Authors: Max China
Chapter 109
It was almost midnight. With Miller gone, only Kennedy and three cleaning staff were left in the hall. He reflected back over the evening; he couldn't remember the last time he'd had such an enjoyable time in the company of another man. He wished he'd met him again years ago.
Different roads . . .
In Miller's company, his predicament had faded for a while. Several times, he'd almost confided in him, but the right moment never quite presented itself. Now sitting alone, his reverie complete, his thoughts returned to his tormentor.
A day earlier, he'd received a telephone call, and before he'd even lifted the receiver to his ear, the caller had started speaking.
"What will you do,
John,
when they find you have been visiting prostitutes?" The voice accentuated his forename to ridiculous effect. "She kept a diary you know . . ."
Kennedy's heart sank, but he responded automatically. "Now you listen to me!"
The voice talked right over him, mocking him with a lisp.
He's changed his voice yet again.
It sounded tinny. He got straight to the point, and Kennedy listened in stunned silence as the words unfolded.
"What will you do when they find the deleted number of a major criminal on your mobile phone? When the records indicate you called him from right there in your office. That's right. That
is
what I said, from your office and not just the once, either."
The sound of air sucked through clenched teeth came down the line. "One whiff, a sniff that you are talking to anyone else about these calls,
John
and I will drop you so far in it you'll never see the light of day again. Your father will never be able to forgive you. You know that, don't you,
Johnny.
" Another deeply drawn breath was followed by another well-timed pause.
Kennedy frowned. "Hey, you, kiss my arse!" There was no response. The caller carried on speaking, regardless.
It's a recording!
"There's also the question of the cash payments into your saving's account, that's right; you never check them do you? You go for those online statements, but you never read them anyway. How are you going to explain the five thousand pounds cash deposit that coincided with Wharton walking free, or the ten thousand put in this morning,
after
he was killed? The cash came from Lynch, by the way. He stashed it in Marilyn's safe, but you know, John, best of all
Johnny -
and you'll like this one… The DNA samples from the Gasman's last two victims … can you guess what they'll find,
Johnny
?" He paused for effect.
Kennedy listened in dismay.
"Of course you can't! The DNA is yours
John
. Do you really think they will listen to your protestations of innocence? What a coincidence it is, that every one of your visits to a murdered prostitute coincided with a Gasman attack?" Another breath. Another silence. The recording continued.
"You have no alibi's now do you,
Johnny?
Do you remember when you said - and you don't even know me, do you, John
-
These
people are vile
. Do you remember that on television? Well, now you're one of us,
John
. Checkmate." A millisecond hiss indicated the end of the message. The phone disconnected abruptly. Some of the unanswered questions were resolved. He'd wanted to tell him –
It wasn't me. I didn't say it. It was Kendricks, and the editors screwed it up . . .
but he couldn't, of course, because no one was listening at the other end of the line.
The caller disconnected the mobile phone from the laptop. If the police got a fix on the call and triangulated the signal, they'd discover it originated from an area close to the A1 on a pay as you go telephone routed through an auto-dialer on a computer. The police wouldn't get that far, but he disposed of the phone anyway. He removed the battery and dropped both parts through the grill of a roadside drain and then sped away.
Although Kennedy had been a detective for long enough to know if a suspect was telling the truth or bluffing, he called his bank anyway. They confirmed two deposits were made into his account, one of five thousand and another of ten thousand pounds. His heart sank. The caller had framed him with something from which he couldn't easily extricate himself, if he could at all. It would be only a matter of time before the DNA flagged up a match against the Police Forces DNA database.
How long have you got - possibly a few days? If you are lucky, it might only be a day or two.
It was a problem that over shadowed the rest of the day and weighed heavy on his mind all night. He knew he was screwed. He slept very little.
"Was that really only yesterday?" Kennedy stunned himself with the realisation he'd spoken out loud. Glancing around, he was relieved that none of the staff appeared to have heard, they were too busy clearing tablecloths and wiping down the bare tops. They were working their way back down the hall towards him. He had a few minutes before they reached him. The high ceilings, the sedate atmosphere and echoes of a million prayers, did indeed remind him of a church. The walls released memories for him, and he drifted away from his troubles into a higher plane of consciousness.
He knew now with certainty, what he had to do.
Chapter 110
Miller was dreaming. The ghosts of his past slowly paraded before him. They were mostly grey images of the people he missed the most. In the crowd as they passed, he sometimes thought he caught a glimpse of himself . . . how he was back then. Lost, struggling to find a way back.
In an alternative version of last night's reunion, he saw himself back at the table with Kennedy. This time they spoke of their origins and swapped case notes, laughing at the FBI games his forgotten acquaintance told him he used to play.
"Did any one ever call you Jack, as in the president?"
The detective reacted slowly and thoughtfully. "Just a girlfriend I had once, and this other . . .
character
. I just started picking up on his trail and then he started playing games with me." Miller detected sorrow in the other man's eyes. The light faded from them as he continued to speak.
