The Sister

by China, Max

  He knew now with certainty, what he had to do.

  Chapter 110

  Miller was dreaming. The ghosts of his past slowly paraded before him. They were mostly grey images of the people he missed the most. In the crowd as they passed, he sometimes thought he caught a glimpse of himself . . . how he was back then. Lost, struggling to find a way back.

  In an alternative version of last night's reunion, he saw himself back at the table with Kennedy. This time they spoke of their origins and swapped case notes, laughing at the FBI games his forgotten acquaintance told him he used to play.

  "Did any one ever call you Jack, as in the president?"

  The detective reacted slowly and thoughtfully. "Just a girlfriend I had once, and this other . . . character. I just started picking up on his trail and then he started playing games with me." Miller detected sorrow in the other man's eyes. The light faded from them as he continued to speak.

  "He called himself Lee Harvey Oswald, pathetic really," he shook his head sadly. "I let him get to me . . . At the scene of one crime, he left a newspaper with the headline: Kennedy Assassinated. Not one shred of forensic. Nothing on the paper. No sweat, No nothing. I suppose I had an inkling I was dealing with someone different, not your run-of-the-mill ordinary criminal. I knew he was out to get me. His messages made that perfectly clear from the outset." He began fiddling with his tie, pulling at the knot, loosening it from his neck.

  "Did you ever get him?"

  Still fiddling with his tie, he said, "No, I never did." And then he asked about Miller's lost friends, the boys who died.

  Caught off guard, he bristled at the mention, driven back into his adolescent self where he wrestled with his thoughts. He'd forgotten none of it. It was merely encapsulated in the comfortable blanket that time had woven for it. "Why do you mention that?" he asked.

  No longer looking at him, he focused on something beyond where he sat. "You need to talk about it."

  There was something odd about Kennedy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. In his head, he fine-tuned his imaginary receiver, but he'd lost him. The dream was no longer in his control. It shifted to a beach … to a holiday he had long ago.

  Then he was back in the hall, where Kennedy waited patiently for his answer. He tilted his head his expression one of query. A half shrug of the other man's shoulders invited an answer. It had been a long moment.

  "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm just not ready to talk about it."

  Kennedy leant forward, two fingers in the knot of his tie. When he spoke it was with difficulty. "That happened thirty-five years ago. You should lay those ghosts to rest."

  "I know," he said simply.

  The detectives eyes had become grey. One was narrowed the other shut. He could have been looking through a telescope. "I need help, Miller."

  It was late, and he was tired. This is crazy. It's a dream! He rubbed his eyes. They felt sore. He sparked off an ocular migraine. If he caught it in time and avoided bright lights, he could still prevent the visual aura from manifesting itself.

  Kennedy had his back to the light. Miller couldn't look at him.

  He felt himself leaving rapidly, floating upwards and backwards. Kennedy's voice briefed him in a blizzard of words he couldn't understand.

  Miller woke up, and the first thing on his mind was Kennedy's last words. "So, will you help me?"

  He lay awake for a long time. These shifts in perspective were occurring with greater frequency and now not only when he was asleep. He found if he concentrated hard enough, he could make out in part, what Kennedy had told him. Big trouble, a key and finding a missing girl. No, not a key… She was the key. The key to what?

  He took his pencil and pad from his bedside table and noted it all down. It might make sense later.

  Sinking back into sleep just as the birds began to stir, he dreamed about the boys again.

  Chapter 111

  April 4th

  The following morning Miller woke up, his head filled with strong ideas.

  I need help, Miller . . . Eilise Staples.

  He hadn't felt the same way since he'd decided to find Olga Kale, but it didn't worry him. What he was doing was for the good.

  Although Nottingham wasn't as far as he thought from London, it was still too far for him to consider driving back the same day. After three and a half hours of boredom, the Sat Nav dumped him a few doors down the road from where he needed to be. He wouldn't have parked right outside anyway.

  He grabbed his bag out of the boot and made his way up the path. Eilise's house was in an affluent part of town. Not quite how he'd imagined it, but runaways came from all walks of life. Olga Kale - she'd been a runaway too. The step up to the front door was freshly scrubbed and still wet, so he stretched up and rang the bell, without standing on it. The door opened almost immediately.

  "Mrs Staples?"

  "Yes."

  "The name's Miller, I believe you were expecting me?"

  "I'm sorry?" Dressed in a floral housecoat, wearing pink marigold gloves and holding a yellow feather duster in her hand, she looked ridiculous, but not self-conscious at all.

  "DCI Kennedy arranged for me to come up this morning."

  "Well, he never said anything to me," she narrowed her eyes. "Got any ID?"

  Miller produced a business card and handed it to her.

  "What - the police can't do their own work? They have to call in the private sector to get anywhere?"

  "Something like that," he smiled.

  She let him in. "Come right through," she steered him into the lounge. "Would you like some tea, Mr Miller?"

  "It's just, Miller and yes, tea would be nice."

  She checked his card. Miller: Missing Persons Investigator. "What an unusual first name. Please call me, Eileen."

  She looked too young to have a daughter of Eilise's age.

  "Sit down," she said.

