Long Time Lost

by Chris Ewan

  ‘Move,’ he said, quietly but firmly.

  ‘Miller? What are you doing? I haven’t paid.’

  ‘Here.’

  He threw some money on to the table and pressed the handbag into her chest, steering her away from the cafe, smiling tersely at the other patrons.

  ‘What’s happening? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Keep walking.’

  ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Everything will be OK.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Which told Miller that Kate was keeping up with them. ‘What’s going on?’

  Christine’s dishwater-blonde hair was a tangled mess, her skin jaundiced, and there were dark circles around her eyes. Miller had suspected for a while now that she was self-medicating. He hated to think where she was getting the drugs.

  ‘Be calm.’ Miller scanned the faces that surrounded them. There was nobody he recognised. No obvious threat.

  ‘Is it Danny? Please tell me it’s not Danny.’

  ‘Danny’s fine. But we have to go, OK?’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘This way.’

  He picked a path through the tourists, urging Christine ahead of him, closing in on the Trevi Fountain.

  The crowds swelled. The crush got worse. A thousand cameras and smartphones were pointed their way. Miller saw tour groups and holidaymakers, backpackers and street artists. Beyond them all, he saw the great Baroque fountain and the flash of sunlight reflecting off the coins being flicked into the pool.

  He jumped up on to a stone plinth at the fountain’s base and looked all around until a shrill whistle pierced the backbeat of chatter and he turned to see a policewoman in a starched white uniform motioning wildly at him to get down off the stonework.

  Christine tugged on his arm. ‘Is someone following me? Miller? Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘You should have stayed in the hotel. That’s what we agreed.’

  ‘I had to get out. I had to. It was smothering me in there. I was scared.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Kate told her.

  But it wasn’t. Not really. Not yet.

  ‘This way. Hurry.’

  He led them towards Piazza di Spagna, his arm on Christine’s back, Kate skipping along at her side. He stopped and looked back three times and didn’t spot anyone suspicious. Certainly nobody he recognised. He didn’t think they’d been tracked.

  But he was wrong.

  *

  Mike Renner was a long way back. Adams was moving faster than he’d anticipated, but his height and size made him easy to spot, and Renner was able to hide his face whenever Adams stopped suddenly and looked around. It didn’t hurt that Renner had been in Rome a day now, long enough to concede to the pounding heat and invest in new clothes. He had on khaki shorts with canvas boat shoes, a blue polo shirt and a straw hat. He looked like a hundred other sunburnt Brits abroad. He looked about a thousand degrees cooler than Adams right now.

  The big man was sweating prodigiously. His plaid shirt was pasted to his back and his hair was slicked down against his face.

  For the hundredth time that day, Renner asked himself if he should have moved sooner, if there’d been more to be gained by cornering the sad-eyed blonde outside her hotel than waiting for Adams to show.

  And for the first time that day, Renner was about to receive a definitive answer.

  His phone buzzed in his clenched fist and he snatched it to his ear.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the train station,’ Wade replied.

  ‘Well, they’re here, with me. You’ve left me with three of them to track. What am I supposed to do if they split up?’

  ‘Relax. I have something better.’

  Renner crabbed sideways to peer around an overweight American in shin-length shorts and a hockey jersey. Adams was moving on a diagonal trajectory towards the far right of the piazza.

  ‘Better how?’

  ‘They stowed their luggage. I have it now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I have ticket stubs from their flight, other documents, too. They’re travelling under false names. She’s Kate Ryan. He’s using the Nick Miller alias I already told you about.’

  ‘How does that help us?’

  ‘First up, if you lose them, we know they’re going to come back here. They’ll want to collect their stuff.’

  Renner was silent for a moment, thinking it through. Wade was right, although he wasn’t inclined to acknowledge it.

  ‘I also have Adams’s iPad.’

  Renner faltered as a group of Japanese tourists converged on him, following a woman who was holding a yellow umbrella above her head.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I switched it on and there’s some weird security system guarding this thing. I’m thinking there has to be something important on here.’

