The Life and Times of William Boule.: Dead girls tell no tales. A heart-pounding action thriller...

by Max China

  Check-in was a formality, and took place away from the main desks.

  Once they’d cleared security together, Mohand enquired, ‘Is it possible to follow the line of the motorway?’

  ‘For what?’ Mehmet narrowed his eyes. ‘We’re in a straight line from here to there ... Wait, this isn’t police business?’

  Mohand scratched at the day’s growth of beard on his chin, moved his fingers up to lightly stroke the heavy moustache. Even if he did spot Boule on the motorcycle, they wouldn’t be able to land. To be effective, he’d need a ground force. Getting an all-ports alert was one thing: a manhunt, on his sketchy evidence, quite another. ‘No, I’m visiting my mother, that’s all you need to know.’

  Seeing the potential to wriggle out of the expensive favour, Mehmet ventured, ‘Rather extravagant, a private helicopter charter to visit mother in Tangier, wouldn’t you say? Questions may be asked, and—’

  ‘Who will ask those questions, eh? Let me tell you something, my father’s friend, you will have some questions to answer of your own, if I don’t get your full cooperation. Do I make myself clear?’ He fixed him with a steely glare and jerking a thumb in the direction of the helicopters, said, ‘Now, get me up in one of those things. I have no time to lose.’

  The rotor blades picked up momentum and the noise, even through the headset he wore, was deafening. Within minutes, they were airborne and travelling north as the crow flies. Mohand leaned forwards and peered down nervously at the ground below. Seen from above, the landscape was predominantly rocky desert, huge barren areas, windblown dunes clearly visible, scarred by deep gulches, pockets of lush vegetation sprang seemingly out of nowhere, scattered, completely out of place, mostly natural, some bordering man-made structures.

  ‘How high are we?’ he shouted above the noise.

  The pilot turned his head. ‘Five thousand feet!’

  ‘Merde ...’ he said. ‘Seems it’s much higher than that.’ Two hours of this noise. Settling back into his seat, it suddenly dawned in him. He flicked his wrist, at the same time snapping his fingers; the sound drowned out by the engines, the gesture seemed hollow.

  The reporter wanted to finish her story! Switching his line of thought, he backtracked. He understood the books and posters had been a ploy to confirm Boule was in Essaouira. He knew from witness statements she’d paid the boy to put up posters. He preened the forest of hair above his lips. Did the killer see him putting them up? Was that why he mowed him down? No, the porter had admitted he met Mohammed and told him which room the Englishwoman was in. The room they’d found the body of the cleaner in. He clapped his hands together hard enough for the sound to make the pilot screw his head around to look.

  ‘Excusez,’ he muttered, not caring if the other man heard. Why hadn’t he seen it before? The boy saw him. He was a witness. Boule must have seen him. The pieces were falling into place. But the boy – why was he at the room and, more crucial to the question, why was Boule there? He had to have located the reporter beforehand. How? Did he follow her? No. If he had, he would have killed her already.

  His head ached, compounded by the beat of rotors and the thump of beaten air. That vein of thought dried up. He shifted. If her objective had been to just finish the story, at any point, once she’d established his presence in the town, she could have gone to the police. The revelation struck him like a fist hammering on a door. She wants him to follow her to England? But why?

  A wave of nausea threatened to engulf him. Airsickness, worse than any he’d encountered before. Father, could you not have befriended someone who would later charter flights in conventional planes? His head spun. How much longer? He closed his eyes and fought to keep the contents of his stomach from the back of his throat and then, calmly taking a brown paper bag, opened the top and bowed to the inevitable.

  Chapter 19

  The Vigilante, you say? Yes, I believe I met him. He came here. I’d just finished telling the whole pub how I thought he’d got past a pair of Rottweiler guard dogs before beating the two of those perverts to death – they’d kidnapped a little boy, you know – and I said if I ever met him I’d shake his hand for what he did. In the yard, out back of that farm, the police found dozens of missing boys buried … If he hadn’t stopped them, who knows how many more …

  Anyways, I turned round at the bar and this stranger was there, holding out his hand, wanting to shake. I thought it was just some joker who’d heard what I’d just said. I didn’t think for a moment it could be him; I mean, what a coincidence.

  I’ve never shaken the hand of a man with so firm a grip in my life, but he was a good man, I could tell … Yes, I heard about the young bridey that went missing the night he was in town. Some people think he must have had something to do with it, but to me he seemed like such a good bloke. It makes no sense.

  Bryn, regular drinker in King’s Head public house

  Stella continued the book. Her trepidation grew with every page turned. Carla, you bitch, what have you got Bruce into?

  She tried calling him to check that he was all right, without success. It has not been possible to connect your call. Connection failed? Her heart had picked up a few extra beats. She’d leave it a few moments and then redial, but her finger found the buttons immediately and tried again as if driven by another part of her. It has not been—

  She cut the message off, opened the text menu, and typed. I love you. Call me. NOW! x After she’d pressed the send key, she carried the phone in her hand from room to room, forgetting several times what she’d set out to do.

