Prey (13 page)

Winter attached the speakers to his laptop and navigated to his Mozart file. He selected Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor and hit play. It was six-thirty, so he had half an hour to shower and change before he went out.

This concerto had been written towards the end of Mozart’s life and was widely considered to be a masterpiece. Influential, too. Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor was inspired by this. It was also something of an oddity in that it was one of only two minor-key concertos that Mozart wrote, and one of only three where the first movement was in 3/4 time. Technical details aside, Winter loved it for the drama of the opening movement. And the playful variations on the main theme near the start of the third movement always made him smile.

Over the years he’d collected recordings of every piece that Mozart had written. For some of the more popular pieces he had three or four versions. His aim was to own the defining performances of each work. It was a never-ending task. Mozart was more popular now than he’d ever been, so new recordings were appearing all the time.

Eyes closed, he stood in the middle of the room conducting an imaginary orchestra. It was springtime in Vienna, and he was in the original Burgtheater, and the orchestra was on fire. He silenced the strings, leaving space for the woodwind to do their thing, and then the clarinet floated in with a hint of the main melody.

Heaven.

Winter opened his eyes and sat down on the bed to check his emails. For once there weren’t any requests for his help, which made a welcome change. Most days there would be at least one request. Two or three weren’t unusual.

There was an email from the lead investigator in the Paris case wondering why he hadn’t appeared at Charles de Gaulle airport. He was pissed off, but there was nothing Winter could do about that. Right now his priority was finding the blonde. And anyway, time was on their side there. That killer was on a two-week cycle and the last body had been found a couple of days ago. Winter typed out a quick reply to say that he’d been unavoidably detained in New York and would get there as soon as he could. He hit send, reckoning that would buy him a few days.

Next he poured a whisky, then hung out the window to smoke a cigarette. Full dark had fallen and there was an ominous low moon hanging in the sky. Winter looked up at the stars and wondered how many of them were already dead. The idea that he could be looking at stars that had died millions of years ago had always amazed and fascinated him.

For a while he smoked and sipped and thought things through, the cold night air blowing into his face, the silence broken by the occasional vehicle and a dog barking off in the distance. It had been a long day. He was looking forward to climbing into bed and shutting his eyes. Best-case scenario, he might manage eight hours of unconsciousness and wake up feeling like a new man. Unfortunately, four or five hours of disturbed sleep was probably more likely.

Even though he was trying not to, his thoughts kept straying back to the mystery woman. She was a puzzle, and when he got his head into a puzzle he just couldn’t let go. It was just the way he was wired. He had one of those brains that never quite stopped. The best he could hope for was to get it ticking over in a lower gear for a while. And figuring the puzzle out didn’t help. Not really. There were always going to be new puzzles to solve.

Winter shut his eyes and imagined himself back into the diner again. He could smell the grease in the air. He could hear Elvis
,
and the clatter of the dying heater
.
And he could see the blonde reflected in the window. She walked down the aisle between the counter and the tables and came over to where he was sitting. They spoke for a bit, then the cook appeared with his breakfast and she grabbed hold of him and stabbed him in the eye. Winter rewound the memory and played it again with everything slowed down to half speed. He heard those soft padding footsteps, watched her come closer. He went over every word that had passed between them, looking for hidden meanings and subtext, trying to crack the code.

Nothing.

He trawled through the memory again, this time at quarter speed, looking for anything he might have missed. He felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough, but wasn’t sure what that breakthrough might look like. Then again, that might just be wishful thinking.

The diner door in his head banged shut, the woman walked off into the night, and Winter was left none the wiser. Tonight he’d get a halfway decent sleep, and tomorrow he’d hopefully wake up with a clearer head and a less jaded perspective. Sleep usually did wonders for getting his head straight.

He grabbed some clothes from his suitcase and laid them on the bed. Clean underwear, a fresh pair of Levis, and a T-shirt that had a photograph of a psychedelically stoned Lennon taken during his Sergeant Pepper days. The clothes were laid out head to toe, like the person wearing them had suddenly vanished. All except the socks, which were in a neat ball on the pillow. He never bothered unpacking because he never stayed anywhere longer than two weeks. What was the point in putting your clothes in drawers and hanging them up in closets if you were going to be moving on in a couple of days?

