Long Time Lost

by Chris Ewan

  They’d fallen into the habit of sleeping together three, maybe four times a week, often in the middle of the day when Nicoli returned from a night shift, though sometimes, like tonight, in the early hours of the morning. To begin with, it had been purely about the sex, which was rarely more than mediocre. But in the last six weeks or so, it had also become about something else.

  It had turned out that Nicoli worked as a nurse at a sanatorium in the heart of the city. It had also turned out that Nicoli had a habit of taking things that didn’t belong to him. Like cash from Christine’s purse, for example. And like drugs from the sanatorium.

  The first time Nicoli had shown Christine the pill stash he kept in his bedside drawer, he’d popped some blue capsules out of a foil pack and offered them to her with a laconic shrug and no attempt at an explanation. Christine didn’t normally stay over but that afternoon she’d swallowed the blue pills and had drifted away into a deep, stress-free slumber which had lasted until she found herself alone and disorientated in Nicoli’s apartment the following day.

  Since then, Nicoli had introduced Christine to a spectrum of pills of differing colours and shapes, some of which did things that Christine didn’t particularly like, and others that made her feel a whole lot better. Lately, she’d developed an appreciation for a lozenge-shaped yellow pill with a name she’d looked up online using Nicoli’s laptop. The pills dulled Christine’s anxiety, muted her emotions and generally made her life much easier to cope with. They were also mildly addictive. So she’d followed Nicoli’s habit and had started taking some things of her own – namely, a key to his apartment and a steady supply of the yellow antidepressants.

  Christine guessed that Nicoli knew she was helping herself to his stash. In the last week, the yellow pills in his bedside drawer had been regularly topped up. But she also knew that if he woke now and caught her with his entire supply stuffed inside the pockets of her jeans, things might turn bad.

  But then, judging by the message Becca had just given her, things were bad already. Becca had told her to leave immediately for the prearranged back-up location Miller had shown her. She’d told Christine that she shouldn’t go back to her apartment, that she had no time to pack and that she probably wouldn’t be returning.

  Which meant she wouldn’t be seeing Nicoli again and she wouldn’t have any more access to the yellow pills.

  Staring now at her reflection in the smeared mirror above the bathroom sink, her hair coarse and straw-like, her skin waxy, the light twitching away, Christine palmed two more of the pills and washed them down with a handful of water.

  Was it simple insomnia that had made her stir and creep out of bed to fetch Nicoli’s laptop and begin surfing the Web? Or was it some profound but impossible-to-explain instinct for survival? The same instinct, perhaps, that had led to her being in Rome in the first place?

  Whatever the answer, Christine had woken a little under an hour ago and padded through to the living room, where she’d spent some time scanning websites for titbits on the British soaps she could no longer watch, until she’d grown bored and had logged into the Dungeon Creeper message forum, as she’d done so many times in the past before clearing her search history and closing down the laptop.

  Only this time was different, because there was a message waiting for her, flagged as urgent, telling her to call a UK number as soon as she could.

  Christine didn’t have a phone in her apartment. She had nobody to call and there was nobody who might call her. Miller hadn’t allowed her to keep a mobile. So she’d nudged the door to Nicoli’s bedroom closed, her hands trembling, her pulse jumping in her throat, and she’d picked up his phone to dial the number on the message, then whispered a few hoarse words before listening to what Becca had to say and feeling her legs give way from under her.

  For the second time in her life, Christine’s whole world seemed to contract and collapse in an instant.

  Even through the yellow-pill haze, she could still feel the stinging jolt of it now, staring deep into her dilated pupils, her heart seeming to skip and falter in keeping with the flickering bulb overhead.

  She backed away from the sink and her reflection, and floated out past Nicoli’s bed, barely pausing to glance at his sleep-mushed face and loosely curled fist, then she stalked on through the living room and out into the stairwell, resisting the throb and lure of the door to her own place, gliding down the stairs, out the front of her building and along the street.

  She never once glanced up to see the balding man in the crumpled shirt who was watching her from her bedroom window.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Take-off was smooth and the plane half empty. The carrier was German, a low-cost outfit that Miller figured had to be losing plenty of money on this particular flight. There were spare seats either side of him, the row behind was vacant and only a teenage boy wearing a pair of oversized headphones occupied the row in front.

  Miller could have used some time to relax but he was tense and uneasy. They’d boarded the flight without being challenged but he was afraid the flag against Kate’s ID might be restored before they landed in Rome.

  Needing a distraction, he removed Melanie’s drawing from his wallet, flipped down his tray table and spread the paper flat. He stared at the storybook house Melanie had sketched, taking comfort, as he always did, in the way she’d drawn herself holding Sarah’s hand. Then his eyes drifted to the brown horse with its stubby legs and its too-long tail, and to the man in the cowboy hat sitting on the horse’s back. He looked at the stick man’s raised hand. Waving goodbye or hello? Leaving or returning?

  ‘Sir, would you like something to drink?’

