dirt and crumbled masonry, the background just a thick copse of trees and a huge, cloudless sky. The next photo showed the trees being cut down and the ground being prepared, and from there—over the course of the next ten pictures—a generic-looking structure rose from the earth. There was nothing written on the photos, no inscription or idea of when the shots were taken, and the building itself had no signage on it, even when completed. Something Lee had said came back to me:
Schiltz moved to the States to study when he was in his early twenties, and just stayed. He helped Carter set up his first international office—put him in touch with builders, planners, all that kind of thing.
The photograph had a bleached kind of Californian feel, and dotted around in the background were other people: contractors, laborers, men in suits and hard hats.

Then, outside, I heard a noise.

I stepped back and peered through the gap between the door and the frame. Katie Francis came up the stairs, carrying a red Manila folder, and headed into her office. I waited thirty seconds, and then quickly left the library and headed her way.

She looked up as I entered. “Ah, Mr. Raker.” She was standing at her desk, side on to me, dressed in a smart, calf-length black skirt, a red blouse and matching heels. “I saw your car outside. I thought you might have got lost.”

“Thank you for organizing this,” I said, sidestepping the question.

“No problem.” She checked her watch. “Mr. Graham will be up in a couple of minutes. He'll probably want to chat with you in the library—that's where he normally sees people—but, please, take a seat for now.”

I sat and we chatted politely about the gala.

About five minutes later, I clocked movement in the doorway and turned to find a man in his late sixties, slender and well groomed, leaning against the door frame.

Carter Graham.

He rolled his eyes and came all the way in. “I'm so sorry about the delay,” he said, mid-Atlantic accent, arm outstretched. I got up and shook his hand. “This gala seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Graham.”

“Carter's fine.”

He had thick silver hair and tanned skin dotted with gray stubble, and he carried himself without a hint of age. When he smiled, which was often, his face was like a pencil drawing, detailed and textured, lines and creases carved into the edges of his eyes and mouth. He had a presence about him, a weight, a heft, that had probably carried him through countless boardrooms and out the other side, richer and more influential. It wasn't hard to understand, even from his appearance, why he was so successful.

“It's David, right?”

“Right.”

“Follow me. We'll talk in the library.” He turned to his PA. “Katie, can you bring us something to drink? Is tea okay, David? I'm afraid I gave up coffee in my thirties.”

“Tea would be fine.”

“Great. Come this way.”

He led me out and along the hallway, back toward the library.

“You've got a beautiful place here,” I said.

“Oh, thank you. When you spend as much time as I do in the air, it's nice to return to somewhere like this. I'm originally from Devon—did you know that?”

“I read that, yes.”

“Are you from around here?”

“I grew up just along the coast.”

“Really?” We entered the library and he gestured for me to sit on one of the sofas. He sat down on the other one. “I'm afraid I don't know very much about you. Katie mentioned you were a private investigator.”

“Kind of. I find missing people.”

“Oh,” he said, his interest sparked. “Is there much call for that kind of thing?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand people go missing in the UK every year. It's not about the numbers, really, it's about whether their families want them found.”

“And whether they can afford you.”

I smiled. “I try to make sure they can.”

He returned the smile. “And you're working for the families of the Lings?”

“Family. Singular. Carrie's sister, yes. The rest of the family, his side of it, are out in Hong Kong.”

“Okay.” He slid back into the sofa and crossed his legs again. “Anything I can do to help, I will. To be perfectly frank, I didn't take things too seriously until I found out an old friend of mine claimed to have seen them here.”

“Ray Muire?”

He nodded. “Did you know Ray?”

“No. He's obviously a name that's come up, though.”

He nodded again. “Look, don't get me wrong, if the family was seen out here, I would have wanted to know what the hell was going on, regardless. But when Ray said he saw them . . .” He paused, rocking his head from side to side. For a moment something flashed in his eyes—a sadness—and I remembered how Lee had described Graham and Ray Muire's relationship: like brothers. “Ray was an old, old friend of mine. One of two I would consider to be my oldest and best, actually. I trusted him. When he died . . .” He swallowed, nodded, but didn't finish.

A couple of seconds later, Katie Francis brought in two mugs of tea, on two separate trays, with milk and sugar in white china bowls. She laid one down next to me, then one next to Graham. I thanked her, and so did he. Once she'd left he held up a hand in an apologetic gesture. “Anyway,” he said, “I've talked for long enough. It's your turn. Ask me whatever you like, and let's get this family found.”