The Sister

by China, Max

  They might just have hung on for her to be old enough to fend for herself, but that made no sense either. If they'd loved her enough to do that - then surely they'd loved her enough to carry on. Maybe they just didn't love her as much as they missed her sister.

  She found herself wondering what would have happened if Kathy had walked through the door the next day, the way they'd always believed she would. What would happen then? What would I tell her?

  None of it made any sense.

  She almost didn't go through with it, but she was thinking of herself, she wanted closure.

  And what if she did come walking through that door, as a direct result of the appeal? She was as surprised as anyone was when she'd been told her parents died in an apparent suicide pact.

  Her mother was a vet; they'd injected themselves with enough horse tranquillisers to stop an elephant.

  She wasn't convinced her dad would have gone along with it entirely of his own free will.

  The letter had arrived two days after they died. She didn't open it. There could be no explanation or justification.

  She informed the police.

  "You haven't opened it?" The policewoman said.

  "No. There's nothing inside for me," she said without emotion. The officer dipped down to look up into her downcast eyes. "Would you like me to call someone?"

  "No . . . I'm okay. I'll be fine. Go ahead and open it, or take it for evidence, or whatever."

  The officer opened it; the contents confirmed what they already knew; it was suicide, but there was an explanation.

  The policewoman offered the letter to her. She declined.

  "Leave it there . . ." She pointed to the mantelpiece.

  "Would you like me to read it to you?" The policewoman asked gently.

  "No . . . I know what they did," her voice had risen, filled with bitterness. "I know you're trying to help, but no . . . Thank you. Leave it there."

  They left me behind. That's what they did.

  She stared at the pills in her hand, at the glass of vodka in the other.

  "Probably shouldn't do this," she said to herself, then cupped her hand to her mouth and swallowed. She took a swig out of the glass and shuddered, the neat alcohol contorting her face.

  If those paracetamol don't shift this headache, it'll be because you mixed them with vodka. Hell yeah!

  She poured herself another, took a deep breath and slid her fingers into the envelope to pull out the letter. Drawing it almost all the way out, she stopped and crumpled the whole thing into a ball. She walked to the pedal bin and threw it away.

  Chapter 43

  Tanner rubbed his eyes wearily. It wasn't that late, but the accumulation of working long hours had started to get to him. He hadn't seen the programme, but still volunteered to take any interesting calls that might come in because of it.

  Although the appeal generated a handful of telephone calls straight after the programme, only one of them had any promise.

  A taxi driver recalled passing a couple who could be a match. She was very drunk, dressed in a nurse uniform - he assumed she'd come from a fancy dress party that he'd already picked up two lots of people from. A man was trying to get her into a silver Ford Cortina. He remembered it well because after he'd driven past, a fight broke out at the party, and his windscreen got broken by a flying champagne bottle.

  "Can you tell me anything else about what you saw, could you describe the man?" Tanner knew it was a long shot. After all these years, it seemed stupid to ask.

  "No mate, not after all this time. I'm sure it was her though, dressed in her uniform. It's got to be, right?"

  A silver Ford Cortina - It couldn't have been a rare kit car they could have easily traced, could it.

  The lines had gone quiet; nothing had come in for over an hour. Checking his watch, he decided give it another thirty minutes before going home.

  With just a few more minutes of his self-imposed deadline to go, his telephone rang again.

  "Tanner . . ." he said wearily.

  "Switchboard - I have a caller from Dublin regarding the Crimewatch case; he thinks he might be able to help."

  "Dublin? Okay, put him through."

  "Detective Inspector Tanner speaking, can I have your name?"

  The Dubliner answered with a deep, soft-spoken voice. "It's Jack Doherty, some people call me 'One Eyed Jack', but only once to me face." He chuckled and then pulled himself up short, perhaps remembering the gravity of the case.

