Long Time Lost

by Chris Ewan

  ‘But that’s my point. His brother is capable of it.’

  Miller grunted and gazed out the window at banks of arid earth and yellowing grass and the looping, cyclical patterns of overhead cables zipping by.

  He could see industrial warehouses, haulage depots, factories, gleaming office complexes and sports grounds. It looked like the hinterland of most major European cities. Looked like a hundred other places Miller had been these past four years.

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ he told Kate. ‘You’re in this situation because of what you saw. You’re sitting here right now because you were the last person to see Helen Knight alive, with Russell, close to where her body washed up. They were arguing. She was distressed. You saw that. It was going to be your testimony.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And he has form, Kate. Anna is evidence of that. The fact I helped her to rebuild her life in the wake of what was done to my family doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘It does for me.’

  Miller’s head rocked on his shoulders, jostled by the shuffle of wheels on track, by the jerk of changing points.

  ‘You should go straight to the hotel and wait for me there. It’ll be safer for you. Lane’s people could be watching my client. They could have followed her to the meeting point.’

  ‘I’d rather we stick together.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But we’ll need to stow our bags first. I don’t want anything slowing us down when we get into the city. Keep your passport and some cash on you. Everything else goes in your suitcase.’

  ‘Whatever you think is best.’

  The train was slowing now, coasting between high-rise apartment buildings, through tunnels and underpasses. Miller looked at the dusty concrete, at the graffiti and litter, and there, in the curved tint of the thickened windowpane, he caught a glimpse his own reflection and looked quickly away.

  *

  Wade’s phone buzzed in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms just as the train’s brakes bit and hissed.

  ‘Where are you?’ Renner asked.

  ‘Rome.’

  ‘Be exact.’

  He flicked his eyes up to the flatscreen monitor at the end of the carriage.

  ‘Just coming in to Roma Termini.’

  ‘Do you have a visual?’

  He pulled the phone away from his ear. What did Renner think this was? A Bourne movie?

  ‘They’re in the next carriage along.’

  Which was a way of fudging the issue. Because in truth, Wade couldn’t see either of them right now. But then, he didn’t need to. The Leonardo Express was a direct service from the airport into the city centre with no intermediary stops. And it was clear where Adams was headed, ultimately, because he had to meet with his client.

  ‘Where are you?’ Wade asked.

  ‘A cafe. Not far from the Trevi Fountain.’

  It meant nothing to Wade. He’d never been to Rome before.

  ‘So I guess we’ll be with you soon.’

  ‘Don’t guess. Call me when you know more.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Lane Shelter for Runaway Teens occupied a redbrick Victorian building close to the centre of Manchester. Little had changed in the years since Jennifer Lloyd had last approached it. She could see the same smoked-glass entrance doors, with the same security cameras angled down over them, and the same blend of dishevelled adolescents sprawled on the stone steps outside.

  But one thing was different. The sign above the entrance had been taken down and replaced with another, more discreet plaque. Officially, the institution was no longer called the Lane Shelter for Runaway Teens, even if Lloyd still thought of it that way, and even if the Lane Foundation still funded it. Now it was known as the Fresh Start Shelter.

  Fresh Start. The rebranding so obviously fulfilled a dual purpose. Yes, the street kids who came here were looking for a new beginning, but so too was the Shelter itself and the family that bankrolled it. The Anna Brooks affair had tainted them both, but the murder of Helen Knight threatened to destroy them.

  Lloyd weaved through the kids on the steps and pressed a button on the intercom fitted next to the entrance. She heard a brash buzz and a sudden clunk, followed by speaker crackle as someone barked, ‘Come in. Make sure the door locks behind you.’

  She entered a deserted foyer, the door clicking shut after her. The kids who bedded down at the Shelter weren’t allowed inside during the day. The hours between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon were when a small army of volunteers stripped mattresses, scrubbed toilets and prepared the evening meal. It was also when the manager of the Shelter could catch up on emails and phone calls and, with a little persuasion, spare twenty precious minutes to talk with a police detective who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘I’m back here.’

  Lloyd tracked the voice to a small office located beyond a cluster of brightly coloured couches and chairs.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  But there was nowhere to sit, which was something Lloyd guessed the man with his back to her knew only too well. There were documents and files stacked high on the desk in the middle of the room, on the floor, on the windowsill, on the visitor chairs.

  The man was sorting through the bottom draw of a metal filing cabinet. His hair was long and brown, tied into a ponytail, and the small of his back was exposed above the waistband of his corduroy trousers and his checked boxer shorts.

  ‘One minute.’

  He didn’t take one minute. He took two. And if he planned on subtracting them from the twenty he’d promised Lloyd, she’d make sure he regretted it.

  Finally, he turned and extended a hand to shake. ‘Sorry about that. Call me Sean.’

  ‘No need to introduce yourself, Mr Ellis. We’ve met before.’

  Lloyd kept her arms folded across her chest and waited until he lowered his hand a little awkwardly.

  ‘It was four years ago. After Sarah Adams was killed. You really don’t remember?’