  Still no response. Again and again she tried and, in the end, decided she needed to go out.

  She took the car.

  Without really knowing how she’d got there, she arrived outside Miller’s offices. She’d thought earlier about calling in, just to check that no post had slipped by the redirection notice they’d given the postal service.

  Pausing in the car for a moment before getting out, she concluded she’d driven on autopilot; a head full of busy thoughts preoccupied her. How do you do that? she wondered.

  Since she’d persuaded Miller to pursue a career in something less dangerous, he’d put the offices up for sale. Occasionally, deliveries by hand still turned up, shoved into the letterbox. The emails she managed from home; almost everything could be done from there these days. To build a presence on the lecture circuit, maintain the investments he already had, to boost the income pot – it made sense – the offices had to go.

  Once through the picket gate she turned to open the padlocked mailbox. She had no need to go inside, but a sudden desire for a warm drink lured her in.

  She checked her phone again. Still nothing.

  Letting herself in at the front door, the stale odour of abandonment and uncirculated air greeted her. The alarm emitted a series of warning beeps and she rushed to the panel to turn it off. She switched on a large extractor fan, a throwback to when smoking had been allowed in places of work and then, from behind burglar bars, opened a window. It wasn’t dark inside, but she felt the need for more light. She flicked a switch, and the dated fluorescent tubes glowed at each end, flickering and popping, until finally illuminating along their whole lengths.

  The building had been constructed with security in mind, and the locals knew it. Miller had told her that they’d given up attempting to get in years before. She recalled her original spell of working with him.

  Taking a cup from the cupboard, she inspected it for cleanliness. Satisfied, she took a green teabag from its box, and dropped it in. She filled the kettle absently, turned it on and waited for it to boil, the way she had countless times before.

  She recalled the first time she’d met him. Her hands had flown up from her lap like two flapping birds when she started to speak; she was so nervous, she couldn’t control them, but he’d put her at ease. How long ago was that exactly? It seemed like a lifetime.

  She’d got the job. Although he’d teased her with parlour games when they weren’t busy and s
he had an inkling he might be psychic – or just very clever – she never had the courage to tell him the truth about her past ... the real reason for taking a job with a missing-persons investigator. She realized she was smiling.

  In those days smiles had come rarely – or at least, looking back, she thought they had. Was he really psychic? He said he wasn’t now. The Sister had stripped him of his abilities. But was he truly, ever?

  Once, she recalled, not long after she’d started work with him, he’d told her a story.

  ‘I’d just passed my driving test. I was late taking it compared to the other lads my age – on account of the breakdown I had—’

  ‘You had a breakdown ...?’

  ‘That’s something for another time, maybe. I was involved in a shunt accident. The first car stopped suddenly, the car in the middle ran into the back of it, and then I slammed into the back of him. It’s the only car accident I’ve ever had. His brake lights weren’t working; one second he’s going, the next – bang – stopped. We all got out. Middle-man was really agitated, aggressive. It was fight or flight ... he just wanted to get away. Anyhow, the police weren’t called, they just happened to be passing, and as soon they’d pulled in, middle-man took off on foot. One of the officers ran after him. It was then we noticed this awful smell coming from his boot. It’d popped open as it crumpled in the collision ...’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God, don’t tell me! Let me guess ... there was a body in there!’

  ‘Close, but not quite.’

  ‘Well, what was it then?’

  ‘A cardboard box, all done up in string and tape. The underneath was wet and stained with blackish, dried-out tidal marks. The policeman untied the string. The whole thing seemed to be buzzing angrily. As he peeled the last of the tape away from the top flaps, he looked grim. The noise was growing louder. He opened the box and a mass of bluebottles swarmed out, enveloping his head. I can still see his face as he beat them off, all crinkled up in disgust.’

  ‘But what was it?’

  ‘It was a man’s head. Full of maggots. Too far gone to be recognized. When they caught the driver, he claimed that although he’d stolen the car, he hadn’t looked in the boot, and that was borne out by the fact that a key had snapped off in its lock. Coming so soon after the Olga Kale case, it made my mind up for me. It was what I wanted to do. Solve mysterious cases, and find missing people.’

  ‘Did you solve that one?’

  ‘It wasn’t mine to solve.’

  ‘Who’s Olga Kale?’

  He examined his fingernails. ‘Another time.’

  ‘You mean you’ll tell me another time?’ His demeanour told her nothing. She continued. ‘You said you had a breakdown ...?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘What sort of breakdown?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ He’d put his hands together, fingers and thumbs linked, but held apart, open – a receptacle it seemed, for his thoughts. ‘It was all such a long time ago.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, leaning forwards. ‘I want to know.’

  He didn’t look at her as he avoided the question. She remembered how he’d looked ... she couldn’t quite define it. Shame or guilt? She couldn’t be sure. She decided not to press him. Another time.

  She’d returned to her desk. Miller was walking into his office. He closed the door without looking back. She remembered thinking that he would.

  She looked down at her keyboard; on it was a folded piece of paper. She opened it. Inside, it said: ANOTHER TIME. Without fully understanding why, she’d tucked the note into her bag.