  "I don't suppose this means anything now. I never knew the girl was missing, but I remember her from that night. I'd seen her earlier at the pub, so pretty, that young thing, in her nurse's uniform. When the photograph came up, I said to myself, that's her! Anyway, there was this bloke - see, we got into a fight. He half killed me; I lost an eye, so I did, was in the hospital for six weeks, and when I came out, I slouched back to Ireland. Couldn't work, see? Anyway, the thing is, when he knocked me down to me knees that last time; I saw he's wearing this belt with a skull and crossbones buckle. I'll never forget it. See, I thought he was a bit old to be wearing something like that. He was in his fifties I reckon, but here's the other thing, he was a fighter, not much doubt about that, you don't get to be that fit if you don't fight regular. I mean he was thirty years older, but sharper than I was! I reckon somebody would have known a bloke like that on the circuits; you know - the bare-knuckle ones, travellers' fairs, and that . . ."

  Tanner interrupted. "What makes you think it's the same man?"

  "The photo fit is an excellent likeness, but also the Constable said he'd been in a fight, had some damage round the eye and mouth. The mouth was already like it when I saw him, something about that mouth . . . I know it in my water - it's him!" Then he added darkly. "He's probably dead by now anyway, but if it was him that did for that girl - and for what he done to my eye - I hope he rots in hell!"

  "If you saw him again do you think you could identify him again?"

  "No doubt about it, none at all. He was . . . how can I put it? Unusual looking, like the man was crossed with a pit bull terrier." Tanner looked at the E-Fit, trying to make sense of what Doherty had just said.

  "Are you being serious? You said the photo was an excellent likeness."

  "Well - so it is, but they don't have the lips right, there's something about the mouth . . ." By now, Tanner had the idea that the man's mouth could be a distinguishing feature - if they could get that right…

  "Would you be prepared to help us adjust the photo?"

  "Well, I'll try, but I don't know where you'd find another mouth that looks like his one . . ." Tanner didn't bother to tell him about the advances in technology that would make the creation of a better likeness possible, but took his contact details, name, address and telephone number. "Listen, Jack, thank you for your call, we're going to need to talk to you again."

  He immediately started through the files, the evidence that the Constable provided at the time. His description covered almost everything, right down to the skull belt buckle, he felt it was so unusual that he'd even drawn a sketch of it . . . It was a screaming skull variant inside a wreath of laurels on top of the crossed bones. Something in Tanner's waters told him it had to be the same guy.

  Impressed with the impeccability of the young PC's report, he looked for his name.

  He couldn't quite believe he'd missed it the first time round. It was almost as interesting as the report itself.

  The son of a gun! Why didn't he tell me about it?

  The Constable's name was John Kennedy.

  Chapter 44

  The following morning, Tanner walked right into Kennedy's office without knocking and sat down.

  "Oh, do come in," he said irritably. "What's on your mind?"

  "You never told me you were the copper on the beat that night."

  "It's always been on file, I thought you knew . . ." He reinforced the lie by shaking his head in disbelief.

  "You led me to believe it just happened on your watch,
you even said that the other night." His deputy was gearing up for an attack. He'd seen it before. His father had warned him to avoid close friendships at work, and this was one of the reasons. It made it too easy for lines to get crossed.

  Kennedy glared at him. "It did happen on my watch."

  "Listen, you said . . ."

  "Look, let me explain. I was little more than a kid, and I wasn't feeling too clever about coming that close to our number one suspect and then letting him go. It did happen on my watch." He'd taken some of the wind from Tanner's sails.

  "It didn't stand in the way of any promotions though, did it?" Although his eyes burned with suppressed anger, he immediately regretted the comment. He sighed deeply and then said, "I just think you could have told me before . . ."

  Kennedy was surprisingly calm. "So that's what this is all about, is it? You think I got this promotion because my father was in charge ten years ago? We're friends, but at work, don't you dare cross the line with me," he said in clipped tones, barely in control of his temper, "is that clear!" His fist slammed down hard onto the desktop. The emphasis stopped Tanner's words at his lips. He stuttered, and then stalled.

