The Sister

by China, Max

  "Michael, all I want is to be there with a finger on the button, so when the story does break . . ."

  He sighed, "I wish there was a way I could help you . . . Where are you?"

  "I'm in Edinburgh."

  "Do you want me to come over?" he sounded hopeful.

  "Have you anything for me, information wise?"

  Brady spun it out. "I might have . . ."

  "Oh, come on, Michael, don't hold back on me." She paused and then said. "How are things with you and Maggie, by the way?" Met with silence, she bit her lip.

  "I've got one thing, but you must promise you never heard it from me. You remember I used to work with John Kennedy at the Met?"

  "Vaguely," she lied.

  "Well, it turns out that the baseball bat recovered from the scene of the killings used to belong to him."

  After putting the phone down, she pulled out the 'Midnight Man' cobweb map and studied it again. It helped her think outside the box, and it always seemed to work best when she was a little bit unfocused, but it wasn't working tonight.

  She thought about Miller. What are you really doing in Scotland? She knew that he wanted her, but whatever it was he was here for, was more important. Her curiosity was aroused. I have an appointment with destiny.

  What she'd said to him about being disappointed if he turned out to be a bull-shitter was true. She'd spent half her life avoiding womanisers. She could smell them a mile off, but Miller. He was a mystery.

  She poured a second glass of wine and returned to studying Midnight's movements.

  When she'd first started, it was obvious the patterns centred around cities because of the road systems, but the more she thought about it, the more she realised, that when you have over seven hundred points to join up, there's a good chance the appearance of a pattern would form. What Miller had said somewhere along the line on the train, came back to her.

  The only reason this character has avoided city centres is because they are mostly business premises protected by alarms and CCTV cameras. There are cameras that cover the streets. London has one of the highest levels of street surveillance in the world, and he likes to move around, blending in. He knows he'll be caught somewhere on a camera. He won't risk breaking into those houses or flats within city centres like London, because they're usually owned by the very wealthy, who protect themselves and their property with sophisticated security systems, even guards . . .

  There had been a number of Midnight attacks in the suburbs surrounding London. She still had a contact in the Met, and he'd told her there was evidence to suggest he sometimes targeted individuals connected to victims of previous burglaries. Her reporter's nose caught a whiff of something. She was unsure what it was. He put strangers together just for the fun of it.

  Carla started folding the map to put it away, thinking how impossible it was to predict where he would strike next. She wondered what his motives were, recalling what Miller said on the train. You have so many dots you could join them all together and make the face of Mickey Mouse.

  She glanced at her phone. A text from her man in the Met. How strange. She'd literally just thought about him, remembering a call she owed him from months back.

  Off the record, they quite often helped each other, and now he'd provided her with the location of the latest confirmed activities of the Midnight man. He's in Scotland!

  Quickly unfolding the map again, she located the town. She took her coloured pencil and marked it. A shiver of excitement ran through her. It was less than ten miles from the vigilante attack, and it had occurred earlier on the same day. There were so many dots on the map, though not many in Scotland. Surely, that's too close for coincidence?

  Something he'd discovered during the burglary might have led him to the paedophiles. He could have set an accomplice onto them, or he might have done it himself. It could be him.

  Coincidence. Miller had said it was partly the reason he was in Scotland. Now she'd had a run of them herself. She googled the word and read several articles on the subject, but none summed it up better than the one line quote she'd read first of all. Coincidence, if traced far enough back, becomes inevitable.

  She couldn't remember a man turning her down before. The urge to ring Miller became overwhelming. Bemused, even angry, she conceded he was different. He'd aroused her curiosity on many levels.

  She imagined what would happen if she picked up the phone and called him. I'm laying here all warm and soft, fresh from the bath. I've rubbed moisturising lotion all over my body. I've shaved myself for you, imagine. I'm guessing you'll love how smooth it is. I'm wearing just a thong. I was wondering if you'd help me with something . . . Would Miller agonise at the other end of the line? She allowed the fantasy to evaporate. He was just too much for her to fathom right now, and she didn't want to face rejection. Carla, I'd love to, but right now, I need to sleep.

  She bit into her lower lip, and her imagination sparked another fantasy. "Oh, boy, Miller…" she breathed to herself, "I haven't even got started with you yet."

  Miller turned his phone off. If anyone needs me, it can wait till morning.

  Waves of exhaustion swept over him, each stronger than the last. He slipped deep into slumber and then awoke unsure of how long he'd slept. He inspected his watch. The luminous dial showed it was almost two in the morning. Just when he most needed sleep, he found himself embarking on one of his restless phases, waking in the night, limbs surging with electrical activity that drove him from bed to pace around the room. He believed it to be a side effect of extended celibacy, an effect that was sometimes beneficial in gaining insights, or problem solving. Tonight it was counter-productive. You need a woman.

  Usually it took two months before the symptoms became intolerable. This particular sojourn had crept up on him; he should have known from some of the wilder dreams . . . He lay on the bed and thought about Carla. You know the quickest way for you to get to sleep, Miller.