  ‘Can you bypass it?’

  ‘Oh, sure, because I’ve kept my talent for hacking computers secret from you until now.’

  ‘Then it’s of no use to us.’

  ‘Maybe it can be. I just need some time.’

  ‘How much time?’

  ‘A few hours. Maybe three or four. It’s hard to say exactly.’

  Four hours.

  ‘Fine.’ Renner shook his head. ‘Let me see what I can do. But I want updates, Wade. Regular updates.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jennifer Lloyd accompanied Sean Ellis to a wooden bench on the banks of the Bridgewater Canal. Ellis had said that he was hungry and needed something to eat. He’d asked if she’d like to join him. Lloyd wasn’t flattered, and she wasn’t fooled. She knew the food and the walk were an excuse to get them both out of the Shelter. Maybe it felt like less of a betrayal for Ellis to talk with her away from the place.

  ‘The real tragedy’, Ellis said, tearing open his sandwich bag and lifting a limp cheese-and-pickle-on-granary towards his mouth, ‘is that we didn’t just lose two people on the night of the fire, we lost three.’

  Lloyd waited for him to chew, her sandwich bag unopened in her lap.

  ‘Melanie perished, of course. And Sarah. And that was awful, obviously. But I was beginning to think Anna had turned a corner. She seemed positive about the trial.’

  ‘Even though you didn’t believe her.’

  ‘It wasn’t for me to determine the truth. That was for the jury to decide.’

  Which sounded like a platitude he’d comforted himself with before.

  ‘But the jury didn’t get to decide, did they?’

  ‘Anna ran, Detective Sergeant. Things got very serious very quickly. Running was what she knew.’

  ‘Did you talk with her before she left?’

  ‘No. It was several weeks since I’d seen her last.’

  ‘Because she was kicked out of the Shelter.’

  Ellis took another mouthful of sandwich, a gob of pickle clinging to the corner of his mouth. ‘We found her a place in another shelter that seemed more suitable to her at the time.’

  ‘Because Connor Lane made you evict her?’

  ‘No.’ He swallowed. ‘Mr Lane never made us do anything. He still doesn’t.’

  ‘But you knew he’d want her gone. So who told her? Was it you?’

  Ellis stared at the opposite bank of the canal, his gaze becoming unfocussed. Eventually he nodded.

  ‘Why not Sarah? She was the manager.’

  ‘Sarah asked me to do it.’

  ‘You sound like you resent her for that.’

  ‘Sarah was a remarkable woman. An inspiration to me. But I admit I was a little disappointed in her. Asking Anna to move on was the right decision to make, politically speaking.’

  ‘And ethically?’

  ‘Ethically I’m not so sure.’

  ‘I took another look at the file. A witness claimed that Anna was seen talking with Sarah on the afternoon of the fire. With Melanie, too. On the steps outside the Shelter. She seemed agitated.’

  ‘I was told the same thing.’

  ‘Do you know what they
discussed?’

  ‘No. I didn’t hear about it until afterwards.’

  ‘And what about since then? Has Anna contacted you?’

  Ellis shook his head and took an even bigger bite from his sandwich.

  ‘It’s not so unusual,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘The kids at the Shelter are grateful for what we do. I know they are. But they feel no obligation to explain themselves when they choose to move on. And Anna would have heard about the fire and how Melanie and Sarah were killed. She would have run into other kids from the Shelter, on the streets.’

  ‘You’re saying she was scared?’

  ‘Perhaps. But we still don’t know what caused that fire. Or who. There’s never been any proof it had anything to do with the Lane family, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I wouldn’t work at the Shelter if I believed for one moment that was possible. Who knows? Maybe it was Anna herself.’

  But it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. The fire, maybe, but the fatal gunshots? It didn’t fit.

  ‘What about Nick?’ she asked. ‘What about his arguments with Sarah?’

