by P. R. Black
‘I don’t follow. You mean he wanted you to escape? For someone to find you?’
‘So he says.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he need me? He could just let you go, if that’s all he wanted. It could have taken hours for you to get help, if I hadn’t arrived. Or he could simply kill you. Why take the risk?’
‘Because he wanted me to survive. Ensuring you were there meant I would make it. Leaving someone alive was the ultimate turn-on. Knowing that I was frightened of him. Knowing that I’d spend my entire life looking over my shoulder.’ It was too soon to say all this. Becky frowned. ‘Are you keeping all that brandy for yourself?’
Leif poured another measure for her and said, ‘Something else occurs to me. You say, he told you about me. So he knows who I am, and probably where I live. You got in touch with me again. And you came here to tell me. Is it possible he’s waiting for you to come out here?’
Becky drained the glass in one gulp. It was more than a fire in her blood, now; it was a molten river, every heartbeat an eruption. ‘I’m counting on it,’ she said.
‘Interesting.’ Leif drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘I’m getting a clearer picture of what you’re trying to do. I’m not sure I like it.’
‘I can’t pretend I’m interested in what you like or don’t like.’
Leif considered this a moment. ‘I think perhaps we should head out. I love this house; three generations of my family have lived and died here. All that we are is within these four walls. And I’m the last. But let me tell you – it’s no place for a party.’ He twirled his car keys on his index finger. ‘Come on. I’ve got an idea.’
‘What – you’re driving? You’ve had too much, Leif.’
‘I know these roads. Whether I’ve got a couple in me or not. Come on. I can take you to someplace a lot less quiet. Let’s get out of here. You can ask me anything you want. We’ll have background noise. Better than a ticking clock, eh?’
Perhaps if Becky had had just the one inside her, or less, she’d have said no. But she’d had a couple. And a couple was all it took to spark something utterly unquenchable in her.
‘You’re on.’
Outside the kitchen door, Leif’s dog pawed the door and whimpered.
29
He drove far too fast with the top down on his sleek little Mazda. Becky did not complain at all; her hair scattered in the wind. His own silvery-black locks furled to and fro as if underwater.
This was a sly taste of the old life, the reckless life. She wanted more.
He grinned at her with even white teeth. ‘How do you like the air conditioning?’
The trees crouched ahead of them, readying for summer, shocking green in the headlights. Creatures scurried out of the way only just in time, a flicker of eyes reflected, then a twitch of foliage, then safe. Leif did not slow down for any them.
‘Let’s hope we don’t run into any deer,’ Becky said.
‘Or a wolf.’
The lights of a town appeared. It was not the place they’d had coffee before but had no less of a picture-postcard effect. Its thoroughfare was thronged with young people along roadside cafes and bars.
She needed another drink, fast, and said so.
‘Yeah, it’s good brandy, isn’t it?’ Leif yelled above the roaring wind. ‘A little spark. Lights something in you, no? I know a place where they serve it.’
Leif knew just where to park, a leafy spot round the corner from some immaculately-kept white bungalows with bright red Spanish-style slated roofs. From there they headed through a doorway in an elderly block of flats, and then downstairs, towards the music.
Becky kept her distance from Leif, allowing him to descend into the gloom ahead of her. Her mind raced through different possibilities, combat scenarios. The treacherous urge to plant a kick on the back of his head and watch him sprawl was strong, telling her that she should not take this chance. Not after everything she’d seen and heard in the past few days.
But instead, she followed him into the light of a basement bar. She always seemed to find her way into these, when she didn’t want to.
It was not as dingy as the entryway had advertised, smart, bright, well-kept, and loud. The building backed onto a canal embankment, and late evening light flooded in from large windows. Children were still out and about there, enjoying the warm air, bicycles surging past on the waterside track. The bar itself was filled with young people, mainly stylish looking couples, talking loudly to make themselves heard over the music. The tune was something new she didn’t recognise, possibly the Chemical Brothers – if they were still around. Perhaps their sons.
Leif knew someone at the bar, a tall West African man with green and white braids in his dreads and a red and orange shirt that would have looked silly on any other person in the room. The two men clapped each other’s shoulders and jabbered for a while. Becky ordered vodka while they were talking, drank it, then considered another.
Control, said a small voice at her shoulder. Remember control. But the urge was on her now, sudden and bright like a petrol bomb. The small voice grew distant, and her heart took over.
They chose a booth near the windows, as far from the pounding speakers as possible. Leif offered her a beer. ‘You haven’t told me why you came back here,’ he said, bent close to her.
‘I need to see the letters, Leif. The ones from Theresa. Some are missing from the police files. Do you still have them?’
‘I told you, no. The police seized all that stuff.’ He frowned. ‘How do you know about the police files?’
‘I’m a journalist. I have my sources.’ She sipped at the beer. ‘Here’s the thing, though. Your house is lovely, but you’ve lived in it all your life. The fittings are old. You’ve still got your dad’s books on the shelves, and he died years ago.’
‘So?’
‘So, you’re a pretty conservative guy. The type who hangs onto things, people and places.’
‘But I don’t have the letters.’
‘What was Theresa like?’
