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

by Max China

Still not right. It doesn’t seem complete. She saved her work and resolved to come back to it later.

  A walk in the rain; that’s what she needed. No better way to clear her head. A thought struck her. She’d call the revised edition The Life and Times of William Boule.

  Opening a drawer in the desk beside her, she removed the sketch her friend Chloe, a seasoned police artist, had drawn, and smoothed the crinkles from it as best she could. It still amazed her how she’d created such an incredible likeness from words alone. She smiled as she remembered how she’d snatched it from Chloe’s grasp in her haste to get going, causing her thumb to smudge the left-hand edge, and Chloe crying out after her, ‘But I haven’t finished!’

  The room illuminated in a burst of sunlight.

  She pushed the chair back and walked to the window. Outside, jewelled drops of rain on the grass refracted light, creating myriads of tiny rainbows. Raising her eyes, she marvelled at the multicoloured arch that spanned the sky. She would keep the artist’s impression on the cover of the revised edition. She’d like that, she thought fondly.

  Stella passed the book back to Miller. ‘I read the original while you were in Morocco. Is that really what she did, plan the whole thing just so she could finish the story on a high note?’

  ‘She’d do anything for a story.’

  ‘She nearly got you killed. That poor little Arab boy ...’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘I know, but I went into it with my eyes open. I went there in the hope I’d get the chance to finish Boyle one way or another. I think you can understand now why I couldn’t tell you, why I had to leave you behind.’

  She nodded. ‘Do you think he’d have got her?’

  ‘No doubt about that.’

  ‘What about him? It says in the book the authorities never recovered the body.’

  ‘A week after it was published, they found a body washed up on shore. At first they thought it was an illegal immigrant who’d drowned attempting the crossing to Spain – they get a lot of them falling off boats; some of them even try swimming it. Anyway, the face was half-chewed off and they identified him initially from the tattoo that spelled ‘wrath’ on his hand. They’re comparing the DNA with blood samples they took after Eilise Stapleton bashed him with a rounders bat. But it’s him.’

  ‘How can you be so sure ahead of the DNA results?’

  ‘I think he died as soon as Carla hit him, more or less straightaway. He was dead when he hit the water, and if he wasn’t, he definitely drowned.’

  ‘It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? That he should be killed at sea on a ferry ... like karma for what he did to Josie. She disappeared while on a ferry, didn’t you say?’

  His eyebrows gathered. ‘Yes ...’ In his mind’s eye he flashed back to the vision the Sister had shared with him: a maelstrom of complex feelings tore through him, overwhelming him. Struggling to pick them apart, he saw Josie on a ship’s deck, alone at the rail. Boyle approached from behind and savagely attacked her ... when it was over, he’d heaved her overboard, into the sea. ‘It was weird this time. I never had the near-death experiences I’d had before and, yet, I’ve been thinking about it ... The whole thing ... every part of it was preordained ... jigsaw pieces, cut and neatly fitted into place. If they’d been squares or circles, I’d have seen it sooner, but then ... even that was part of the plan.’

  She smiled. ‘You know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You think about things too much.’

  ‘Maybe ... By the way, did I tell you she’s signed an exclusive serialization deal with a national newspaper?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, you didn’t.’ The lines in her forehead deepened. ‘Can you hate someone and admire them at the same time?’

  ‘Is that how you feel about Carla?’

  ‘Yes, it is. How do you feel about her?’

  He didn’t answer straightaway. ‘She saved my life—’

  ‘She nearly got you killed.’

  ‘I know, but I’m still here, and Boyle isn’t.’ Seeing she was about to say something, he raised a hand. ‘No, let me finish. She’s got her faults, no doubt about that, but she does have some good points—’

  ‘Hah! Like what ...?’ She grimaced. ‘No, don’t tell me.’

  ‘Nothing like that, not like you,’ he said, and smiled. ‘She’s selfish, that’s true, but underneath it all, she’s got a good heart.’

