Long Time Lost (9 page)

Kate rushed back inside the apartment, Miller following close behind. He snatched for her arm, calling her name, but Kate wrenched herself free, knocking into a suitcase on the floor.

She steadied herself on the kitchen counter, sweeping her hair from her eyes. She was angry and confused. She had a strong urge to lash out.

The apartment was a mess. There were suitcases and laptop bags open on every available surface, loaded with computer equipment and clothes.

Hanson clambered up from behind a table, wrapping a cable around his elbow and hand, just as Becca hurried out of the bedroom with an armful of clothes.

‘You OK, sweetie?’

‘Not even close. I want to know what’s going on.’

‘If it helps any, you’re not the only one.’

Kate flung a hand at Miller. ‘How do the police know I’m with you?’

‘Someone must have been watching your place on the Isle of Man. They must have seen me warn you.’

‘The police?’

‘I don’t think so. Not unless they said something to you?’

Kate’s jaw was tensed. She shook her head in a fast, irritated jerk.

‘So then it was the man Lane sent to kill you. He must have had you under surveillance.’

Hanson blew air through his lips. ‘Doesn’t explain how the cops know about it.’

‘They must have found where he was based. They must have searched his things.’

‘This fast?’

Miller shrugged, checking the time on his watch.

‘So what’s the play?’

‘I have you booked on separate flights out of Bristol airport. Your flights depart at 21.00 and 21.20. Kate’s headed to Lisbon. You’re set for Madrid.’

‘How long until we’re out of here?’

‘Give me another ten minutes and I’m good to go.’

‘Becca?’

‘I can make that.’

‘Good.’ Miller raised an eyebrow at Kate. ‘How’s your Portuguese?’

‘Are you insane?’ She sliced her hands through the air. ‘I’m not going anywhere yet. That news report said you’re wanted for murder.’

The room fell silent.

‘Not cool,’ Hanson told her.

‘Sweetie, really,’ Becca warned.

Miller looked at Kate for several long seconds. He didn’t blink or alter his expression. But Kate could tell he was angry. It was there in his eyes.

‘Are you really asking me if I killed my family? Because you know better than anyone what Lane is capable of, Kate.’

‘Maybe. But right now what I’m interested in is what you’re capable of.’

Becca moved as if to intervene but Miller raised both palms, warning her off. He didn’t break eye contact.

‘You need to hear me say it? Fine. I didn’t kill my wife and daughter. I did everything in my power to protect them. Lane sent a man to shoot them dead. The same man set fire to their bodies and our house when he was done. He burned them, Kate. He burned them right up.’

Kate swallowed hard, trying not to let his intensity deflect her. ‘So why does it say otherwise on the news?’

‘Honestly? I have no idea. But there was a line of enquiry put forward by one investigating officer. Sarah and I argued before she was killed. This particular detective got it in her head that an argument might have turned violent. She was wrong. You’re wrong.’

‘We don’t hang with killers,’ Hanson put in.

‘You
hang
with me.’

‘Yeah, but you’re the good kind of killer. There’s a difference.’

‘There is?’

‘There is to us.’ Becca took a step forwards. Then another. She approached Kate like she was a bomb she intended to defuse. ‘We’re short on time here, honey. You can trust us now or you can go it alone. Without Miller, I’d give you two days tops, but it’s your call.’

Kate looked between them. She was cautious by nature. She liked to weigh the pros and cons of any given situation before reaching a decision. But this situation was so far beyond anything she’d ever had to contend with that the only thing she had to go on was her gut.

‘We’re safe here for now, right?’ Her attention was locked on Miller. ‘You wouldn’t have booked these apartments under your own name. You probably dealt with the owner over the phone, or maybe you had Hanson or Becca do it. So nobody knows we’re here, even supposing someone in that cafe recognised us after we left. Which means we have longer than fifteen minutes to play with.’

Miller didn’t say anything.

‘I want to see those Green Flags you were telling me about. I want to see them before I go with you, or I don’t go with you at all.’

Miller looked at Hanson, then gauged Becca’s response. But Kate already knew that she’d won. He needed her just as she needed him. She didn’t know quite why yet, or what it was he hoped to achieve, but somehow, she was the key to it all.

‘Five Green Flags,’ he said finally. ‘Then we’re out of here.
All
of us.’