He hit the shower, blasting it as cold as he could stand for as long as he could stand in order to blow away the worst of his fatigue. By the time he’d towelled himself dry he was feeling almost human. Not all the way there, but close enough to pass a casual inspection. He dressed quickly, smiling to himself as those playful variations from the third movement filled the room.

The world he inhabited was one where the human imagination had been set on ‘destroy’. From time to time he needed a reminder that it was also a place filled with light, a place where incredible and wondrous things could be created. That was where Mozart and Lennon and Hendrix and all those other amazing musicians came into their own. To hear the world as they heard it, even just for a moment, gave him reason to hope.

He whistled along to the music as he got dressed, improvising countermelodies and harmonies, and just having fun. Even in his darkest moments there had always been music. The movement reached its conclusion and a blissful silence settled across the room. Winter took a moment to appreciate this, then shut down his computer and headed out to meet his date.

Willow Avenue ran parallel to Main Street and was filled with large houses that looked like they’d been built back when the town was founded. It was a short ten-minute walk from Myrtle House, a one-cigarette walk. Winter took out the note Granville Clarke had given him and unfolded it. An invitation to dinner was tagged on the bottom, the wording old-fashioned and kind of endearing.

Winter checked he’d got the right house then climbed the steps to the porch and gave the old iron bell pull a sharp tug. Deep inside the house, a lonely bell sounded. Footsteps in the hall, then the door rattled open. Clarke stood there, the dull light softening the sharp angles of his face. He was dressed in tweed trousers and a plain white shirt that had the top button undone. He waved Winter inside and shut the door.

‘Hope you like takeout Chinese,’ he said.

‘Always. Do you want me to go pick it up.’

‘Not necessary. I’ve got an arrangement with Mr Li. He knows where I live. At least, his son does. I slip the kid a couple of bucks and he brings the food straight to my door. I’ve never been much of a cook. That was Jocelyn’s department.’

Winter held up the half-full bottle of Springbank that the NYPD had got for him. ‘I wasn’t sure what meds you were on, but I brought this along in case you fancied a drink.’

Clarke smiled. ‘Let me go grab a couple of glasses. Ice?’

‘Not for me.’

‘Good man. People who put ice in a single malt ought to be shot.’

Winter laughed and followed Clarke through to the kitchen. The inside of the house looked as old as the interior of Myrtle House, with one major difference: this wasn’t fake. Maybe the grandfather had bought it, and it had been passed down through the generations, like the
Gazette
. Clarke got some glasses down from a cupboard, placed them on the antique oak dining table and Winter poured out two decent-sized measures. He handed one of the drinks to Clarke. They clanked glasses and said ‘Cheers’. Sips and smacked lips followed.

‘This is good.’

‘It’s not bad,’ Winter replied.

‘So what do you want to eat?’

‘I’ll leave that one to you since you’re obviously the expert.’

‘I guess you could say that. I’m thinking about buying shares in the place. Of course, the only problem with that is that I won’t be around to see them mature.’

Clarke chuckled gently then pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles back into place. He picked up the phone, dialled a number from memory, and ordered the food. No name, no address. No need. Winter glanced over at the stove and wondered if it had been used since Jocelyn passed away. Breakfast at the diner was a regular thing, so was Chinese takeout from Mr Li. With those meals bookending the day, you’d only need a quick sandwich at lunchtime to keep you going. Winter tried to work to a similar dietary plan. A large breakfast, a large dinner, and regular snacks in-between to keep his blood sugar level on an even keel.

They walked through to the living room, their footsteps loud on the bare wooden floors. The room had a lived-in feel. One wall was made up entirely of wall-to-floor bookcases that were crammed to overflowing. There were a real mix of titles. Classics at the upper end of the scale, trash at the lower. This library wasn’t here for show, this was the library of someone who loved to read.

Clarke saw where he was looking and said, ‘Most of those were Jocelyn’s. She was the reader.’ He let loose with another soft chuckle and added, ‘My contribution are all those airport thrillers. Jocelyn used to give me such a hard time about those. Said I was turning my brain to mush.’

Clarke fell into a long silence, and Winter had a pretty good idea what he would have said next if he’d been able to get the words out. He would have told him that he’d give anything to be with Jocelyn for just one more day, even if she was nagging him half to death. Winter walked over to the chessboard that was set up on the coffee table. Like the board back in Clarke’s office, this one was frozen mid-game too. Winter took a closer look and saw that it was the same game.

