The Sister

by China, Max

  Well, this is a new one, thought Miller. Inside, the cafe was steamier than it had been in the car. The windows had previously served as a shop front. With too much cold glass, they ran with condensation.

  "You know, I'm going to try to tell it as a bystander from back then, if you'll indulge me." Kennedy's eyes appeared grey, devoid of any depth.

  Miller checked his watch; he had time. "Well, why not…"

  Kennedy nodded and began his story. "So, as I was saying. I was in this pub; not much bigger than someone's front room. I was off duty, but I got talking to one of the locals there. Vince, his name was, and the youngest in there apart from me. Anyway, he'd seen me around, and he knew I was a detective. I told him I was investigating the rape of a young girl. 'I heard about that', he said. I asked him eventually if he'd heard about anyone acting suspiciously anywhere around. He looked at me thoughtfully. 'Are you talking about the area around Devils Pond? If you are, it wouldn't have been anyone from round here.'" Kennedy blew at his tea.

  "When I asked him why, the whole room went quiet. It seemed they were looking at each other, deciding whether or not he should tell me . . ." He stirred more sugar into his mug.

  Miller sat forward attentively. "Come on, John, get to the point."

  "Well, he told me no one goes there anymore because the place has a jinx."

  "Jinxed - is that all you got, you gave me the impression there was more."

  "Patience, Miller, there's more. You know; Vince was a caver, been all round the whole of Devon, Cornwall, Somerset, potholing, exploring old mines and caves. He told me he would never have gone anywhere near the place. From a caver's point of view, it was just too dangerous. Unstable . . . water that rises out of nowhere, underground collapses . . . Not to mention gas pockets. You know, Miller; I was there, waist deep in my imagination, as Vince continued…

  'I'll tell you what, John, it was John wasn't it? Well anyway, a little team of us gathered there once. I've been in some creepy caves, and mines so dark, the imagination can take hold and spook you out, the unexpected sound of dripping in an enclosed space, shadows that seem to come and go, and your headlamp only makes it worse. The eerie atmosphere outside this place was enough to put us off, but then the gas detector was picking up methane, hydrogen sulphide gases, all kinds . . . We decided not to go any further. Afterwards, we heard that at least two explorers who'd been there before had died, succumbed to the gas. Round here, it has a reputation for people disappearing, so yes, the only people that would go there would be outsiders; I'd say that quite definitely'.

  "Then Vince pointed to a little alcove in the corner, 'Cyril's Corner, he told me. Cyril must have been around ninety years old. Vince said, 'What's your name again?' I repeated it, and he took me over to meet him. 'Cyril, this is John. He wants to know about the Devils Pond.' The old man looked at me; one of his eyes was withered and cloudy, and the other bore right into me. 'That pond is cursed; the whole place down there is - always has been. My grandfather died there in the mine; they reckon he was swept away underground . . . they never found his body, most of them drowned, or crushed. Twenty-three souls were taken in one go. All that rain and water finding its way into subterranean channels, did something to the ground. The following morning, Devils Pond, appeared. Kids kept drowning in that pool, I don't think they found them all. Too deep, too dark . . . only one person goes there now from round these parts.' I asked him who it was, and he said, 'Whoever it is that marks the old Whitethorn tree with clooties.' He noticed my puzzled look, and explained, 'They are offerings to the spirit that lives there, wiped with the pain of the sufferer, with the hope the spirit will take it away.' He turned the handle of his empty mug towards me. 'Used to think it was one for every soul that perished there.' He leaned in and beckoned me closer. 'When I was a kid I went down there for a dare one night in July, they say the people that died in the mine all those years ago, walk again on that night.' Did you go? The old man nodded solemnly. What happened? I asked. The old man paused to sip from his mug, and with some theatrics, showed me it was empty. He sat there with his arms crossed, and made it clear he'd say no more until he got another drink.