  The DCI stood and walked to the door, holding it open. "Let me know if anything relevant turns up."

  Tanner spun off his seat and left.

  Kennedy closed the venetian blinds, returned to his chair, and leaning back, stared at the ceiling. I never agreed with you on a lot of things, Dad, but you were right about friends and business. Keep 'em apart.

  Chapter 45

  Kennedy drifted back; he recalled the effect Kathy's disappearance had had on him. He seemed to have spent every single hour of his off-duty time canvassing passers-by. His persistence seemed to have paid off when he stopped a man in his twenties, who recognised her from the photograph he showed him. He'd been at the Dire Straits concert that night, and he remembered seeing her.

  "Yeah, I saw her; in the foyer, she was wasted. I thought it was . . . well, I thought she was just drunk until I saw this guy pass her a doobie." He made a furtive gesture towards Kennedy with his hand cupped. Kennedy almost held his hand out to receive the imagined offering. "He palmed her twice, the second time it was a pill. I know that 'cos she dropped it on the floor, and he shot down really quick to pick it up before someone else swooped on it. He gave it back to her, and she popped it straight away, I remember thinking, boy, she's keen. She put the joint in her mouth, but never lit it as far as I could see. The guy leaves her. He didn't take any money from her; you know. I think he was hoping to score off her later, or maybe he knew her, I don't know, then he goes over and does a deal with someone else. I only took my eyes off her for a minute, but when I looked back, she was gone."

  "Would you recognise him, if you saw him again?"

  "I can do better than that; I used to see him at the youth centre. I'm sure the guy's name was Hutchins . . . Gary Hutchins."

  He followed the lead, getting no further with the dealer until he threatened to have him busted right there and then. Nervously pushing his long blonde hair back from his face, Hutchins' complexion had paled. Kennedy gambled he was probably carrying, and he was right.

  "What do you want from me?" he said, licking his lips nervously.

  "You were seen handing Kathy a pill, what was it?"

  "It was an aspirin… No wait what are you doing?"

  Radio in hand, he said, "I'm calling the Drugs squad."

  "No, no, wait. It was an aspirin, but dipped in acid."

  "You gave her an aspirin dipped in LSD?"

  "It was two, actually; she asked if I had anything for a headache."

  Kennedy made no effort to conceal his disgust. "Did she know what it was?"

  "I don't know," he said, with a half shrug. "But she knows what I'm like."

  Later that night, Kennedy arranged for a raid on Hutchins.

  He tried everything, and although he couldn't consciously remember the registration of the car he and the taxi driver had seen; he'd heard it was possible under hypnosis to recall such details. A specialist tried to regress him, but without any success.

  He concluded she either was dead, or she didn't want to be found. He considered the impact two doses of LSD could have had on her. It was clear from a subsequent interview that Hutchins made no real effort to control the amount of LSD put on each tablet . . . he'd simply used an old ear dropper. Kennedy consulted experts, but their opinions were divided. There were just too many unknown variables.

  Further investigations revealed Hutchins was responsible for any number of bad trips with the users ending up in hospital. He eventually spent four years in jail for drugs offences.

  He remembered Kathy's parents, how they'd been in denial. "She never took drugs!" Her mother said hotly, and her father agreed, nodding vehemently.

  They continued to campaign tirelessly, putting up posters in shop windows, stopping to ask people questions in the street, for years. Eventually, shops refused to allow them to keep their posters up anymore, explaining; it isn't good for business.

  At Kennedy's intervention, they'd managed to keep the official 'Missing' poster at the station for longer than usual, and beyond that, they kept one on display in the vets where her mother worked, and another facing out onto the street from the window of their home.

  In the end, it proved too much for them.

  It was as if she'd disappeared off the face of the earth.