  ‘No offence, but I spoke to a lot of police around then. It was a tough time for all of us at the Shelter. Sarah was very much loved here.’

  Lloyd hitched an eyebrow at the nametag screwed to the front of the office door.

  ‘So you’re the manager now, Mr Ellis.’

  ‘Sean, please. And believe me, I was much happier being Sarah’s assistant. The money was almost the same and the admin was a lot less painful. I took the job because nobody else would. Especially since I don’t have an assistant of my own any more. Funding cuts, you know?’

  ‘Connor Lane fell out of love with the place? You surprise me.’

  Ellis made a humming noise and faked a sudden need to consult one of the papers on his desk. He was early thirties, tall and lean, with a wispy goatee beard and frameless spectacles.

  ‘Why are you here, Officer?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ Lloyd corrected him. ‘And I’m here because of the news appeal. I’m assuming you’ve seen it?’

  ‘About Nick, you mean? What does that have to do with us?’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me about Anna Brooks.’

  Ellis blinked. ‘Anna? Why?’

  ‘Because I asked. Because you promised to talk with me for twenty minutes and by my count we have at least eighteen minutes left.’

  ‘But why now all of a sudden?’

  ‘Start with the basics. What was Anna like? Was she popular here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say popular, no. She was troubled.’

  ‘Wow. And there I was thinking she ended up here because her life was all pony rides and debutante balls.’

  ‘More troubled than most.’

  ‘How so?’

  He shrugged, looking about him for a distraction he couldn’t quite find. ‘She complained a lot. All the time, really.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Her room-mates. The food. You name it, she complained.’

  ‘About being harassed by Russell Lane?’

  ‘Not at fir
st.’

  ‘But that changed?’

  He sighed and fussed with a yellow charity bracelet on his wrist. ‘She came to me once. About a fortnight before the alleged incident.’

  Alleged incident. Now wasn’t that a phrase loaded with connotations?

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I told Sarah, of course.’

  ‘Did she report it?’

  ‘She spoke with Anna directly.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing.’

  ‘Did Sarah confront Russell to your knowledge?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about you? Did you speak with him?’

  ‘I decided it wasn’t my place to.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  He sighed again, louder this time, dropping his hands to his sides. ‘Because neither Sarah nor I believed Anna. Once she was challenged on a few simple facts, she took back what she’d said. She admitted she just wanted the attention.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘Sarah did.’

  ‘What about Helen Knight? Did she mention anything to you about Russell before she was killed?’

  ‘No, but then she wouldn’t have. She was here in a professional capacity. The law firm she worked for handles all Mr Lane’s legal work. He arranged it so that some of their trainees would help us out on a pro bono basis.’

  ‘Doing what, exactly?’

  ‘Sometimes it was legal stuff to do with the Shelter itself. Our rental agreement, say. Other times the trainees might talk with some of our kids if they needed legal advice.’

  ‘Could any of the kids have approached Helen with some concerns about Russell? Do you think she could have confronted him about something?’

  ‘Look, I’ve answered these questions already. I’ve given prepared statements. I’m really not sure I should say anything else.’

  ‘I know this is upsetting for you, Mr Ellis. I know it’s not something you want to think about. But a young woman is dead and the brother of your benefactor is facing serious charges. Again. Then there’s Patrick Leigh. He stayed here, didn’t he? He was due to tell a jury that he watched Helen climb into Russell’s car outside this place on the day she was killed. Kind of careless, wouldn’t you say? Two deaths linked to the Shelter you manage in less than a year.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but is that some kind of accusation?’

  ‘It’s a question. One you haven’t answered so far.’

  Ellis exhaled and shook his head, exasperated.

  ‘Helen would never have confronted Russell.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she liked him.’

  ‘Liked him?’

  ‘She was attracted to him. Anyone could see that.’

  And some people, Lloyd got the impression, were a little disappointed by it, too.

  ‘How did Russell respond?’

  ‘How do you think he responded? Helen was very attractive.’

  ‘Did you tell Helen about Anna Brooks? Did you warn her?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  Because you were jealous, Lloyd thought. Because you wanted Helen for yourself, probably, or at least wanted to make sure the rich hotshot who dipped in and out of Shelter life, bringing scandal to its doors, didn’t get her instead.

  ‘Russell admitted to having sex with Anna,’ she pressed. ‘Here, at the Shelter.’

  Ellis paused before responding, as if sensing a trap. ‘He could hardly deny it. I understand there was DNA evidence.’

  ‘That’s more than a little inappropriate, isn’t it?’

  ‘These things happen. We all know that.’

  ‘Really? A millionaire falling for a street kid?’

  ‘Please. Nobody said they were in love.’

  ‘No, nobody did say that, did they?’ Lloyd turned from him. ‘Thank you for talking with me, Mr Ellis. It’s been . . . helpful.’

  ‘What about Nick? You haven’t asked me anything about him.’

  She was already on her way out the door. She hadn’t planned to stop and she wouldn’t have done if Ellis hadn’t called after her with quite such urgency.

  ‘They argued, you know. Nick and Sarah. They argued all the time towards the end.’