  Ellis grimaced, as though reluctant to spill. Before Lloyd could press him, her mobile began to vibrate. The call was from Foster.

  ‘Curious thing,’ Foster began, before she could speak. ‘We got a hit on the Kate Ryan passport. A notification came in from Italian border control at Rome Fiumicino airport.’

  ‘Rome?’

  ‘But here’s the strange part – the notification was sent automatically, close to an hour ago. I just called for more details. It doesn’t exist any more.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Frankly, neither do I. It could be a system error.’

  ‘What about passenger manifests for flights out of Hamburg to Rome? Can you get access to those?’

  ‘I already did. There’s no record of Kate Ryan on any flight. No flag against Nick Adams, either.’

  ‘I think we can assume he has a fake ID of his own. How often do false flags crop up?’

  ‘I asked the guy I spoke to the same thing. He said never.’

  ‘So the Ryan passport triggers a blip, then the blip disappears. Could it have been deleted somehow?’

  ‘The guy I spoke to says not.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind about it. Just like you asked me to.’

  She hung up, leaving Lloyd to lower the phone, trying to assimilate the new information. Ellis was staring at her, waiting.

  ‘The arguments.’ She nodded at him. ‘Tell me about them. Did they focus on Melanie’s decision to testify?’

  ‘Mostly, yes. And about Sarah wanting to continue her work at the Shelter. Nick never really got comfortable with the idea of her working for Mr Lane. She didn’t, of course. Not directly. But he couldn’t get his head around that.’

  Because he wasn’t stupid, Lloyd thought. Because all the foundations and board members in the world couldn’t disguise who made the real funding decisions that would be the life or death of the charity.

  ‘To your knowledge, was Nick ever violent towards Sarah?’

  Ellis’s throat bulged, as though he’d tasted something foul in his sandwich.

  ‘Once. Perhaps. She came to work with a bruise on her face. Another on her wrist. She was cradling her arm. But she wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two, three weeks before she died?’

  ‘Could Nick have killed her, do you think?’

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know. Don’t they say that anyone is capable of killing, given the right circumstances? Or the wrong ones, I suppose.’

  ‘Including Nick?’

  Ellis set down his sandwich.

  ‘If he was in a complete rage, I guess I couldn’t rule it out completely. They were in love. I believe that. But their relationship wasn’t perfect. They both worked so hard. That created some conflict. But Melanie?’ He shook his head. ‘Nick doted on her. She was everything to him. And to shoot her? To burn her body? I think it’s inconceivable.’

  Ellis scrunched up the paper bag from his sandwich, then stood abruptly and kicked a toe into the ground.

  ‘I really have to be getting back.’

  Lloyd stayed seated. She was thinking about everything he’d said, looking for weak points and for flaws. There were plenty she could identify, but none she felt the need to challenge him on quite yet. And she was thinking about the phone call from Foster. Thinking about Rome.

  ‘Just one more thing: if you had to guess, where do you think Anna is now?’

  Ellis blew air through his lips, crushing his paper bag between his hands.

  ‘Truthfully? She could be anywhere.’

  Which was exactly what was beginning to concern Lloyd. Because what if Fiona was right about Nick and she’d been wrong all along? What if he hadn’t run because he was a killer but because he was protecting someone? Had he spirited Anna away somewhere? Was that what he was doing with Kate Sutherland, too?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Spanish Steps were a cascade of crumbling stone, blood-red azaleas and sun-dazed tourists. Miller found a spot towards the top of the steps, in an oblong of false shade being cast by the ochre facade of the church of Trinità dei Monti. He lowered himself on to the baking stone as Christine and Kate perched on the step below.

  Rome shimmered before him; a clash of terracotta rooftops, teetering buildings and wayward alleyways. The city hummed with life, with noise, with the plaintive bleat of car horns and the jammer of voices.

  He looked towards the knot of people clustered around the boat-shaped fountain at the base of the steps. He couldn’t see anyone climbing towards them, paying them too much attention, scoping them out.