  ‘A good heart?’ She guffawed. ‘Are you kidding me? What about that photograph ...?’

  He’d known this moment was coming. ‘Yes ... I should never have trusted her with my phone ...’ He met her gaze. ‘Why are you grinning at me like that?’

  She switched on her phone and handed it to him.

  His eyes widened. ‘Is this you? Holy shit ...’ He turned the image around in his hand against the light.

  ‘Want a better look?’ she said and, pulling him up, led him by the hand to the bedroom.

  Afterwards, spent of all energy, Miller closed his eyes. Stella grinned and nudged him. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet ...’

  He rolled from his back to face her.

  ‘She’s one of those people that can’t just do something on their own, isn’t she? She has to drag everyone else in, but especially you.’

  ‘It’s twice,’ he said. ‘That was the second time.’

  ‘Well, it’s once too often. I should be asking you to promise you won’t go off at her beck and call again, but I won’t. A promise is a powerful thing. What I will do, though, is promise you something. If it happens again for no good reason, like saving the world or something, then I’ll go, because I couldn’t ...’ She bit into her lower lip.

  ‘I know,’ he said, and moved closer, feeling her warm skin against his.

  ‘I’m going to ask you to do something else, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Stay away from anywhere you can drown. By the way, while you were gone I noticed you’d taken your shell out of the drawer.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was a lot happier when it was in there.’

  He retrieved his jeans from the floor and took it from his pocket, handing it to her. ‘I told you about this, didn’t I? There isn’t another one like it in the entire world.’

  ‘It’s that special, is it? Or do you mean it’s like a fingerprint?’ The hand she held it in bobbed up and down as she felt the weight of it. ‘It’s warm,’ she said.

  ‘It’s been in my pocket ...’

  ‘But you took your trousers off ages ago ...’ She held it to her ear. Her eyes lit up. ‘I can hear the sea,’ she said.

  She’d taken a gamble, very nearly lost her life, but been instrumental in ridding the world of a monster who’d evaded detection for forty years. Carla thought back to the dinner date she’d had with David Mailer at the beginning, and how it had borne fruit.

  She’d known David had fancied her from their time working together at the News of The World. He didn’t need much convincing. The tryst after dinner, the details of her proposal finalized ... Although she’d arrived back in England before the deadline agreed with all parties, she’d kept quiet, allowing the wheels of fate to turn in her favour. She smiled as she recollected how she’d not actually slept with him.

  It had been a very rewarding blow job.

  Following the serialization of her book, she’d released it in all formats. The story she’d seen when she’d first met Miller had borne more fruit than she’d ever imagined. She’d written a bestseller. The exclusive fee from the newspaper had been unprecedented for an unknown author. The dedication read simply: For my father, Henry, war correspondent.

  Chapter 32

  The date on Miller’s newspaper drew his eye: 27 November … Even after all these years, he remembered: it was Josie’s birthday. He lost himself, staring at the front page without reading anything.

  A momentary blare of sound from outside, accompanied by a drop in temperature, distracted him from his emerging memories
.

  He looked up with curiosity. The staff gathered at the service end of the counter turned as one to greet someone who had entered the French cafe, causing a flurry of activity among the young male waiters. He couldn’t see, from where he was sitting, who it was.

  Returning to the paper, he caught a whiff of familiar perfume. His olfactory memory confirmed it only a second before she appeared.

  ‘I knew I’d find you in here,’ Carla said, unhitching her jacket from her shoulders. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  He shrugged and indicated the table place opposite. ‘Stella would go ape, if she knew.’

  She hung her jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. ‘Are you going to tell her?’

  ‘Well, I just bumped into you. What’s to hide?’

  None of the cutlery had been used; black coffee steamed in the cup in front of him. ‘Not having breakfast?’ she said, licking her lips.

  ‘If it’s on you, then maybe ... I’m glad to see you, actually.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he said, a smile ghosting his lips. ‘You owe me for that iPhone and the clothes—’

  ‘Hang on,’ she retorted, ‘I ruined everything saving your life, remember?’