  He rolled off the bed and started deep knee squatting until his thigh muscles burned and then got back in. He plugged in his headphones, and listened to an achingly beautiful song that personified the loneliness he felt from his self-imposed abstinence from meaningful relationships, a kind of penance.

  When you have no one, none can hurt you . . .

  A burgeoning realisation crept up on him. Kirk was right; he'd cheated himself out of happiness for long enough. Too tired to think anymore . . .

  He drifted into the soft embrace of sleep.

  Chapter 132

  The following morning, Carla phoned Tanner.

  "Hello, John? It's Carla . . ." she said, sounding sheepish.

  Tanner flipped his pad back to its first page. He'd titled it New Year, new pad. Four months later, dog-eared and filled with notes, he was on the verge of starting a new one. He found the entry he was looking for two pages in. 4th January - Carla? The question mark was large and florid.

  "Carla?" he said, the sarcasm in his voice, undisguised, "I only called you three months ago."

  "I'm so sorry, you know how it is. I was working on this story, getting nowhere fast . . ."

  "You should have said. I might have been able to help."

  "I don't think so, John. It's way out of your area, Newcastle, as a matter of fact."

  "Newcastle? That's way out of your area too, surely?"

  "You know me, I'll go anywhere there's a potential story."

  Tanner racked his brains, and tried to figure out what he'd heard from up there lately. January? "You've got me, Carla. What was it you were working on?

  "Oh, it doesn't matter now. I'm onto something else, and I suddenly remembered I owed you a call. Did you get anywhere with that gipsy you were trying to trace?"

  "God, Carla, where to start. The short answer is no. We're still looking for him."

  "Remind me. What was the background to it?"

  When he'd finished, she whistled a single, low note. "Now that's interesting - if you are still stuck in a bit, I'd love to look at it o
ff the record, you know."

  "We'll see. What are you on at the moment then?"

  "Have you heard about the Vigilante case recently that happened up North?"

  "You're up north again, Carla?" His heart sank a dread realisation upon him. "What's the attraction up there?" Brady. He recalled their uneasy conversation of a few days before. "I guess you've been talking to Brady."

  "Well, of course I have!" She knew all about his rivalry with Brady, how much he despised him for winning promotion over him, how he'd blamed Kennedy for making it easy for him to join his ex-wife in Scotland.

  "John, listen to me. I only ever maintain professional relationships with my contacts these days. He was a mistake … you know that, but I have to ask you something about Kennedy."

  "Kennedy?" Tanner sounded surprised, "how have we got onto him?"

  "John, has he said anything about the Vigilante case, anything at all?"

  Puzzled by the question he hesitated.

  She heard him draw breath at the other end of the line.

  "I'm pretty sure he said something like, 'We've got enough problems of our own, so they can bloody-well keep him'. Why do you ask?"

  "I heard the men who kidnapped the boy had been mutilated with a baseball bat."

  "I heard that too. Let the punishment fit the crime, so to speak. Hang on a minute…" Theresa entered his office with tea for him. He winked his thanks, and she smiled. His old feelings for Carla disappeared as he watched her leave. He lifted the cup to his lips and blew across the hot liquid before he sipped.

  "Are you there?" Carla demanded. "The bat had the initials JFK on it."

  Tanner almost choked on his tea.

  The first time she'd met Tanner the police wanted to interview her because she was the one who'd taken delivery of the package, and she'd seen the suspect. She remembered it well.

  "Carla Black?" He didn't wait for confirmation, "I'm Detective Inspector Michael Brady, and this is DI John Tanner. We need to ask you a few questions if you don't mind. We have him on CCTV, but it isn't the best image. We're having it enhanced as we speak. Did he say anything to you?"

  "He said, 'That's one for the internet'. I didn't know what he was talking about; he just handed it to me and left."

  "You got a close-up look at him, though. How old would you say he was? Were there any distinguishing features you could tell us about, any moles, scars? Anything…?"

  "No, not really, other than he was heavily built and hard-eyed. He looked like he'd been in a few scrapes, and he was older up close than he looked when I first saw him approaching. I realised it was because he'd either dyed his hair, or had a black wig on."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "From the lines on his face, he should have had at least some grey hair."

  "And that's it?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid it is." Her eyes narrowed as a memory drew into focus. "Wait a minute. This is going to sound daft, but I've just remembered. He sounded just like Clint Eastwood," she paused. "He also had the same hands as the guy on the DVD."

  The detectives exchanged looks. "Did he?" Brady said.

  Why do you say these things, Carla? Her simple statement had given away that she'd watched the film. Quickly trying to distance herself from the remark, saying with a thin smile, "Well, that's what I heard, anyway." As she showed the two detectives out, each slipped her a card without the other one's knowledge.

  She accepted both.

  Chapter 133

  Saturday Morning, 7th April 2007.

  Miller's eyes snapped open. His mobile was buzzing and spinning around on the dressing table. It took him a moment to remember where he was.

  He rolled onto his back, pulled his arm out from under the pillow and squinted at his watch. 7:30 a.m.

  He scooted down to the foot of the bed, leaned over to the dressing table and answered it.