  *

  Wade hung back after the train pulled in to Roma Termini, waiting until Adams and Kate walked by his window. He counted off thirty seconds, then made his way on to the platform and fell into step with the passengers moving towards the ticket barriers and the main concourse.

  Adams towered over everybody else. He was moving with pace and purpose. It was clear that he knew exactly where he was going.

  For a moment, Wade was pretty sure he was making for the taxi rank, which could have been problematic, but his destination turned out to be a down escalator near the wall of glass at the front of the station. Wade scanned the signs above.

  USCITA/EXIT.

  SERVIZI/TOILETS.

  DEPOSITO BAGAGLI/LEFT LUGGAGE.

  He waited until they’d stepped off the escalator before hopping aboard, descending into a vast underground space lit by coloured fluorescents and filled with shops and food concessions. Adams and Kate had joined a long line of tourists snaking out from the left-luggage department.

  Wade was hungry. He’d snacked on crisps and chocolate on the flight and he could have used a proper meal. But he had no time for that now, so he veered towards a takeout counter and grabbed a salted pretzel before joining the queue himself, maybe fifteen people back.

  Ten minutes later and the pretzel long gone, Adams reached the counter and Wade watched him exchange a suitcase and a backpack for a pair of ticket receipts. Then Adams turned and marched away fast with Kate rushing to keep up.

  Eight minutes after that, Wade reached the counter himself and nodded at a young guy in a faded blue uniform shirt.

  ‘Speak English?’ he asked.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I have two bags to collect. A green suitcase and a black backpack.’

  ‘You have ticket?’

  Wade reached into the zipped pocket on his tracksuit top and removed a tight roll of hundred-euro notes. He tapped the roll on the counter, his massive upper body shielding the bribe from the line of tourists waiting behind.

  ‘Absolutely. It’s right here.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Miller and Kate took an orange city bus west into the bustle of the Trevi district, where Miller jumped off and led the rest of the way on foot through narrow cobbled streets, the heat close to suffocating, Kate struggling to keep up.

  He threw in extra turns, doubled-back on himself and paused in front of shop windows. But he couldn’t spot a tail. He didn’t think they’d been followed.

  The back-up location was a dismal two-star hotel inside a thin wedge of a building, the reception located one floor up, above a failing gelateria where the flies buzzing on the tubs of ice cream vastly outnumbered the customers.

  The old guy working the hotel reception was thin and scrawny, his back bowed, his collarless shirt badly stained.

  Miller felt like a giant standing before him, grit crunching under his shoes, the stench of blocked drains filling his nostrils. He asked the old man if he spoke English, and the man gazed up with yellowed, rheumy eyes and replied that he did, which was a relief, since Miller’s Italian didn’t extend much beyond ciao and per favore and a series of elaborate hand gestures. So Miller gave him Christine’s name and said she was a guest in the hotel and that she was expecting them.

  The old man peered at him closely, then past him at Kate. He spent some time consulting a guest ledger.

  ‘What is your name?’

  Miller swallowed his irritation and introduced himself. The man nodded and studied Kate a second time. Her presence seemed to confuse him.

  ‘She’s also a friend,’ Miller explained.

  ‘She waits for you.’ The man pointed a crooked finger out the door. ‘There is a cafe.’

  ‘She left here?’


  He nodded.

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Si. But another Englishman is looking for her. He came here not so long ago. An hour, maybe. He also said he was a friend.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His lips peeled back to reveal a set of discoloured dentures. ‘I no speak good English, understand?’

  ‘Can you describe this man to me?’

  He did, and his description was detailed. He told Miller the man was white, mid-fifties, fat, badly dressed – which was something, coming from this guy – and wearing a straw sun hat.

  Which made the man Mike Renner, Miller thought. Had to be.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and turned to go, following Kate towards the door.

  ‘Your friend,’ the man called after them. ‘She’s very afraid, I think.’

  But Miller didn’t turn back or acknowledge him. He just placed his hands on Kate’s back and hurried her down the staircase, his heart pumping hard in his chest, his mind taunting him with the dangers Christine had exposed herself to.

  Outside, the street was crammed with people. Tourists, mostly, though there were some Italians in tailored business attire and a cleaner in orange overalls pushing a rubbish cart along. Miller waded into the crowds. He saw plenty of cafes. Plenty of people. But he couldn’t see Christine.

  ‘What does she look like?’ Kate asked.

  But Miller didn’t answer. He was busy asking himself if they’d just been played. He was wondering if the old man in the hotel hadn’t been just a little bit too helpful. Maybe he’d sent them out on a fool’s errand. Maybe Renner had been lurking in the back office.

  But no, he was being paranoid, because finally he spotted Christine sitting beneath a sun-faded parasol at a pavement cafe.

  She looked pensive and fearful, her face angled down, her eyes flitting left to right. She stubbed out a cigarette in a glass ashtray, stabbing it repeatedly until the filter was crushed. She was still tamping away when Miller surged forwards and grabbed for her wrist.

  ‘Get up. Let’s go.’

  Miller had already snatched up her handbag before she’d seen it was him. The handbag was tangled in her arm and her hand flew up with it.