  DCI Kennedy parted a couple of slats in the blind with his fingers and looked out over the office from the observation panel. The one blot in my career copybook. That he was unable to rectify it, irked him. He suddenly thought about the guilty pleasures he enjoyed with Marilyn if that were ever to get out . . . He nailed the thought. After all, he wasn't hurting anyone and as long as he kept it to himself, that was how it would stay.

  Chapter 46

  January 4th 2007

  Tanner rang the number the Irishman had given him, someone else answered; he gave him another number to try. He left a host of messages for Doherty to call him. He proved to be a hard man to pin down, it transpired he was in London visiting relatives over Christmas, and he'd left his mobile phone in Dublin. In the New Year, he finally received the message. He was still in the capital. Tanner arranged for him to attend the station for an interview.

  When Kennedy met Jack Doherty at reception, he cut an imposing figure. At least two metres tall and very heavily built; his head was larger in proportion to his size than might have been expected. Kennedy couldn't help wondering if the smaller man had felled him with a headshot. The other man's hand engulfed the DCI's as they shook. He led him down to the interview room, where Tanner joined them.

  Doherty was clearly not overly concerned with cosmetic appearances; he wore a large black patch over his missing eye. It reminded him of the cup from one of Marilyn's bra's.

  When all three had sat down, the big man insisted on giving them some background to himself, the sort of man he was, how he'd been looking for a bit of 'sport' as he called it that night. He described his opponent and the fight at length, and how he remembered the girl he'd since learned was Kathy in the pub. He never showed any emotion; his voice was low and flat, difficult to understand at times and there was a kind of sadness in his broad potato face. From what he'd said about himself at first, it was clear the experience had changed him, perhaps he was thinking about the girl, perhaps mourning the loss of his eye, or a combination of both.

  "What makes you think you'll be able to give sufficient details to the technician after so many years, Jack?"

  "Do you not think I'd remember the man that did this to me?" he said, fixing Kennedy with a look, and then he reached under the eye-patch and lifted it, exposing the stitched shut and sunken eyelid. "And there's something else, let me tell you. When you fight a man, you don't watch his hands, you watch his face."

  Kennedy acknowledged what he said. It was a perfect example of 'Flashbulb' memory, where the effects of a traumatic event burned themselves int
o the brain in fine, recollectable detail.

  Later, when he saw the results of Doherty's work with the E-Fit operator, he was certain that the man did indeed possess such powers of recall.

  It triggered instant recognition for Kennedy. It was 'Michael,' no doubt about that in his mind. With Doherty's positive ID of Kathy's photograph, "I'll never forget her face; it was all I could do to stop myself crashing into her." It meant they were in the same pub. It was all too much to be just coincidence. The interview had thrown up something else as well; Doherty had sketched the unusual belt buckle too. It was similar to the sketch he'd produced himself years back.

  "Who are you?" he said to the E-Fit. Then he called Tanner in and briefed him.

  "I agree with you, sir, it's got to be him. I'm not sure how we find him with what we have though. He doesn't match any 'knowns' on the database."

  " Have you followed up the bare-knuckle lead from Doherty?"

  " I don't think we'll get anywhere with that one, the travelling community don't talk to the police . . ."

  "So you haven't tried then?" His eyes bored into his assistant.

  "I needed to wait until we interviewed the Irishman, sir."

  Kennedy gave him a withering look.

  "I'll get right onto it, sir, but it's a bit difficult to know where to begin." You can be so impatient and unreasonable at times, sir, he thought.

  Where to start? Tanner sat in his own office thinking it all through. Even if this character was still fighting in his mid forties, who'd remember him twenty-three years later? Doherty gave the impression he was an accomplished fighter. What if he was that good, a legend and hero among his own people? He thought that he could pose as a writer who was doing a piece on the best bare-knuckle fighters of the last twenty-five years. If he could meet with community leaders, he could ask for any old photographs they had to support his story. He smiled to himself . . . Now that's not a bad idea, Tanner.