  ‘I’d have put it down as a business expense,’ he countered, ‘but it wasn’t my business to book it to, or claim against ...’ He sipped his coffee.

  ‘You know what, Miller? You’ve turned into a real tightwad.’

  He fought to keep the hot liquid from spewing out of his mouth, almost choking in the process. Dabbing at his lips with a napkin, he raised an eyebrow and said one word: ‘Me?’

  ‘I’m not tight,’ she said, adding with a wicked smile, ‘Not in that sense anyway, as you well know.’

  ‘Carla – why are you here?’

  ‘I don’t know how to ask, really,’ she said, ‘but I need another story—’

  Miller shook his head slowly. ‘Carla, I can’t help you.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to get involved, just to give me another one to write – we’ll split the proceeds.’

  ‘That’s generous, but I’ve got nothing for you ...’

  ‘Then I’ll have no choice but to resurrect the Donovan Kale case ...’

  Miller stared at her. Would she do it? ‘I’ll think about it,’ he lied. ‘Speaking of splitting the proceeds, how about donating my share of The Life and Times to charity?’

  Her eyes shifted under his steady gaze. ‘We never agreed to anything like that, and besides,’ she said, ‘I didn’t do as well with selling the story as I’d hoped.’ Something in her face changed, as she added, ‘Your saying that reminds me ...’

  Registering the look of faraway sadness, he asked, ‘Of what?’

  ‘I’ve got to go back there ... to honour a promise I made to Mohammed: that I’d give his family some money ...’

  He nodded in quiet acquiescence.

  ‘The thing is ... how do I find out where they live now? It was like a rabbit warren, and I only went there the once ... I don’t want to go through Mohand, just in case something’s turned up since we left, and I get arrested.’

  ‘Like what?’ he said. ‘You did tell me everything, didn’t you?’

  ‘I think so but, you know, it’s a foreign country ... I was reading about a case there involving police taking females as sex slaves.’

  ‘The police did that?’

  ‘I’m telling you ...’

  ‘That would make quite a story,’ he ventured, beaming with mirth.

  Carla narrowed her eyes, but they gleamed with humour. ‘I only go so far for a story,’ she said. ‘Now, getting back to where we were. How would you find them?’

  Miller pressed his lips tight with concentration. ‘I’m not so sure I can help much. I used to be more in touch with things, but the intuitions I once had just come and go now. I think I’m only set to one station. It’s weird.’

  ‘I only asked if you could help. If you can’t, you can’t,’ she said, shrugging. ‘What do you mean, only tuned to one station?’

  ‘I was thinking about this only the other day ...’ he said. ‘How best to explain it to you?’ He scratched an eyebrow. ‘Imagine you’re in a car and the radio is an old model. You get the signal only as long as the car is in range. Beyond that, all you get is static.’

  ‘You need a new radio,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Or learn to fix the old one. Anyway, what would you do to find out where his family live?’

  He looked around the cafe and, satisfied no one could see, took her hand and closed his eyes.

  His hand felt warm in hers, the tips of his fingers warmer still. Did she imagine a tingling sensation? She couldn’t be sure.

  Releasing his grip, he shook his head and said, ‘Nothing, sorry. It’s all down to you ...’

  Later that night, as sleep beckoned her from consciousness, she thought about Miller. She’d kept a diary on him dating back to their first encounter on the train. She’d called it The Miller Stories, and arranged the records chronologically. I must take a look through it in the morning.

  On the cusp of losing coherent thought, ideas jockeyed for attention. A lecture Miller had given her on the value of things lingered in her mind. What exactly did he mean? She’d been drunk at the time. Her eyes flew open.

  The chase out of town. When Mohammed had scootered her out of danger her brain, alive with adrenaline, had taken in much more than she could recall. In her semi-somnolent state, without distraction of any sort, the journey out to his house played back for her.

