The Sister (60 page)

He was now sure his reflections on the past were linked to the motion of the train, and he wondered absently, what would happen if he were travelling backwards. He drifted into thoughts of the woman he'd met years before.

He was in his early thirties; she was at least ten years older than he was, with a good figure and strong, shapely legs. The fit of her clothes hinted at what lay beneath, fascinating him. He used to see her around in the supermarket, always on her own, then after shopping; she'd wait for a taxi to take her home. She was a prime example of
not
his type, but she had a prim and proper air about her that appealed to him, and he
was
in need of a woman. One afternoon, he waited outside for her. When she came out, he introduced himself just as she produced her phone to call a cab.

"Hello, I often see you in here…"
She looked at him suspiciously.

"You're always on your own…" he disarmed her with a warm smile.

The floodgates opened, and soon she was telling him everything. He offered her a lift home, barely getting a word in edgeways. She asked him to stop in the street around the corner to her house.

"The neighbours are awful. If they knew that I had a man round my house . . ."
"Is that an invite?" he asked.

Her face turned pink. "You know, I'd have invited you in for a coffee, but the gossips around here . . ."

"That's okay; I'll come back tonight when it's dark. No one will see."

Pink turned to red. "I… Oh, I don't think it's a good idea . . ."
He leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek, and whispered close to her ear. "We could both do with the company."

In two minds, she bit her lower lip and grimaced.

"Which house is it?" he said.

She seemed to be holding her breath.

A woman came out from a nearby house carrying a bag of rubbish and saw them sitting there. She moved as far forward as she could before dipping to put the bag down, taking the opportunity to squint right into the car. That simple, single action made her mind up for her.

She gave him her address.

That night, just after dark, he'd turned up with a bottle of wine. She had a lot to say, to tell him about. He listened patiently for half an hour or so; he felt he owed her at least that. She finished her second glass; he reached over with the bottle to refill it. She put her hand out covering the glass. He put the bottle down.

"I'd better not . . . if I get tipsy, I sometimes do things I regret later," she stared at the floor, suddenly overtaken by shyness. He took the initiative. Holding both her hands, he pulled her up.

She lifted from the chair without resistance. He looked into her face and eyes. She smiled. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. They kissed, and a passion exploded right out of her, taking him by surprise; dropping to his knees, he lifted her top to reveal her midriff, he licked and sucked at her belly, French kissing her navel. She went wild.

Both of them were on the floor; her skirt hitched up over her thighs.

He eased his head between her knees and ripped her white panties to one side.

"No . . . No! No one's ever done that, it's not allowed!" His tongue alternated up and down each thigh, getting closer to her with each stroke, she arched her back and pulled his head in tighter, clamping her thighs around his ears. She came in a frenzy of denials.

He pulled himself up next to her. She looked at him in wonderment.

"No one has ever done
that
to me before." She sighed, regaining her breath.

He moved his body higher up against her, pulling down on her shoulders, so her head was close to his abdomen and began to move her head down, while pushing his hips up.

"What are you
doing?
Oh no . . . I'm not doing that. I've never done that to a man before and you can't . . ."
He pushed himself against her lips; she turned her face left, then right to get away, her lips pressed tight and then suddenly her lips parted, and she was on him like a pro.

We never even made it into bed.
He smiled at the memory and wondered if she ever met anyone else after that . . . if he'd awakened a hunger in her . . . if she were still haughty and aloof around men. Thinking about her had made him a little hard.

The woman from across the aisle now occupied the seat in front of him. She was staring at him, apparently fascinated by the fact he was staring right through her. She made a windscreen wiper gesture with one hand across his line of vision a bemused half smile on her lips. "Would you like a picture?"

"What?" He squirmed, moving into an upright position. "Oh, sorry. I do that sometimes, slip into a daydream and . . . Well, I'm sorry." He flashed a quick embarrassed grin. Her expression remained strangely curious. Miller returned to looking out at the countryside rushing by and thought about the last time he'd almost got into trouble for staring . . .

Her voice was silky and calm, intruding on him gently. "Excuse me . . . A penny for your thoughts?"

Miller turned from the window and regarded her properly.

She had large pale blue eyes, a slight snub nose, her face was both angelic and impish, her poise demure and sophisticated. The expensive boyish bob-cut of her black hair was the only boyish thing about her. The closer he looked, the more her beauty unfolded for him.
Surreal, like the sun on a flower that lifts its bowed head toward the light . . .
The words he'd written for Josie a lifetime ago sprang to mind. Uncomfortable that he should be reminded, he turned away. "You wouldn't want to know."
She shuffled over on her seat, so she sat directly opposite, leaning forward she said quietly, "Come on; help break up this boring journey for me! I don't usually speak to strangers, but you seem okay," her hands pressed together, pointing at him as if she were about to pray. "So - here I am speaking to a stranger!" She rolled her eyes and raising her eyebrows, gave a little shrug of the shoulders before allowing her hands to drop into her lap. She waited for his reaction. Miller felt the hook of her velvet claws as she pulled him in. He shrugged at her and looked across the aisle at a young couple wearing headphones. The girl slept; the man with her stared blankly out of the window.

"Do you do this trip often?"

"No, this is my first time."

"Oh, really?" She arched an eyebrow.