  Christine bunched her hands in her lap, rocking slightly. ‘I want to know about Danny.’

  ‘He’s safe. I told you that.’

  ‘Is it Steve? Is he here?’

  Miller shook his head, still scanning the crowd. Christine fumbled for a cigarette, stabbing it between her lips, flicking a lighter.

  ‘Do I have to leave this place?’

  ‘Yes, Christine. You have to leave Rome.’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She inhaled raggedly. ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘This is Kate.’

  Miller didn’t elaborate and Christine seemed to assume that Kate was another part of his team. A new member at her beck and call.

  ‘Did he tell you about Steve?’ She turned to Kate. ‘About my Danny?’

  ‘Should we be talking like this?’ Kate shielded her eyes and gazed up at Miller. ‘Isn’t it dangerous?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  And it was. There were people all around them, sitting and admiring the view, eating ice cream, reading. People with their own lives and cares to worry about.

  ‘Steve’s my husband,’ Christine was saying. ‘Was, I guess I should say, although I couldn’t exactly hang around for a divorce, could I? He killed a kid. Hit and run. I was in the car. I reported it, afterwards. Had to, didn’t I? But my Steve is a scary guy. All kinds of scary. He heads up a big gang in Liverpool, see? So Miller here told me I had to get away. I kind of figured I was dead anyway. What did I have to lose?’

  ‘And Danny?’

  Her eyes dimmed, as if she was shying away from looking at something within herself.

  ‘Danny’s my son. I wanted to take him with me but the afternoon I was leaving he was playing at a friend’s place. I went to pick him up but when I got there he was already gone. Steve beat me to it. Steve knew.’

  But the truth was Steve hadn’t known. It had been coincidence. Sheer bad luck. Miller had told Christine this a hundred times, though he’d long ago come to realise that she’d never accept it. He still couldn’t tell if it was because she honestly thought her thug of a husband had some kind of all-knowing power, or because it eased her conscience to tell herself she could never have got away without leaving Dan
ny behind.

  ‘So now Miller keeps a watch on him for me. And Hanson sends me updates. Photos, videos, that kind of thing. One day, when it’s safe, Becca’s going to get word to him. Then he’ll come and join me. We’ll be together again.’

  There was a toneless, robotic quality to her voice, as if she repeated the scenario to herself several times a day. Maybe she’d even believed it. Once.

  Miller ached when he heard her talk this way because he knew the hard reality of Christine’s situation, even if she wasn’t ready to confront it quite yet.

  Danny’s eighth birthday had been a month ago and Hanson had managed to clip some photographs from Steve’s Facebook page for Christine to pore over. She’d cried when Miller had shown her – she was often crying – and he hadn’t dared tell her how in awe of his father Danny had become. Steve had poisoned his son’s mind, telling Danny his mother had abandoned them both. Miller doubted there could be a reversal. He was pretty sure Danny was lost to Christine for good. And now, she’d lost Miller and his team, too.

  ‘Tell me about Clive Benson.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t do that, Christine. We know he contacted you. We know he came to Rome. You two met. Why? What did you say to each other?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honestly. I don’t.’

  ‘He’s in hospital,’ Kate told her. ‘He was attacked. He was beaten very badly inside his apartment.’

  ‘Well, that sounds shitty for . . . What did you say his name was again? Colin?’

  Miller clutched his face in his hands. It was all he could do not to reach out and shake her.

  ‘Christine,’ Kate said, ‘the men who beat Clive, the men who put him in hospital, we think he could have told them about you. They could be here looking for you.’

  ‘Here?’

  Christine turned her head wildly, half standing. Miller pulled her back down again.

  ‘We can’t help you until we know what you talked about. So tell us now. What did he come here to say?’

  She cast her cigarette around in careless loops, looking up at Miller with a familiar pleading in her eyes. She’d often looked at him that way whenever she’d asked him about Danny, and sometimes when she’d asked him for other things, a form of comfort he couldn’t possibly provide.