But they didn’t get five Green Flags. They got four instead. They popped up in rapid succession, a series of bland, two-word private messages sent between 7.02 and 7.10 p.m. The usernames of Miller’s clients comprised short random words and long numerical sequences. The process was fast and slick and wholly depersonalised, and Kate got the impression it had become simple routine for the individuals checking in, almost as if it was just another weekly chore, like taking out the rubbish or shopping for groceries.

Kate was sitting in front of the only laptop Hanson hadn’t packed away, with Hanson, Becca and Miller standing over her. It was a little over a thirty-minute drive to Bristol airport. Time enough – just – to make their flights.

Except that the fifth Green Flag stubbornly refused to come through.

They waited past 7.20 p.m. Then seven-thirty. Then a quarter to eight.

Nobody spoke and the silence between them grew more fraught with every passing second.

Then something happened. Something so unusual that, according to Miller at least, it was completely unprecedented.

The time was 7.48 p.m. and the message that blipped up onscreen consisted of just two words.

RED FLAG.

The group drew a collective breath and crowded in around Kate.

‘Where’s it from?’ Miller asked.

‘Hamburg,’ Hanson told him. ‘Client number three.’

Clive Benson shovelled takeout currywurst into his mouth and looked through his apartment window at the plane trees and shop awnings of Schanzenstrasse, searching for a sign that he hadn’t screwed up.

Clive didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He never did. But he wasn’t only searching for strangers hurrying towards his building or unfamiliar vehicles. He was also hunting for meaningful numbers in the scramble of graffiti on the wall of the
apotheke
opposite, in the telephone number listed at the end of a letting agent’s sign, among the prices of the fruit and vegetables displayed outside the late-night corner shop.

In nearly every way, Clive was entirely, even painfully, ordinary. He was in his early forties with too little hair, a too-big paunch and a too-fatty diet. But in one crucial respect, Clive was exceptional. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, numbers would speak to him. They might, for example, leap out of a newspaper advertisement to reassemble themselves into a combination that triggered pleasing childhood memories. Or perhaps he’d be strolling along the street and the digits on a series of car licence plates would rearrange themselves into the postcode of his first home, or the telephone number of an old girlfriend who’d cheated on him.

Numbers worked with Clive. They
co-operated
with him. He’d always been able to rely on them, even when nothing else in his life made sense.

Clive wasn’t a crackpot. Licking now at the curry powder he’d sprinkled over his wurst, he knew he didn’t possess some kind of extraordinary superpower. (And anyway, what kind of superhero would that make him? Acutely Aware Man?) It was just that he noticed things, analysed sequences and saw patterns, that would pass most people by. Probably he was on some kind of spectrum. Not that the thought bothered him a great deal. After all, there was a time when numbers had made him a lot of money.

Clive had started his own betting empire straight out of school. At first, he’d operated an unofficial book for a handful of friends, but within a few years he’d gone legit. Business was good and the profits were encouraging, but as his outfit matured and the stakes grew higher, one thing never altered: the numbers always remained on his side.

Until, that is, he began taking bets that weren’t really bets at all. Until a certain criminal gang in Manchester with a sideline in recreational pharmaceuticals made him an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse. Until, in short, he laundered drug money through his three high-street betting outlets in return for not being beaten, or stabbed, or, ultimately, killed.

At the bidding of a series of increasingly scary men, Clive had attempted to manipulate his precious numbers and the numbers hadn’t liked it. So they’d rebelled.

Two years ago, the police had come calling with a warrant to take a look at Clive’s business records. They had forensic accountants at their disposal who were able to see exactly where the numbers were giving him away.

Clive was presented with a choice: testify against the drug gang and spend a lifetime in witness protection, fearing constant reprisals, or spend eight to twelve years behind bars, locked up with the same men who would be convicted on the basis of his skewed record-keeping.

The odds weren’t good either way. The numbers looked very bad indeed. Until a third, previously unheard of opportunity presented itself.

Which had led Clive to Hamburg, courtesy of the man who called himself Nick Miller, but who, it now turned out – by virtue of the Sky News channel on the cable TV in the laundrette below his apartment – wasn’t called Miller at all.

Life in Hamburg had been tough from day one. Clive spent his days lonely and isolated, afraid to make any meaningful connections in case he somehow gave himself away. He existed in a constant state of anxiety, terrified in one moment that the British police would somehow locate and deport him, and in the next that a member of the gang he’d betrayed, and whose assets had been seized along with the rest of Clive’s business, would track him down and take revenge.