"He called himself Lee Harvey Oswald, pathetic really," he shook his head sadly. "I let him get to me . . . At the scene of one crime, he left a newspaper with the headline:
Kennedy Assassinated
. Not one shred of forensic. Nothing on the paper. No sweat, No nothing. I suppose I had an inkling I was dealing with someone different, not your run-of-the-mill ordinary criminal. I knew he was out to get me. His messages made that perfectly clear from the outset." He began fiddling with his tie, pulling at the knot, loosening it from his neck.
"Did you ever get him?"
Still fiddling with his tie, he said, "No, I never did." And then he asked about Miller's lost friends, the boys who died.
Caught off guard, he bristled at the mention, driven back into his adolescent self where he wrestled with his thoughts. He'd forgotten none of it. It was merely encapsulated in the comfortable blanket that time had woven for it. "Why do you mention that?" he asked.
No longer looking at him, he focused on something beyond where he sat. "You need to talk about it."
There was something odd about Kennedy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. In his head, he fine-tuned his imaginary receiver, but he'd lost him. The dream was no longer in his control. It shifted to a beach … to a holiday he had long ago.
Then he was back in the hall, where Kennedy waited patiently for his answer. He tilted his head his expression one of query. A half shrug of the other man's shoulders invited an answer. It had been a long moment.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm just not ready to talk about it."
Kennedy leant forward, two fingers in the knot of his tie. When he spoke it was with difficulty. "That happened thirty-five years ago. You should lay those ghosts to rest."
"I know," he said simply.
The detectives eyes had become grey. One was narrowed the other shut. He could have been looking through a telescope. "I need help, Miller."
It was late, and he was tired.
This is crazy. It's a dream!
He rubbed his eyes. They felt sore. He sparked off an ocular migraine. If he caught it in time and avoided bright lights, he could still prevent the visual aura from manifesting itself.
Kennedy had his back to the light. Miller couldn't look at him.
He felt himself leaving rapidly, floating upwards and backwards. Kennedy's voice briefed him in a blizzard of words he couldn't understand.
Miller woke up, and the first thing on his mind was Kennedy's last words.
"So, will you help me?"
He lay awake for a long time. These shifts in perspective were occurring with greater frequency and now not only when he was asleep. He found if he concentrated hard enough, he could make out in part, what Kennedy had told him. Big trouble, a key and finding a missing girl. No, not a key… She
was
the key.
The key to what?
He took his pencil and pad from his bedside table and noted it all down. It might make sense later.
Sinking back into sleep just as the birds began to stir, he dreamed about the boys again.
Chapter 111
April 4
th
The following morning Miller woke up, his head filled with strong ideas.
I need help, Miller . . . Eilise Staples.
He hadn't felt the same way since he'd decided to find Olga Kale, but it didn't worry him. What he was doing was for the good.
Although Nottingham wasn't as far as he thought from
London, it was still too far for him to consider driving back the same day. After three and a half hours of boredom, the Sat Nav dumped him a few doors down the road from where he needed to be. He wouldn't have parked right outside anyway.
He grabbed his bag out of the boot and made his way up the path. Eilise's house was in an affluent part of town. Not quite how he'd imagined it, but runaways came from all walks of life. Olga Kale - she'd been a runaway too. The step up to the front door was freshly scrubbed and still wet, so he stretched up and rang the bell, without standing on it. The door opened almost immediately.
"Mrs Staples?"
"Yes."
"The name's Miller, I believe you were expecting me?"
"I'm sorry?" Dressed in a floral housecoat, wearing pink marigold gloves and holding a yellow feather duster in her hand, she looked ridiculous, but not self-conscious at all.
"DCI Kennedy arranged for me to come up this morning."
"Well, he never said anything to me," she narrowed her eyes. "Got any ID?"
Miller produced a business card and handed it to her.
"What - the police can't do their own work? They have to call in the private sector to get anywhere?"
"Something like that," he smiled.
She let him in. "Come right through," she steered him into the lounge. "Would you like some tea, Mr Miller?"
"It's just, Miller and yes, tea would be nice."
She checked his card.
Miller: Missing Persons Investigator.
"What an unusual first name. Please call me, Eileen."
She looked too young to have a daughter of Eilise's age.
"Sit down," she said.
"Do you mind if I . . .?" he pointed at the collage of photographs that hung on the wall.
"No, no, not at all, feel free." She left him alone while she fetched the tea.
The mirror above the fireplace opposite reflected the collage.
Two images for the price of one.
A family portrait took pride of place in the collection of photos. He recognised Eilise straight away; she was the older of the two girls. The photo looked recent. The girls stood in front. Mr Staples had a hand on the shoulder of each girl. A six-inch gap was apparent between him and Eileen. Only two family members had happy smiles on their faces, the father and the youngest girl. Miller leaned in for a closer look.
Eileen arrived with the tea. Seeing him looking at the picture, she volunteered, "That was taken the summer before last."
"It's a nice photo," he said.
He sipped his tea, thinking. Eileen Staples and the older girl shared an uncomfortable body language. Their smiles didn't extend beyond the lips, and the eyes of both looked haunted. Mrs Staples' hand was on Eilise's other shoulder.
Family tensions.
"The photograph was taken just before she ran away the first time," she explained. "My husband managed to find her quite quickly, and then for a while we all settled back to normal."