  "Miller, it's Rosetta. Be ready in half an hour."

  "Okay," he said, and inwardly groaned. Half an hour!

  He flopped back onto the bed and collected his thoughts. After looking at his watch a second time, he sprang up off the bed and started getting ready. Whenever he was away, he left his watch on all night, always. He had an irrational fear that something might happen, and he'd have to dash out and leave it behind, yet when he was at home, he left it off. What's the difference? You're crazy, Miller.

  He hadn't slept well at all; the shadows had plagued him all night from the dark recesses of the hotel room in ways they'd not done since he was a child. Then, they had scared the life out of him. He would see them scurry just out of his line of sight, and no matter how quickly he turned to look, they would be gone. It was years before he could sleep with the light off. Yet still their occasional whispers would wake him, and he'd sit bolt upright in bed listening hard to the fading sounds that seemed to come from within his own ears. Once he'd realised they were harmless, beneficial even, he began to see them in a different light.

  It was another reason for not having a relationship. What sort of woman would understand such things without judging him crazy? It was a question not many other men had to face. It was easier to avoid the issue.

  Lately, the shadows had been more active, conspiring with his dreams, and warning him of something. He hadn't yet figured out what it was.

  It took ten minutes to shower and pack. In reception, he discovered breakfast was included, so he checked out first, and wandered through to the restaurant with barely enough time for a fresh juice, coffee and croissant. Once finished, he picked up his holdall and made his way out and down the steps to the pavement.

  A Range Rover with blacked out windows drew up, the passenger window rolled down. The driver was a young woman. She leaned towards him.

  "Miller, get in, I don't think you were followed. I'm Rosetta, by the way."

  Followed? Who would have followed him? Her appearance wasn't as he'd expected. He'd imagined she'd be matronly looking. It would be easy to forgive someone for thinking the daughter of a former nun might look frumpy, wearing loose old-fashioned clothes that concealed an ample frame. She was quite the opposite, slim, flat chested and fashionably dressed, hair gathered and tied up in a Japanese style topknot. He peered at her through the window. She reminded him of someone he couldn't quite place.

  "Well, what are you waiting for, get in the back."

  He opened the door, stowed the holdall on the back seat and stepped in next to it.

  "Sorry about that, it's early for me. I haven't woken up properly."

  Her laugh was a melody. "Where I come from, the day starts at first light."

  She looked at the rearview and side mirrors, and indicated to pull out. Her hair was a pale strawberry colour. It fascinated him. The insides of her lips showed pink as she pursed them, deep in concentration as she slipped out into the traffic. The car accelerated smoothly into a suitable gap.

  "Have we got far to go?"

  "It'll take less than half an hour, probably twenty minutes, that's all. We're just outside Edinburgh. Once we clear the city, I'm going to have to ask you to put this on."

  She passed him a black hood over her shoulder.

  "It's a precaution," she explained. "Mother has people looking for her all over the place, some of them just want a reading . . ."

  "And the others?"

  "It's complicated, but let's just say, it's to do with the church… We lived in Brighton for years, at least until I was five years old," she laughed. "I prefer the clean Scottish air and acid rain here."

  "I guessed from your accent you must have been here for a long time. What about the neighbours where you live?"

  "Nobody knows, she rarely sees anyone else these days. You're the first in years."

  "So, what does she want to see me for that's so urgent?"

  "In a little while you can ask her yourself."

  They travelled more or less in a straight line heading south. Looking out through the window at the city streets, he'd always imagined Edinburgh was on a scale c
omparable to London, but already the area was becoming less populated as they neared the outskirts.

  "Miller, lie down and put the hood on for me now, will you?"

  He did as she asked.

  Ten minutes later, the car bumped down an unmade road. He woke with a jolt into the enveloping darkness of the hood. He put his hands up to his face and felt the cloth as if to check he actually was awake.

  "You can take that off in a minute, we're nearly there," she told him.

  "I must have fallen asleep."

  She chuckled, "You do a fair impression of a big motorbike, snoring away you were."

  The car came to a halt. Rosetta killed the engine.

  "I'm really sorry about this, but I can't let you take the hood off yet, not until we're inside." She opened the door, took his arm, helped him out and led him to the front door.

  "Step in two paces," she warned.

  He raised his foot gingerly.

  "Okay, we're there; you can put your foot down."

  He lowered the foot. The air inside the hood was stale and warm; he could still smell the coffee on his breath. The door creaked open, it sounded heavy on its hinges. A gloved hand touched his and pulled him forward; his sense of direction became confused. He hadn't noticed before that she was wearing gloves.

  "You can take it off now." Rosetta's voice no longer came from in front of him.

  Miller removed it, and blinked at the light; a woman's outline was silhouetted against the brightness pouring in from the window behind. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The woman in front looked just like Rosetta, perhaps a year or two older.

  "You didn't say you had a sister," he said over his shoulder.

  "I'm Rosetta's mother. Sorry about the hood, I told her there was no need, but she gets these things in her head." The light of the window permeated the loose strands of her hair and they floated, charged with static, fine and fairy-like in a golden aura.