In the early weeks of his stay, Clive had sought refuge among the tawdry distractions of the nearby Reeperbahn – the all-day nightclubs, the live sex shows, the dive bars and prostitute booths – but soon, even those had lost their appeal. Now, he ventured out as little as possible, spending long days in his miserable flat, which had a major damp problem courtesy of all the steam from the laundrette, and which, in turn, aggravated his asthma.

But the real problem was that Clive’s precious numbers had been forbidden to him. Nick had said that he couldn’t get back into the betting game because he had to lead a different life now. And though Clive could appreciate the logic of it, could even, deep down, acknowledge that it would be close to impossible to get a piece of the Hamburg numbers action anyway, he also couldn’t deny the need that was bubbling inside of him.

The numbers had been calling to him, whispering in his ear. They’d been telling him to go somewhere else. Somewhere hotter. A place with an expat British population. Spain, or maybe Portugal. But some place, anyway, where he could start small, test the water, build anew.

And now, he was sure, he’d found a way to get there. A number would be his salvation.

Two hundred and fifty thousand.

That was the sum he’d specified to Connor Lane. That was the amount that would fund his escape.

The only problem had been how to collect, since a bank transfer was definitely out. Nick had Hanson monitoring all Clive’s accounts. So cash on delivery was the only option. And anyway, Lane had wanted someone there when Nick showed up.

Another betrayal. Clive felt a twinge of guilt. Nick had helped him to begin with, there was no denying it, but his rules were suffocating him. He lived on a few measly euros a day, earned by cleaning the offices of an international consultancy firm two bus rides away. It was demeaning. This evening, Clive had finished his final shift and he didn’t believe any of the late-working execs would notice when he failed to show the following day.

A knock on the door.

Clive peered down from his window at the entrance to the laundrette. The street was deserted. He hadn’t seen anyone approach.

Setting his currywurst aside, he shuffled through his living room to his front door, wiped his hands on his vest and undid the three security bolts Nick had insisted on fitting.

The man standing before him was short and muscular, with grey lidless eyes set wide in his head. He was wearing a blue-and-white tracksuit and carrying a weighted holdall. The number 26 was printed on the front of his tracksuit top.

Which, to Clive’s mind, could mean one of two things.

It could be a simple 26, or a 2 and a 6, or a 6 and a 2, all of which were harmless.

But if you took that 2 and you divided the 26 by it then you got 13. And 13 was always bad.

Clive wheezed as he opened his mouth and asked, ‘Do you have the money?’

‘No money, Clive. There’s been a change of plan.’

Late morning the following day, Miller stood among the pyramids of fruit outside the corner shop across from Clive Benson’s apartment. There was a police van and a patrol car parked in front of the laundrette. An officer in a blue uniform and high-lace boots guarded the door.

It was obvious to Miller that something had gone badly wrong. The Red Flag was no hoax. But it was also clear that whatever had happened here had taken place many hours ago. The uniformed officer looked complacent, almost bored, and there were no emergency lights or rubberneckers gathered on the street.

Kate leaned towards him. ‘What do you think?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘Do you think your client is up there?’

Miller didn’t reply. It was possible, he supposed, but if Clive was inside his apartment, it was because he was dead. That would explain the presence of the police and it would account for the stutter of camera flashes that kept lighting up the window above the laundrette sign. Miller had seen the work of enough forensics units during his years with Manchester CID to have a reasonable idea of the procedures the German force would be following.

Kate leaned closer. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘
We’re
not going to do anything. You shouldn’t even be here right now.’

Which had to be the understatement of the year. Miller was breaking all his rules by allowing Kate to accompany him to Hamburg, let alone to the street where one of his clients was based. But then it wasn’t as if she’d left him with a lot of choice. As soon as the Red Flag had blipped up, she’d insisted on coming with him. She needed to know his system was still secure. She had to see it functioning with her own eyes before she could commit to it for good.

Miller could understand where she was coming from but he’d had to decline. He had no idea what he’d find when he reached Germany because Clive hadn’t responded to any of Hanson’s attempts to contact him. So he’d refused Kate’s request point blank, only for her to up the stakes.

‘I’ll go to the police. I’ll give them your alias and tell them about everything you’re involved in here. I’ll give them Hanson’s name. Becca’s, too.’