‘I don’t really remember. It was all very innocent – this is something you don’t get. I know the world is different these days. Mobile phones, dating apps. Everything is so explicit. This was different. It was… tender.’
She grinned. ‘I get you now. A sensitive artist! A budding Sartre.’
‘It was what it was. I enjoyed communicating. It appealed to me. I enjoyed writing to women, but couldn’t talk to them. I was more shy than I am now.’
‘So you didn’t talk about sex?’
‘Only if kisses count.’
‘A young guy, talking about kisses? Now I know you’re full of shit.’
He sat back abruptly. ‘You believe what you like. It was innocent, so far as it went. I enjoyed writing letters. Remember, no one had email at this point. No one had text messages or emojis or webcams.’
‘I want to know about her. What did you talk about, apart from kisses?’
‘Cycling. She liked the Tour de France. She also claimed to like poetry but knew nothing about it. I don’t remember much else.’
Later, Leif introduced them to a couple with matching side-parted hairstyles. The man had an even more amusing beard, like an ice cream cone turret stuck to the end of his chin, or some exotic shellfish. He wore John-Lennon-style sunglasses indoors, though the sun had long disappeared. Becky found this amusing, and told him so, wondering what the French was for ‘hipster’. He took this in good sport, although his girlfriend did not. Both asked her to say French phrases in an English accent, which broke the tension and caused so much mirth between the three of them Becky didn’t see Leif drift away.
For the space of three rounds of drinks, she saw him talk to several different women. She took in their non-verbal cues, things which could mean nothing, or a lot – hair played with, hems tugged, shrill laughter. Leif never grew more animated than wry amusement, his smile broad but his eyes narrowed. At some point UV was switched on behind the bar, somet
hing of a nineties’ accoutrement, Becky supposed. It threw Leif’s spikes in sharp relief, his silvery crown as distinctive as a shark fin cutting through the bobbing heads.
The music grew louder, and blank spots became more frequent. Becky’s brain began to repeat on itself, like an alarm in a ‘snooze’ mode loop. Beware an older man, anyone over 40. Anyone at all. She found herself glaring at a round-bellied barman, who did his best to avoid her eyes. He didn’t look tall enough, but everyone was a suspect.
She was then distracted by the West African man with green and white braids. His name was Patrice and he was originally from Paris. He hinted he was the owner, although Becky wondered if this was a lie. He was confident enough. A light sweat made his skin slick in the light, and in the close atmosphere she could smell sweet alcohol on his breath as he told her about DJing in Manchester and London. She asked what he was drinking, and she ordered two of those. Patrice placed his foot on the brass rail at the bottom of the bar and leaned close to her. At the same time, his hand stole across the top of hers. She noticed Leif watching her from one of the corners of the bar, while an excitable girl of no more than 18 yelled something in his ear.
Becky decided to kiss Patrice; he was not surprised, and their tongues touched in controlled, unabashed flickering. She tried to put her arms round him, but Patrice was in no hurry; he only ran his hands through her hair and drew his fingers down the length of her jaw.
She glanced over to Leif but he only grinned and raised a glass.
Something happened then – an argument between Patrice and a man in a long corduroy coat. The thread was difficult to follow in the noise, but Becky gathered it was something to do with a girl who was not in the building. Patrice tried to placate the man, but he grew utterly furious, jabbing a finger at Becky.
She withdrew to the far side of the room. She flinched when Leif patted her on the shoulder and leaned close.
His lips were very close to her ear. ‘If you’re trying to impress me, you’ll have to do a lot better than that.’
On the drive back to the farmhouse, he drew a hand up and down her thighs without once glancing away from the road as it bucked and twisted under the headlights. It was a firm appraisal which put Becky in mind of farmers examining livestock. Only very slightly nettled by this, she replied in kind, clutching at him until his lips parted in one trembling breath.
Out of the car, they kissed long and hard, his hands everywhere. He lifted her clean off the ground and settled her on the bonnet of the car, its headlights marking out the narrow path through the yard, their shadows intertwined serpents writhing on the walls.
‘Be careful,’ she tried to say. ‘Watch out.’ But his mouth smothered hers.
Inside, he slowed down to undress her, pausing to examine the scarring that crossed her shoulder with light fingertips. It seemed more of a wrinkle than scar tissue now, like laugh lines or stretch marks.
He had seen it once before, of course. When it was fresh.
‘Here?’ was all he said. She nodded. He kissed it, starting from the tip, all the way down to her ribs and underneath her arm. The time it took for his tongue to travel that kinked path was roughly similar to the time it had taken for the wound to be inflicted. She shuddered, but was not disgusted, an act of sublime treachery on her body’s part.
Much later, she watched him sleep. He didn’t snore; his nostrils twitched like a rabbit’s with every breath he took. She stared at his face for a long time, then whispered, in English, ‘This means nothing. If I ever find out it was you, I’ll torture you. I’ll record it, every moment, up to your death and beyond, until you are bones. And I’ll drink a toast every time I play it back.’
Only his slow, deep breathing answered her. Finally, she lay back down in bed, and closed her eyes.
30
Long after breakfast, with the coffee finished and the plates put away, Leif said, ‘I’ve something to show you.’