  Immediately after turning out of the market side street, the boy had turned left. Her hands gripped tight on either side of his slim waist as the machine picked up speed, her torn blouse flapping in the slipstream. Where had he gone next?

  He’d turned again, past a school. A red-haired woman waved.

  ‘That is my teacher from when I was at this school,’ he’d said, full of pride, as he’d raised his hand to return the greeting.

  The school: she’d find the school. Speak to the teacher. Find out where the family lived from there. But how would she do it without revealing her part in the boy’s demise?

  It occurred to her, as she drifted off, that her fingertips were tingling.

  Chapter 33

  Essaouira, 25 January 2008

  Carla watched the children leaving school in the afternoon. She hoped the red-haired teacher still worked there. She hesitated, and changed her mind about going in. It would be easier to approach her in the street.

  A stiff breeze ensured it was too cold for standing still, far colder than when she’d last been in town, so she paced up and down the street outside the main entrance gate to keep warm. She checked her watch. She wondered if the teacher may have exited from another gate. It was Friday. If she didn’t see her today, she’d have to rethink her plans.

  Four o’clock. She’d waited over an hour. Reluctant to leave, she decided to wait another ten minutes. The wind carried the sound of women’s laughter from behind, as they left the school grounds. She stopped and turned, waiting for them to come into sight.

  They turned out of the gate and onto the pavement, heading away from her. The teacher was with two others. She’d hoped to make the approach on a one-to-one basis. She followed at a distance as the three walked on. If she gets into a car, I’m screwed.

  The group separated at the first corner. The redhead continued on her own.

  Carla upped her pace and caught her.

  ‘Excusez-moi,’ she said.

  The other woman stopped and turned to face her. ‘English, I assume?’ she said.

  ‘How can you tell?’ Carla said, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Your accent is terrible, a dead giveaway. How can I help?’

  ‘My name’s Carla. I want to trace a young boy by the name of Mohammed. He used to come to this school ...’

  ‘I’m Rusty,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to do better than that to find him. Half the kids around here are called Moha
mmed.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Well, not half, but a lot of them,’ she said. ‘May I ask what it is you want with the boy?’

  ‘His father is a taxi driver ...’

  ‘That helps, but only a little. You haven’t answered my question.’

  Carla said, ‘I met him once, in town – he was my guide for a couple of days. We got separated before I could pay him. I’m staying in Marrakech. I couldn’t be this close and not try to find him.’

  ‘I see,’ Rusty said. ‘In the summer was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied.

  ‘They’re all guides in the summer. I can’t help you.’ Rusty walked on.

  ‘That’s such a shame,’ Carla called after her. ‘He broke my heart with his story about how he was left to look after his brothers and sisters when his mother died ...’

  Rusty stopped. ‘Come with me. I live two hundred metres from here.’

  Once inside the apartment, the teacher said, ‘I’ll get us something to drink as soon as I’ve done this.’ She hastily put together the makings of a joint. ‘Really good stuff, this,’ she said as she crumbled the hash onto a bed of tobacco. ‘Don’t even have to heat it up, not like that dreadful stuff we get back in Europe.’ She mixed the two ingredients evenly and then rolled the thin paper into a club-shaped cigarette. Lighting it, she inhaled deeply. She continued speaking while holding her breath; her voice sounded strained.

  ‘Do I remember him? Of course I do. He left school to look after his family when his mother died. Brilliant little footballer. What happened to him was tragic.’ She blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling and then continued. ‘They had high hopes for him ... they ... I’m sorry,’ she said, and wept.

  Carla fought back tears, but said nothing.

  Rusty took another puff, and held the joint out for Carla.

  ‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get back to Marrakech tonight, and I’ll probably get lost if I smoke any of that stuff.’

  The teacher took another puff, and then placed it in the ashtray. ‘Phew, that’s enough for now. Helps me unwind, you see. But too much and I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. Did I get us that tea?’