  "I got him another beer, and he sipped at it, obviously deep in thought. Well, what happened? I asked him again. He looked so serious I thought it would be something horrendous. He slapped his leg. 'Not a damn thing!' he guffawed, and then coughed so badly, I thought he might choke on the spot. When his cough settled, I asked Cyril who put the clooties there. Cyril told me no one knows. 'There were twenty-three of them that night, the clooties, that is.' Then completely unexpected, he asked if I'd heard about the three boys that died there."

  Miller listened intently. This cannot be a coincidence.

  "I told him, I might have heard something. It was a lie, but I didn't want him to hold out on me."

  Miller couldn't take his eyes off Kennedy. Is he playing a game with me . . . Does he know?

  Kennedy continued, "He told me that while they were dredging for the bodies they found so many skeletons in there . . . all shapes and sizes. Most of them were miners . . . men and boys. They also found a few female skeletons, five of them, weighed down with rocks and boiler suits tied around them . . . and two men dressed up the same."

  Miller's thoughts reeled. "If he hadn't been disturbed, Jackie would've ended up in there, too, wrapped in the boiler suit he was wearing that day . . ."

  "Most likely," Kennedy said. "Incidentally, did I tell you how many clooties were tied up when I last visited the place? It was forty-nine."

  Miller looked incredulous.

  "The twenty-three original rags that Cyril saw and a further twenty-six; if you take the original mine bodies, the seven murder victims and the three boys off, that leaves thirty-nine . . . so what is it those clooties represent?"

  Confused by rapid developments Miller needed time to digest the question.

  "And I haven't finished yet, there's one more thing," Kennedy said.

  "What's that?"

  "After the boys died, and the place had been thoroughly searched Cyril told me the locals clubbed together to have the pool filled in and fenced off more securely by the local farmer." He leaned in closer. "You know, when I visited there that morning, sixteen years after they'd said it was filled in . . . It was back again. The pool was there again. I'd gone with Cyril and Vince in his Land Rover. We drove as close as we could. The last bit took an absolute age. Neither of them would go that last few yards with me, so I crossed the field on my own, stepped between the top and middle wire of the fence. It struck me straight away, what Cyril had said about the locals. They knew its boundaries and kept away. You'd know it if you ever went there. It's a spooky place, and the people around are superstitious. You have to remember . . . we're in a land where they still believe in Pixies, a land full of Iron and Bronze Age burial chambers. Cyril told me he reckoned those miners cut through something, some invisible barrier that let something out; it was released with such a terrible cry that those who heard it said it was the sound of tortured human souls - like nothing on earth, a thousand voices pent up in misery."

  Miller turned away, unsettled. He looked out of the window, deep in thought. "John, I have to ask you this – you knew I was the fourth boy from that day . . . so what are you trying to say?" Through the pain, the only clear thing he could remember was the futility of throwing his beloved seashell to Brookes.

  When he turned back, Kennedy had gone.

  Chapter 140

  Wednesday April 11th

  The doorbell rang; it was early morning, and the bright daylight stung Miller's eyes as he opened the door. The postman had a package that required signing for. Miller scrawled his signature hastily and thanked him.

  "Have a nice day," he said and sauntered back to his van.

  The large brown envelope felt bulky; he examined the outside trying to guess what the contents could be. The red franking mark bore the school's coat of arms. The postmark revealed it had been posted the previous day
, 10th April 2007. A thank-you letter for the speech the other night, I'll bet, and they've thrown in a copy of the school magazine, as well.

  He closed the door and tore open the envelope. Inside, was a letter and another smaller envelope marked for his attention: 'STRICTLY PRIVATE AND PERSONAL'. First, he read the letter from the head teacher . . . and finally, I would like to thank you for a most engaging talk on an interesting subject . . . and I do hope you will be able to join us at the reunion dinner next year. You will find within the larger envelope; another discovered by a cleaner behind the lectern on the stage in the hall the morning after your engagement . . .

  Miller scratched his head. But that was over a week ago. He double-checked the postmark and then opened the smaller envelope. Inside it was a note from Kennedy and a further sealed note addressed to John Tanner.