He turned towards a darkened alcove in the room. After a brief rattle of his keys, a door grated open. He clicked on a light; Becky saw a long, narrow staircase.
‘A cellar? I’m not going down there, Leif.’
Leif shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Here… in case you don’t trust me…’ He opened a cabinet, then pulled out a shotgun. He handed it to her, then disappeared down the stairs.
Becky tried the weapon for weight, then frowned and set it down on an ancient telephone table.
After a while, Leif returned, holding a buff-coloured folder of the type she hadn’t seen since her schooldays. ‘I had a few examples of what you wanted. I looked them out the other night. I was going to send them on to you, I promise.’
Becky glanced inside the folder; they were letters, written in a careful hand, neatly folded into squares.
‘That’s all I have left. I thought they may be of sentimental value. If they can help you find the man you’re looking for, all the better.’
‘These are letters? From Clara?’
He nodded.
‘So you lied. All along, you lied. Why?’
‘Once I lied to the police, I had to maintain the lie. I made a stupid decision when I was younger to hide the letters, to keep silent about them. I thought the police might blame me for the killings. You were right. It is too much of a coincidence that she arrived here, and then your family were killed. It would look as if they were lured. But I had nothing to do with it. I was scared.’
She delved into the letters. ‘These are from my sister? All of them?’
‘No. Some are from the American girl. Theresa. I was writing to both of them, at the same time. Now I’ve given you what you were looking for. And I want you to leave. Understand? I want you to leave, and I don’t want to see you back here for a very long time.’
Becky had already tuned him out. There, in lined school notebook longhand, was her sister’s looping script, the love-hearts and kisses, the comic faces scrawled in the top left corners.
Then she turned to the American girl’s letters. She had seen the writing before, in Rupert’s stolen files, but she hadn’t recognised it then. The script was more compact, and slanted in the opposite direction to Clara’s letters. Becky had gazed upon this script many times, in birthday cards, in the margins of an old tomato-splattered recipe book, and in the address book she’d salvaged from her old family home and kept close. Even at that, she might not have recognised it, despite the script on the paper in her hands. How often did you memorise another person’s handwriting, after all?
But then came the giveaway – a final flourish in one of the letters: a series of kisses, forming the shape of a diamond. That’s when the pieces fit together. That’s when she knew.
The handwriting was her mother’s.
31
Back at the flat, Becky had circled two names she’d written on the notice board: KRNCZR? KRANCZR? The names had come from the file of related cases. She’d grown used to some of the names in the inquiry; the Bells, the Jameses. They’d come up again and again. But KRNCZR/KRANCZR had stuck out, precisely because it was a loose end. The names went nowhere; they appeared nowhere else.
One of her phones rang. It was Rosie.
‘You seen the newsletter?’
‘Newsletter? You spamming the internet on my behalf now?’
Rosie sounded put out. ‘It’s for your benefit, you know.’
‘Is this your podcast? What is it, the Dupin Collective? I haven’t had the time, Rosie. Been busy.’
‘Oh. With your mysterious friend in France.’
‘C’mon, out with it.’
‘One of them turned something up. The Kranczr family. They were murdered in Romania. You’ll never guess how.’
‘Same as my family?’
‘Yep. And they never caught the killer.’
‘You’re kidding. How did you find this out?’
‘One of the group has family in Romania. They knew all about it. Even better… they’ve managed to turn up a connection. But it’s not in Romania.’
‘Where is it, then?’
Rosie cleared her throat. ‘Just remember… when I tell you this… you owe me one.’
‘I don’t think I do!’ Becky spluttered.
‘You do, though. You owe me one.’
‘I could just wait for the podcast.’
‘Won’t be out for ages.’ Was she laughing? Becky couldn’t be sure.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want in, Becky. Let me come on board. We can team up. As if we’re superheroes.’
Becky sighed.
Two hours later, Becky checked her online boarding pass was stuck tight inside her passport, turned off all the lights, punched in her security codes, and whistled Viva Espana as she locked up the flat.
*
The road curved its way around a rust-red mountain which might have been transplanted from Mars, were it not for the phone mast right at the top. The view over the brow as the car eased across it was spectacular; a broad expanse of ocean, tropical blue, glittering in the late afternoon sun.
This was a place which had tourists, but only a select few. A distant tanker clung to the outermost edge of the horizon, a lonely plume of smoke reaching up into the merest haze of cloud above, but there were few other boats to be found on that flat calm.
The car’s air conditioning roared, blowing Becky’s hair out of her face and freezing a trickle of sweat that ran down her back.
The house was set in a narrow valley with a view of the sea. It was a grand place, the seaside residence of a childless rich man who had bequeathed it to the state. It was welcoming, if one ignored the wrought iron gates, topped off with ornate, but mean-looking spikes. On a neat lawn outside, old men wearing blinding white clothes played petanque in the shimmering heat.
They were expecting her at the front desk. A pretty young girl with light almond eyes and a wicked smile checked Becky’s paperwork, before passing her on to an orderly with heavy Greek eyebrows and thick neck hair clambering over his collar.
He led her through the cool corridors to where the old lady lived.