  A stewardess was smiling down at him. He ordered coffee, tucking the drawing away, avoiding her kindly eyes as she set his cup on a paper napkin. She lingered, wreathed in hairspray, then inclined her head and asked if he wouldn’t prefer to move to the window or the aisle? But Miller told her he was fine where he was. The flight was only an hour and forty minutes long. Hanson had reserved him a seat in the emergency-exit row, so he had ample legroom, and he had no use for a view because his thoughts were distraction enough.

  Or they had been, until a few minutes later when Kate veered sideways on her return from the toilet cubicle and swooped in next to him.

  ‘Oh, relax, Miller. Nobody on this flight is interested in us.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Really?’ She turned in her seat. ‘Where’s the threat coming from? Is it that cute old couple with the guidebooks and maps? Or the girl who’s had her face in her phone since before we boarded?’

  ‘I had Hanson book us separate seats for a reason.’

  ‘And that reason made sense before we got on this plane. But right now we’re just two strangers in a cigar tube in the sky. Nobody cares if we talk for a little while.’

  Miller took a sip from his coffee. He hadn’t told her about the hiccup with her ID. Why worry her more than necessary?

  ‘No risks. I told you that.’

  ‘And I’ll return to my seat when we’re coming in to land. I’ll ignore you at passport control. But I have to talk to you first. I want to know about the girl you say Lane is looking for.’

  Miller shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the square of tissue paper attached to his seat. It was warm in the cabin and the constant droning of the jet engines was making him drowsy. He hadn’t slept properly for days. For years, it felt like.

  ‘Tell me about her, Miller.’

  ‘You know, you make an awful lot of demands.’

  ‘You already told me she exists. And I’m only asking because I’m pretty sure I know who she is. I just need you to confirm it for me.’

  Miller rolled his head towards Kate and opened one eye.

  ‘Pretty please?’

  ‘She’s a client, Kate.’

  ‘How about I say her initials? If I’m right, you can just nod.’

  ‘It’s not a game.’

  ‘So tal
k to me. Include me. I know about Clive. I’m flying with you to meet client two. We’re basically a team here.’

  ‘I already have a team.’

  ‘Right. And Becca and Hanson know who this girl is. So do Lane and his goons, if your assumption is correct. Doesn’t it make sense to keep me in the loop?’

  ‘Go back to your seat. Read the in-flight magazine. Order some duty-free.’

  ‘Look, I’ll write it down for you.’

  She tugged the paper napkin out from beneath Miller’s coffee cup and reached for the little plastic spoon he’d used to stir in his creamer. She dunked the spoon in his coffee and dabbed at the napkin. The result, when she was finished, was clumsy and blurred, but legible all the same.

  AB.

  ‘Am I right? I am, aren’t I? You’d tell me if I was wrong.’

  Miller looked down at the paper napkin and the coffee stains swelling and spreading.

  ‘Huh.’ Kate leaned across and raised her lips to his ear. ‘Anna Brooks,’ she whispered.

  Miller stayed very still, acutely aware of the weight of her breath on his skin.

  He clenched his jaw.

  Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘I knew it.’ Kate backed away. ‘But I still can’t quite believe it. Everyone thought she’d just run away after the fire.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘But not with you. No one knew that.’

  ‘Well at least one person suspected it. And now he wants her found.’

  When Miller had first heard the name Anna Brooks, he had no inkling that she’d be any different to so many of the other teen runaways Sarah had helped over the years. He had no idea that she’d be the trigger for everything bad that was to come.

  Sarah had managed the Lane Shelter for Runaway Teens on behalf of the Lane Foundation since it was first opened in the mid-2000s. Put simply, the Lane Shelter was a safe haven for homeless kids. It was also Sarah’s passion.

  Sarah had never lived on the streets. She’d never suffered abuse or been witness to domestic violence or become addicted to drugs or to alcohol. But her role at the Shelter had always been far more than just a job for her – it had been a calling.

  Miller was busy himself. His role with the Protected Persons Service of Greater Manchester Police wasn’t nine-to-five, either. But although he was professional and diligent, he’d never had anything like Sarah’s fervour.

  The needs of the Shelter came to shape their family life. Whenever Miller had time off, he’d invariably end up spending it there, carrying out odd jobs and chores. It was the same for Melanie. She was around the place so much that she became friends with lots of the Shelter kids. Sometimes, she’d invite a few of the girls home for dinner or to watch movies. And naturally, Melanie had wanted to please her mother, she’d been keen to impress, but she’d also shared her belief in the innate goodness of people, in the potential of the kids at the Shelter to overcome the obstacles that had been placed in their way and move on to better lives.

  So it was no surprise, ultimately, that Melanie was the one Anna confided in, even though what she had to say rocked the Shelter and everything Sarah had built to its core.

  ‘All those rumours,’ Kate was saying now, shaking her head. ‘About Russell. About how he’d got to Anna and that was why the trial collapsed. That he’d killed her, even. Him or his brother.’

  ‘They would have done, if they’d had the opportunity.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  Miller stared at the back of the seat in front of him, not quite believing what she’d said. A fierce rage swirled inside him and he gripped very hard to the tray table, as though he might rip it free.

  ‘Tell that to my wife and daughter.’