  Bruce,

  Seeing you again tonight made me realise how much I miss close friendships with old friends; you know - people you can trust, people you can confide in. I wanted to tell you something face to face, but we were having such a good time reminiscing that I didn't want to spoil it. It's something I regret, because it now falls on me to try to convey it all in writing, but before you read on - you must promise on your life that you won't divulge the contents of this letter to anyone else for the moment.

  I've compromised myself. I made a few bad choices, did some immoral things, but nothing criminal. I am stitched up so tight, I can't breathe. I can do nothing apart from disappear for a while. Let things take their course.

  This person obtained my semen from Melissa Lake, a woman I was seeing. She was a prostitute, but I never really saw her that way, I never paid her, and I think she was as fond of me as I was of her. Anyway, back to my blackmailer . . . He used my DNA to implicate me in a number of rapes carried out by the Gasman. He planted, fabricated and tampered with God knows how much other evidence . . . My father is a retired Chief Constable. It would kill him if this got out. I'm in no position to do anything about it, not without running the risk of exposure. He tipped me off about a shipment of guns and drugs; I was hoping to retire early as I'd mentioned to you. It would have been a real feather in my cap if I'd pulled it off, but it was a set-up. He used me. The result was two people dead. A gangland informer and his executioner. Nice and neat, but there were no drugs, or arms. He phoned me the day after to thank me! Then he asked how I was going to explain the large sum of money deposited in my bank account that morning.

  Oh, and it gets worse. I took part in a Crimewatch reconstruction late last year; there was a mix up with the edit. I now believe that the kidnapper of Kathy Bird was watching the programme. Someone said something off camera - I didn't say it, but he blamed me. My blackmailer is the kidnapper, and I'm sure he's involved with the Gasman, and maybe even Midnight, too. He also claims to have kidnapped the missing girl, Eilise Staples. I think she's the key to all this, and if I am right, when she is found, the rest will unravel.

  When you and I met again last night, I realised that you just might be the one person who can get me out of this mess. It's a lot to ask someone so quickly after our re-acquaintance, but I can't involve the police.

  I've assumed you will agree.

  You need to watch out for this character; he's very clever. He pressured me into giving him the address of Kathy Bird's sister; I was trying to buy myself some time . . . I have a feeling he might be planning to emulate what he did to her sister. Find him, find the Gasman and clear my name. We have to stop him.

  I can't believe I'm writing this, sitting in our old school hall and in my best handwriting too! You will need to speak to my colleague, John Tanner. There's a separate note enclosed to give him. Tell him you met me at the old school reunion, and I asked for your help. He will want to know where I am.

  Do not try to find me at this stage.

  Keep this letter in a safe place; you might need it to explain your actions later on. I will try to get in touch with you soon.

  John.

  PS. After all this, you won't forget me again as quickly as last time!

  He finally moved away from the front door to the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat at the small round table thinking. There was one thing he couldn't understand, something that bothered him. If Kennedy had written that letter over a week ago, why didn't he ask if he'd received it when he'd seen him at the cafe?

  Puzzled, he rested his chin on his hand. And why didn't you warn me about Stella when I saw you yesterday?

  He observed the milling shadows as darkness gathered about him, yet sensed no danger to himself. You need to warn her!

  In the bedroom, he unplugged his mobile phone from the charger; it vibrated suddenly in his hand, and he almost dropped it. The display said: Stella.

  "Hello, Stella, you're early, what's up . . . couldn't you sleep?"

  After short pause, a man's voice spoke through the handset. "Oh, she's sleeping well. I gave her something to help her. NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME!" he shouted.

  Miller jerked the phone away from his ear. "I'm listening," he said, calmly. There was no need to ask who was calling, he already knew.

  "Aren't you going to ask me who I am?" the caller asked.

  "Tell me, or don't, it doesn't make any difference. I'm only interested in why you called me from Stella's phone, and that she's safe. What is it you want me to listen to that you had to shout like that?"