"Yes, it is. Really," he said, in two minds whether to excuse himself, and just go back to staring out through the window, tripping out on daydreams. The truth was; she'd already turned a key in him, and suddenly he became wary of getting to know her any better.

"Given the choice, I'd rather drive," he said.

"Well, you don't know what you've been missing," she smiled. "You can meet some very interesting people on trains . . ."

"Usually," he grinned. "I only ever meet nutcases."

"Oh? I never have. I suppose I've always been lucky," she said. "Tell me what you do for a living?"

"Let's talk about something other than work."

She arched an eyebrow in his direction. "We don't know each other well enough to talk about anything other than work."

A childhood memory sprang to mind. Miller decided to tell it. "My grandfather used to tell me about a bear he knew from the war . . ."

"He knew a bear?" she scoffed, an eyebrow arched high.

"Yes, he did - in the Second World War, Voytek his name was."

"Your grandfathers name?"

"No, the bear!" Miller looked at her closely to be sure she wasn't mocking him.

He'd started the conversation from such an obtuse position; he reeled her in without even trying. She was hooked. It was a story she'd never heard before.

"Anyway . . ." he rattled off the rest of the bear tale and concluded the story. "The poor animal died in
Edinburgh zoo."

"If it's true, that's a very interesting story."

"Look it up," he told her. "You know, my grandfather always said it was a sad irony that a bear that fought alongside men for our freedom, was never freer than while the war was on." He shook his head slowly his expression the same as his grandfather's had been when he first told him the story years before. "To have ended up in a cage, when it was all over, the poor bear, that's so sad."

"Well," she volunteered, "I guess he wouldn't have been able to survive for long in the wild if they'd let him go, would he?"

"I don't know . . ." The continuing contemplation on the fate of a bear that died so many years before suddenly seemed irrelevant. He changed the subject. "So, you travel up often?"

"Once a week, for a long weekend."

"I'm surprised you don't fly."

"Sometimes I do, if I'm pushed for time, but if I can, well, I prefer the train. I find it relaxing, and I usually find someone interesting to talk to," she smiled.

"I hate flying," he confided in her, "I hate ferries, and I don't know how you
stand
travelling backwards!"

She looked out of the window at the scenery disappearing forwards into the distance. "It doesn't bother me, besides, it's safer if there's a crash."

"Good point, although I have to say, crashing is not something I would usually associate with a train journey."

"It's the one thing that surprises me about flying that we don't all face backwards. It would be so much safer than trying to tuck your head down on your knees . . ."

"Tell me something about yourself."

"Are you a psychiatrist?" he asked.
"Good heavens, no, I'm a reporter!" she laughed. "I sometimes think I need one though."

They talked about the news. He asked her if she'd read about the vigilante case.

"Funny you should ask that, it's the reason I'm coming up this weekend, to find out more from my police mole."
Miller was only slightly surprised about how forthcoming she was. People seemed to think they could confide all kinds of things to him. He concluded it must be something about his face.

"Okay?" He prolonged the word, inviting her to open up if she chose. She did.

"What the newspapers don't know yet - because the police haven't told them - was that scenes of crime investigators found a baseball bat at the scene. Somebody used it to sodomise both men, and they left it protruding from the backside of one of them. It had obviously been used on the other one, as well. Surprisingly enough, it had not been used to batter the men, another blunt instrument had been responsible for that - a leather gloved fist." She reached into her bag, pulled out a pack of gum and offered them to him.

"Thanks," he said and took one.

She picked up where she left off. "The only witness was the boy himself, who only caught a quick look at the face of the man before being told to look away. It's thought the man was rough shaven in appearance. He also noticed the man had gloves on. Apart from boot prints and minuscule particles of leather in the mouth of one victim, there was no other forensic evidence. The handle of the bat had a set of initials carved into the end of it."

"Do you know what they were?" If he wasn't that interested before, she definitely had his interest now.

"Three possible combinations: F.K.J, K.J.F or J.F.K."

"Like the American president?"

"Yes, somebody else said that, but it's a safe conclusion it didn't belong to him, or that the owner of the initials didn't commit the crime."
She said it so seriously, it made him laugh. She looked slightly offended, but then saw the funny side and laughed with him.

A few moments passed in silence; she regained her previous composure. "It seems they were part of a paedophile ring and from the information gathered, according to my mole, they're thought to be responsible for over fifty kidnappings and possibly as many murders. They're still analyzing computers and things, but it looks like their victims…"

Miller put his hand up to stop her. "I'm sorry . . ." he said, his expression pained. "Look, although I'm interested, as an outsider when it comes to cases like these where kids are involved, that's where I like to stay, outside of it."

She looked surprised.

"You see; I have a natural inclination to try to solve things, but you know, in the end it's . . . It becomes an unnecessary distraction for me when I'm working. I mean, the less I know, the less chance there is of it distracting me. I don't need anything else clouding my thoughts. Does that sound uncaring?" he paused. "I can't afford to care."

"I'm sorry you feel like that," she said. "Apparently the kid caught a glimpse of him, the vigilante. He had long hair and was unshaven and older looking than the kid's granddad." Miller rolled his eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" she said.

"Did you not hear a word I just said?"

"Yes I did, but I've almost finished now anyway," she smiled sweetly at him. "The police are withholding quite a lot of information from the press for now."

"I don't know why," Miller said. "By now he'll be clean shaven, probably with short hair and dyed another colour as well."