Becca had looked like she might slap her. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Try me.’

‘That would be a really bad idea, Kate.’

‘Without us, Lane will find you,’ Hanson added.

‘Maybe.’

‘No “maybe” about it. He’ll track you in days.’

‘You told me you were the best.’ Kate looked at each of them in turn. ‘All I’m asking is for you to prove it.’

‘You’re blackmailing us.’

‘I’m seeking assurances. You’d do the same thing if you were in my shoes.’

Miller doubted that. Not after everything they’d done for Kate already. But her threat was explosive enough to be treated as genuine. They both had to get out of the UK before the police appeal gained momentum. And Clive needed his help.

So now here they were, standing together in the middle of Hamburg, the scent of ripe fruit hanging in the air and an unknown situation confronting them from across the street.

Miller said, ‘Stay here. Try to look inconspicuous.’

Kate blinked up at him and he knew right away what a dumb thing that had been to say. She was wearing some of the clothes Becca had picked out for her – tan chinos, a green fleece and a blue baseball cap – but she still looked terrific.

Miller had on beat-up jeans over his scuffed desert boots, a flannel shirt and a blue nylon jacket. He also had a small rucksack fitted over his shoulders.

‘Where are you going?’ Kate asked him.

‘I need cigarettes.’

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Maybe now’s the time to start.’

The corner store was the size of a cramped studio flat and stocked as if it was a supermarket. Everything anyone in the neighbourhood could possibly desire was jammed inside. The way Miller saw it, a corner store was the lifeblood of any neighbourhood. It guaranteed gossip.

He worked his way towards a counter that seemed to have been hollowed out from cascading rows of confectionery. A guy in his early twenties was sitting behind the cash register, flicking through a magazine.

‘A pack of Lucky Strike.’ Miller’s German was good, close to fluent. He’d spent a lot of time in the country these past few years. ‘And a box of matches.’

The guy had on heavy eyeliner and he wore multiple studs in one ear. He reached behind himself without looking up and his fingers landed on the cigarettes, then crabbed along to the matches. His nails were painted black, the same tone as his hair.

‘Eighteen euros.’

Miller smiled. Tourist rates.

He removed a fifty from his wallet and laid it on top of the cigarette packet.

‘The apartment opposite. The police outside. What have you heard?’

The guy looked up blearily. He didn’t smack gum, but he got close.

‘You’re screwing me on the cigarettes, friend. But that’s OK. You can keep the fifty. Just tell me what you know.’

The guy smirked sleepily as he reached out and took the cash.

‘The man who lives there is English. Like you.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘People tell me different things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Some say he was stabbed. Others that he was shot. One customer told me they found him hanging from a noose.’

Miller’s stomach plummeted.

‘He’s dead?’

‘It’s what I hear.’

‘Who found him?’

‘The woman who runs the laundrette called the police. The lock on her door was broken. She’s had trouble with junkies busting in. We all have, round here. She was afraid to go in alone.’

Miller thanked the man and scooped up his cigarettes and matches, drifting outside without another word, at which point his phone buzzed and he fumbled it to his ear.

He heard Hanson say, ‘I got a hit for our client’s name in a hospital database. He’s in intensive care.’

‘You’re telling me he’s alive?’

‘As of two minutes ago, although his medical notes haven’t been uploaded yet. I guess they’re still reacting to the situation. According to the records, he wasn’t admitted until ten o’clock this morning.’

Miller gazed blindly ahead. If what Hanson was telling him was really true, then it was a reprieve, in a way. So why was he finding it so hard to believe? Why did the hearsay from the goth behind the shop counter seem more credible?

All too slowly, he became aware of Kate tugging on his arm, calling his name.

‘Miller, we have a problem.’

And that was when he snapped out of it and saw that she was right. He’d been staring blankly at the uniformed officer on the other side of the street. The officer was peering back at him and now he was lowering his mouth to the radio clipped to his jacket.

‘We need to get out of here,’ Miller said. ‘Right away.’

‘Huh?’ Hanson asked, over the phone.

‘Not talking to you.’

 He switched his mobile to his other hand and raised his right arm in the air. A cream Mercedes taxi swooped towards them and Miller snatched open a door at the rear, bundling Kate inside.

‘Which hospital?’ he asked Hanson, ducking in next to Kate.

‘The University Medical Center. You need an address?’

‘No, no address. I’ll call you back.’