  Later, after work, while in the bath, she stared at the note, holding it out in front of her with both hands. Coincidence, or what?

  Was she reading some significance into it that wasn’t there? Was he telling her something? Why leave a note when he could have just said it. Did he know it was predictive? Was he just telling her, simply, ‘Another time.’ She drew a mental line. At one end, she had coincidence. At the other – he’d known what she was thinking and, with the note, was just letting her know.

  She folded it, and placed it on the rim of the bath.

  Afterwards, as she stepped out, a few drops of water from her body spilled onto it, soaking through, distorting the ink, causing it to spread and leach through the paper.

  She dried herself and then picked it up and unfolded it. A symmetrical pattern had formed. It looked like a bird of prey.

  Slowly, she came out of her reverie. She checked her phone again: still nothing. She’d connected with him before; couldn’t she do it again? The tea steamed in her cup. She didn’t recall making it. Picking it up, she walked into his office and, placing the cup on the desk, imagined him sitting on the other side. You OK this morning, Stella?

  No, actually. I’ve been trying to reach you, and you don’t answer your phone ...

  Lines of worry furrowed her forehead as she approached his chair. Turning it towards her, she sat down. Placing her phone down on the blotter, she was stunned by what she saw. In among the squares and concentric circles he’d doodled were sketches of tiny eagles and doves.

  Her fingers traced the sketches. Doodling. She knew something about it because not long after she’d gone to work for Dr Ryan, he’d noticed her scribbling abstract designs on a pad while on the telephone, in the middle of placing an order for stationery. He’d said it was an unconscious aid to memory, a means of holding focus without slipping entirely into a daydream. Strange, but she remembered what the woman on the other end of the line had been checking was in stock. Lead refills for Ryan’s beloved vintage silver pencil. Her own subconscious drawings included rippling pools of concentric circles. She was almost in touch with that one – the effects of a stone dropped into a pond. Others: flowers, circles, tubes, eyes ... She then remembered Ryan lifting the pad to get a better look at what she’d sketched, and his brief interpretation of them. These sketches are typical of those who are always searching for love, for meaning ... for themselves.

  She hadn’t asked him to elaborate because in her heart she knew what he said was true. Why an eagle and a dove? She imagined he was the eagle and she was the dove. Fanciful, perhaps, but possible. She wondered what Ryan would have made of it.

  Her mood swung between absolute faith in Miller, and the seed of doubt sown by the receipt of the photograph.

  Time passed. The longer it went without a response from him, the more the seed grew.

  She put her fingers and thumbs together, the same way Miller had when he’d given her the note, remembering a theory he’d passed on to her about churches and steeples – how the collected consciousness was gathered, and then funnelled up and out into the ether by the shape of the spire. A giant radio transmission aerial. It occurred to her that she’d arranged her fingers in just such a way.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ she said aloud, but concentrated anyway.

  Chapter 20

  For the last ten miles Miller had expected the car to suddenly die on him. It seemed he’d counted every single yard. To squeeze out extra distance he’d turned the air conditioning off. Despite the windows being open, the interior of the car was very warm. He very rarely broke sweat. His mind travelled back in time.

  His old teacher, Kirk, had awakened an interest in Middle and Far Eastern thinking in him. There was Tumo, the generation of heat, the meditation on inner fire. He’d learned how to do it, and by visualizing snow and ice, he could achieve the reverse. This time, his thoughts hampered by anxiety over the car running out of fuel, he’d been unable to attain the correct state of mind. What he noticed, more and more during the last few miles, was that he couldn’t get Stella off his mind.

  ‘Carla, check my phone will you?’ Tensions had been high between them; she was uncomfortably hot, much more so than he was.

  ‘How much further to this bloody garage?’ she said, a spike of irritation in her voice.

  The rushing breeze and steady rumble of the tyres on the road made it hard to hear. ‘Just a couple of m
iles more. Will you check my phone?’

  She twisted in the seat to face him. ‘Problems?’

  ‘I haven’t heard from Stella for a while. With the noise from the windows, I can’t tell if it rang ...’

  Carla checked it under his watchful gaze. ‘Nothing,’ she said, and joked, ‘You’re obviously out of favour.’

  ‘How many bars? Is there a signal?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied.

  ‘Why did you just lie to me?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You heard me – why did you lie?’

  ‘If you knew the answer, why ask?’

  He sucked in a breath. ‘Because when I asked I didn’t know ... only after. Your tone of voice gave you away.’

  ‘Do you want me to text her for you?’ she asked, mischievously.

  ‘No, just put it down, will you? I’ll do it myself when we stop.’

  Sing-song fashion, she muttered, ‘Pick it up, put it down ...’

  ‘Well, I can’t trust you with it, can I?’

  ‘You can trust me, Miller,’ she cooed, and reaching over she stroked his cheek lightly with her fingers.

  He shied away. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he said.

  She let her hand fall, slowly caressing his upper arm, letting it slide lower. ‘Are you sure?’ she whispered.

  He picked her hand up and dropped it into her lap. ‘There’s the garage,’ he said.