  "Miller, Mr Miller, I got your number off her phone. Did you know you were the last person she rang? I've been researching you, Mr Miller. I know you like to find missing people, well let me tell you something, Mr Miller; she is most definitely missing and now here's the rub . . . if you try to find her . . . if I get the slightest whiff of you or the police coming near . . . I'll kill her."

  Something about his growling style of speech set Miller to thinking . . . He sounds like Clint Eastwood! It didn't occur to him that the vocal similarity was deliberate.

  "What are you planning to do with her?"

  "Oh, don't worry, Mr Miller. I only want to make her happy," the caller exhaled audibly.

  "As the saying goes, what do we do now?" Then he was gone.

  Miller shuddered. I can't just leave her, but where the hell do I start?

  His mind began to race.

  The caller thought back to the day before; the ease with which he took her was scary, even by his standards. He grabbed her in through the side door of his van. Clamping her mouth, he chloroformed her from behind, just enough to put her out. He checked the street for witnesses, nobody there. "That was easy," he said to himself, and slid the door shut.

  He trussed and gagged her in the back, and when he was done, he rolled her onto her side, and then stroked the inside of her thigh. "No time for that!" he chided himself in a strict voice. Removing his hand, he climbed through into the driver's seat.

  Outside a remote country pub, Miller sat waiting. It was the sort of place where people having affairs met up for a drink, before going off into the seclusion of the nearby lanes. The chances of bumping into anyone you might know were unlikely. Miller, too, had chosen the pub for its seclusion. Nestled at the end of a country lane, the long straight stretch of road before turning into it meant you couldn't be followed by car or motorbike without noticing.

  The sound of a vehicle approaching drifted in on the wind before the car itself became visible. It was Tanner.

  They introduced themselves and once inside, brought drinks, and found a dim corner, well away from the half a dozen or so drinkers collected around the bar.

  "Thanks for agreeing to meet me so quickly."

  "That's okay, you said it was urgent," he held his glass up and tipped it in Miller's direction. "Cheers."

  Miller echoed the gesture.

  Tanner swallowed a mouthful and exhaled loudly enough for a couple of people to turn and look at him.

  "You know . . . I never even knew this place existed," he looked around the pub and took in the five-hundred-year-old detailing. Just the sort of pub he w
ould love to acquire on retirement. He nodded to himself approvingly. "Right, so what's all this about then?" Tanner switched his attention to Miller abruptly.

  Miller twiddled a beer mat in his hand and then leaned forward, dropping his voice so that he was only just audible.

  "Kennedy told me someone was framing him and that this character had him stitched up so tight, he would have to disappear for a while."

  "I don't see how disappearing is going to help him clear his name."

  "Can I trust you, Tanner?"

  "What do you mean by that?" Tanner looked offended. "More to the point . . . you're Kennedy's friend so how do I know I can trust you?"

  Miller looked Tanner square in the face. "Fair comment, but listen, although we went to the same school, we weren't friends. I met him for the first time in years at a Passover dinner. I was giving a talk there; he turned up on my table, and we started talking."

  "What date was that?"

  April the third, a Tuesday night, why?"

  He looked at Miller, gauging his sincerity. "No one has seen him since; he never showed for work in the morning, isn't taking my telephone calls . . ." Tanner hesitated, "Miller, I paid a visit to his house when he didn't answer my calls . . ."

  Miller stared.

  Tanner had something on his mind. "I don't know whether I should tell you this, but I'm going to anyway . . ." When Tanner had finished, he looked for Miller's reaction.

  "You know you said no one has seen Kennedy since he didn't show for work?" he said, examining the detectives face.

  "You've seen him, haven't you, Miller?" he said, steadily returning his gaze. "Okay, let's hear it."

  "Yes, you're right, I have seen him."

  "Where did you see him?"

  "At a roadside cafe, just before you get on the A130. I was waiting in my car for the rain to stop, and he just got into my car."