  "Do you mind if I . . .?" he pointed at the collage of photographs that hung on the wall.

  "No, no, not at all, feel free." She left him alone while she fetched the tea.

  The mirror above the fireplace opposite reflected the collage. Two images for the price of one. A family portrait took pride of place in the collection of photos. He recognised Eilise straight away; she was the older of the two girls. The photo looked recent. The girls stood in front. Mr Staples had a hand on the shoulder of each girl. A six-inch gap was apparent between him and Eileen. Only two family members had happy smiles on their faces, the father and the youngest girl. Miller leaned in for a closer look.

  Eileen arrived with the tea. Seeing him looking at the picture, she volunteered, "That was taken the summer before last."

  "It's a nice photo," he said.

  He sipped his tea, thinking. Eileen Staples and the older girl shared an uncomfortable body language. Their smiles didn't extend beyond the lips, and the eyes of both looked haunted. Mrs Staples' hand was on Eilise's other shoulder. Family tensions.

  "The photograph was taken just before she ran away the first time," she explained. "My husband managed to find her quite quickly, and then for a while we all settled back to normal."

  "Do you know why she ran away?" Miller asked.

  "Well, you see," Eileen bit her lower lip thoughtfully, "Eilise found out she was adopted."

  "So that was why she ran away?"

  "It's more complicated than that."

  "I thought it might be."

  "How come?"

  "That photograph of you all reveals a lot of secrets."

  She became defensive. "Oh, really is that a fact?" She was an attractive woman, but played it down. In the photograph, she wore no make up at all.

  "Eileen, I'm here to help, but to do that I need your co-operation."

  "Mr Miller, I telephoned DCI Kennedy while I was making tea. He wasn't there, but Inspector Tanner tells me that you've quite a reputation in the private sector for finding missing people."

  "That's right, but what he couldn't tell you - because
I like to keep this side of things confidential - is that I wouldn't be here if your daughter were dead. You will ask me how I know, and I'll tell you I'm not sure, but the fact is I don't look for dead people."

  She regarded him with suspicion, "Do you really think you can find her, Miller?"

  "I believe so, but first I'll need some help from you, Eileen. You were telling me she ran away the first time because she found out she was adopted, and there was something else?"

  "No, she found out she was adopted, and that's all."

  A period of silence ensued. She sat shoulders slumped, her eyes darting nervously about the room. Unable to look at him directly for more than a second, she fidgeted with her fingers, revealing a white ring of untanned skin where her wedding ring had once been.

  "Do you want to talk about it?" Miller asked gently.

  She'd only been waiting for the right person to come along, waiting for the right moment. The words spilled out of her in a torrent. It was an unburdening. Miller gently placed a hand on her forearm. "Whoa, slow down. Take your time."

  She paused and took a deep breath. "I started to notice things going missing. The things that you don't notice straight away, things that are out of everyday sight . . ."

  He nodded. It was a familiar story. Taking a pen and pad from his pocket, he made notes.

  "She withdrew from us, gradually at first, spending more time alone in her room. She began skipping school. Then she started wanting to go out at odd hours. She always used to go out, but not at such completely random times. People were calling for her that I'd never seen before. In the end, I found out she'd been using drugs. I caught her with the stuff in her bag." She stopped suddenly as if she might have said too much, unsure if she should go on.

  "Does your husband - it's Frank isn't it? Does he know about any of this?"

  She shook her head. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Shall I tell you what I see in that photo? It might make it easier for you."

  Her head tipped forward looking at the floor. A single tear ran down her face and dripped from the end of her nose.

  "Eileen, the body language in the photo isn't right. It shows sides, and it shows factions, tensions. In short, the family is divided."

  "You can tell all that from a photograph?" she looked bewildered. "I never knew people could do that just from looking at a photo . . ."

  "Eileen, there's more; you have a reassuring hand placed on Eilise's shoulder, and both of you share the same haunted expression. Your husband and youngest daughter look happy. Neither of them knows what secret you and Eilise share."

  Eileen averted her face from Miller's gaze.

  "Eilise confided in you, didn't she?"

  She made eye contact for the first time since he'd walked into her house.

  "As I said, Eilise ran away because she found out she was adopted. She never got very far; it was a cry for help. Frank found her wandering the streets around midnight and brought her home. For a couple of months, everything seemed fine. We explained that we'd be happy to help track her mother down if that was what she really wanted, but that she'd probably have to wait until she was eighteen before that could happen. I thought it was the upset of finding out, because you know, that unsettled her. Then I found out about the drugs, and she broke down and told me . . . Excuse me." She fled into the kitchen, and returned a few moments later dabbing at her eyes with a piece of paper towelling.

  "She told me that Frank was trying it on with her, and getting quite heavy about it too. In his head because she wasn't blood, I suppose he thought she was fair game. That's no excuse of course. He told her if she didn't, then he'd do it to our younger daughter. I was planning to help her get her out…" she dabbed her eyes again. "I'm a mess. Please excuse me," she rushed out of the room again.

  "Who are you?" Frank's sudden appearance startled him.