  Kate was quiet for a long moment. He could tell she was searching his face but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Go back to your seat, Kate.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘It’s done. Go back to your seat. We’ll be landing soon.’

  She reached for his hand, his bunched fist, but when he pulled away she finally backed off and left him alone once more.

  Miller couldn’t help thinking of Melanie, of the way she’d come to him very late one night, tears staining her face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he’d told her, once she’d finally got through what she’d had to tell him, once the halting sobs had stolen away her words. ‘Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see. I’m glad you told me. We’ll fix this. We’ll figure it out. You and me, together. Mum will understand.’

  But Sarah wouldn’t. He knew that then and he sure as hell knew it afterwards. It had killed him to tell her, to see everything she’d worked so hard for crumble with his words.

  They’d liked Russell. All of them had. Miller had talked with Sarah many times about how Russell really did seem to be sincere and honest, so unlike his older brother or his father. There were times, even – and Miller felt a flood of shame whenever he thought of this now – when he’d speculated with Sarah about Melanie’s fledgling relationship with Russell, about whether she’d end up marrying the guy, end up rich.

  Russell had volunteered at the Shelter, too. He was there almost as often as Melanie. There, Sarah often claimed, because of Melanie.

  He’d never made a big deal out of who he was. He hadn’t ever pointed out that it was his family’s money that funded the Shelter’s work. He’d pitched in like anyone else. Cleaning rooms, serving meals, folding laundry.

  But he’d also been doing something else, something none of them were aware of. He’d been sneaking into Anna’s room, slipping into her bed. He’d been touching her when they were alone. Touching her in ways she’d asked him not to. And then he’d done much worse than that, and Melanie had found Anna afterwards, had seen with her own eyes the rage and hurt Russell had unleashed.

  It was Miller who’d insisted there had to be an investigation. Miller who’d contacted the rape unit. Miller who’d pushed for Russell’s arrest. And later, as the trial drew nearer, as Connor began to exert his influence, as he even, once, sent Mike Renner to Sarah’s office with veiled threats, it was Miller who’d tried to persuade Sarah that she and Melanie should enter witness protection and move to a safe house – at least for a little while, until the trial was concluded one way or another.

  But Sarah had refused and they’d argued repeatedly.

  ‘I just don’t believe it,’ she’d said. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think Russell is capable of it. He’s always been good around us, Nick. Always. I don’t think he’s guilty.’

  And then, on that very last night, just a few short hours before Lane’s hired killer would come, before he would stalk inside their home, shoot for the head and set fire to Miller’s world, he’d finally had his fill of it.

  ‘It’s not that you don’t believe it,’ he’d snapped. ‘It’s that you choose not to believe it. Because the truth is you’d rather sacrifice one girl if it means you can keep your precious Shelter open for a hundred more potential victims.’

  The words finally uttered, he’d stormed out of the house and driven away in a fury, undone by the terrible thing he’d said to the only woman he’d ever loved, by how stricken she’d looked as he’d left her, by the fear she might never forgive him.

  And the most painful thing of all – the thing Connor Lane had made sure of – was that he couldn’t ever take it back.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  After touchdown and taxi, Miller was one of the first to stand and fetch his backpack from the overhead bin and begin the awkward sideways shuffle to exit the plane. He emerged into fierce heat and white light and the smell of jet fuel and scorched rubber, tramping down the wheel-away steps, pacing towards the terminal building.

  Then there came the long, air-conditioned walk to passport control, the anxious wait to queue and pass through, and afterwards, Customs and the chaos of Arrivals, and finally
a trek along a chain of rubber travelators to the platform for the Leonardo Express. A train was waiting to depart, its sleek, bullet-shaped engine compartment branded with swirls of red, white and green. Miller fed some euros into a ticket machine and stepped aboard a few minutes before the doors slid closed and the train pulled away.

  He wasn’t certain Kate had made it. He’d been reluctant to look back and check. But five minutes later, with the express gliding alongside a multilane autostrada choked with dusty European city cars and delivery trucks, he’d felt a tap on his shoulder and had looked up to see her standing in the aisle, gripping hold of the handle to her suitcase.

  ‘I don’t have a ticket. I didn’t have time.’

  ‘I bought two.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m forgiven?’

  ‘It means you can travel on this train without fear of being fined. Sit down.’

  She clambered into a seat on the opposite side of the table from Miller, her suitcase next to her, her back to the direction of travel.

  ‘Listen, about what I said on the plane . . . ’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s forgotten.’

  ‘It matters to me. What happened to your family was terrible. I know that.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But I stand by what I said. About Anna.’ She bit her lip, looking up from beneath lidded eyes. ‘The way you helped her to disappear cast doubt on Russell. A lot of people said that he’d killed her. Or that his brother had arranged for her to be killed.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So part of the reason I agreed to testify against Russell for Helen’s murder, and part of the reason I agreed to accept the consequences that came with that decision, was because of what so many people believed had been done to Anna. Because it made me even more sure that he killed Helen, too.’

  ‘You were afraid.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And you were right to be. You know that now. You’ve seen what his brother is capable of.’