  Miller stood and introduced himself. "I'm here to help find your daughter. Your wife got a bit upset…"

  Frank shook his hand warily. "I'm Frank," he said, eyeing the teacups. "You've been here a while then… Did I miss anything?"

  Eileen returned. Frank looked at her suspiciously.

  "No," Miller said. "I was just running over a few facts to get some background about her runaway tendencies. Now, I understand you adopted her from the earliest age possible. Did she go through school okay, no problems?" Frank rolled his eyes in exasperation. "We've been all through this . . ."

  "Not with me though, Frank."

  "Were you expecting him?" he asked Eileen.

  "Yes," she said, "I got a call to say he was on his way." Frank glared at her. "You never said—"

  "Can I see her room?" Miller asked.

  Frank turned his attention to him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your job is to find her, am I right? Not to judge or interfere in a family matter."

  "That's correct. Whatever problems or issues arise, they'll be resolved with the close involvement of the authorities. Just to make my position clear - although I'm a private investigator - a senior police officer asked me to assist him and ultimately I'm accountable to him. However, you have my assurance that I'll be working on your behalf just as diligently as if you had employed me directly. I will find her."

  Frank moved as close to Eileen as he could, wrapping an arm around her stiff shoulders without looking at her. "That's reassuring to hear, isn't it, love?"

  Miller shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Now, can I see her room?"

  At the top of the stairs, off the landing, was a bathroom and toilet. Further down the corridor were four bedrooms. Two each side of the corridor. All the doors were closed. Eileen kept a nice clean house, upstairs it smelled of bleach and polish.

  Frank led the way and opened the last door on the left. He stood with one hand wrapped round the door handle and indicated for Miller to go in with a nod of his head.

  The brightly painted room was garish. Gothic art posters adorned the walls. For a girl's room, it was a messy one. Eileen explained that they'd left it exactly as it was the last time she'd been there. In one corner was a television, a dressing table in the other. There was also a sound system complete with headphones still plugged in.

  "Does she have a computer or laptop?" Miller asked.

  "She used her phone for everything. Emails and texts. Didn't she, love?" Frank said.

  "Actually, she did use the computer next door, in the study," Eileen added.

  Frank shot an accusatory look at her. "You told the police she never used it!"

  "Well, she did … but only sometimes."

  "Can I have a look?" Miller backed out of her bedroom and moved into the study next door. If there was going to be anything … it would be on the computer. He'd check with Kennedy to see if they'd taken anything significant away from her room.

  "Excuse the mess," Eileen said. "The computer's already on. We daren't turn it off. There's something wrong with the switch, so it's on all the time."

  "Who else uses the machine?"

  "We all do, but mostly for work or school work."

  Eileen logged in, explaining they had never set up individual user accounts.

  "May I?" Miller gestured at the seat in front of the computer and sat before either of them could answer.

  He looked at the desktop shortcuts. There were none for Facebook, Myspace or Bebo. Checking the programmes list on the start menu, he saw an unfamiliar red icon. He double clicked it.

  It loaded into a social networking site revolving around common interests in music.

  Hello, concreteblonde92.

  "I'm assuming 'concrete blonde' isn't either of you?" Frank scowled at him. "And from the 92, I guess that's Eilise's birth year?"

  The avatar was The Grim Reaper. He looked at the menu buttons and then selected 'Mypage' from the top bar. He saw the last music tracks she'd listened to: All about Eve, Sisters of Mercy, Concrete Blonde and Draconian, among others. According to the site, she'd last been seen 36 days before. That meant that wherever she was - she'd had ac
cess to a computer up until then. Further down the screen, was a public messaging service, she had over seventy of them. The most frequent was Strawberry1971. Next to every message was a photo of Paddy Casey, the former Irish busker. Miller had one of his records. What is a fan of Paddy Casey doing hooked up with a girl whose musical interests seemed to be Goth Rock?

  He looked for her private messages. There weren't any.

  "One thing I can tell you is that she was last on the site 36 days ago. That's after she ran away. I'm guessing she no longer has access to a computer."

  "Will you leave it on there? I'd like to have a look around at it all once you've gone."

  "Of course I will, Eileen."

  After Miller had left, Eileen sat down at the computer and joined Lastfm. She sent a friend request to concreteblonde92 and left a 'shout' message for her. After that, she took to watching her 'Shoutbox' religiously, waiting for a reply, or acceptance of her friend request.

  Neither came.

  Chapter 112

  Miller didn't relish the thought of the long drive back to London straight away, so he stopped for a pint at the oldest pub in England, Ye Olde Trippe to Jerusalem. The last time he'd visited the place; he was a young salesman working his way up through the centre of England selling luxury Italian goods. In those days, the women of Nottingham outnumbered the men by three or four to one. The landlady of the guesthouse he'd stayed in near-by had played an active role in pairing him off with her eighteen-year-old daughter and she'd been a willing participant in the arrangement. Afterwards, he left the girl to use the toilet at the other end of the passageway. As he returned to his room, the landlady came out on the landing and dragged him into her bed too. The whole incident was bizarre from start to finish, but he thought of them quite often. Aside from the sex, there had been something endearing about both of them. The memory made him smile. It all began in Ye Olde Trippe…