‘You used to play with Jocelyn?’

‘All the time.’

‘And this was the last game you played together?’

A nod.

‘White or black?’

‘Black.’

‘She was kicking your ass all the way into the middle of next week, you realise that, don’t you? Checkmate in five.’

Another chuckle. ‘Yeah, I know. She always won.’

Winter nodded down at the board. ‘Fancy a game. And don’t worry I can put the pieces back where they are.’

Clarke gave him the look.

‘I’m good at remembering things.’

‘How good? Photographic-memory good?’

Winter grimaced. ‘I’ve never been a fan of labels.’

For a moment, Clarke looked like he was about to snap into journalist mode. Instead, he started moving the pieces back to the start position. ‘Loser pays for dinner?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Clarke held out a couple of pawns in his closed fists and Winter tapped the left one. Black. The old guy sat down and moved his pawn to e4. Winter countered by moving his pawn to e5. As opening moves went, it was pretty uninspiring.

They were a couple of dozen moves in to the game when the doorbell rang. The Li boy with their food presumably. Clarke excused himself and Winter killed time studying the board. As things stood it was pretty much a tie, which was what he was aiming for. If he wanted to, he could get checkmate in nine. That said, if he didn’t move his bishop, then Clarke could push forward and get checkmate in six.

The game eventually ended in a draw and Winter reached for his wallet. Their empty plates were pushed to the side of the coffee table, chopsticks lying neatly on top. The smell of Chinese food hung in the air.

‘Put your money away,’ Clarke told him.

‘We had a bet, remember? Winner pays for dinner. Since it was a draw, I say we split it.’

Clarke narrowed his eyes. ‘You threw the game. That was a nice touch, by the way. Playing for a stalemate. Now, if I’d actually won, then I would have been
really
suspicious.’ Winter said nothing and Clarke added, ‘You’re way smarter than the average bear, right?’

There was no point denying it, so he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t the only person in the room who was smarter than the average bear. Clarke might be on the last lap, his body failing, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. He began moving the pieces back to the start position.

‘Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to play again, and this time you’re
not
going to pull your punches.’

‘You sure? I’m warning you now, it won’t be pretty.’

Clarke laughed softly. ‘I’ll get over it.’

Winter played white this time, and showed no mercy. As soon as Clarke moved, he responded. Attack, attack, attack. The game was over in minutes. Clarke sighed out a ‘Phew-wee’ and sunk back in his seat, clutching his whisky glass to his chest. He was grinning, though, a wide ear-to-ear beamer.

‘That was mighty impressive, young man. Where the hell did you learn to play like that?’

‘Books and computers.’

‘You could have been a pro.’

‘I don’t have the discipline.’

‘So, what are we talking about here? Have you got one of those freakishly high IQs?’

Winter answered with a shrug.

‘How high?’ asked Clarke.

‘Let’s just say that I’m way above average but a mile behind Da Vinci, and leave it at that.’

‘You know what Da Vinci’s IQ was? How the hell does that one work? I didn’t think the IQ test was around in his day.’

‘It wasn’t. The figure attributed to him is just some expert’s best guestimate.’

‘Yet you still know what it is. So what does that say about you?’

‘I don’t know. What does it say?’

‘It says that you’re an overachiever.’ Clarke paused for a moment and studied Winter closely. ‘Also, you’re bright, that much is obvious. And you like people to know that, but pretend you don’t. You’ve got a high degree of empathy, too. I’m sure if I asked you what you’re doing here this evening you could give me a dozen justifications, and they’d all be bullshit. And it really doesn’t matter anyway. The truth is that today has been one of the best days I’ve had in a long, long time. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate this.’ He lifted his glass and chuckled softly. ‘And this.’

Winter gave him the look. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re trying to profile me.
Me!
’

Clarke chuckled again, but didn’t deny it. Winter reached for the whisky bottle and topped up their glasses. He glanced over, trying to figure the old guy out. He might have been able to beat him at chess, but he’d think twice before taking him on at poker.

‘Okay. How do you fancy playing cop?’

‘Well, I’ve got to say that it sounds way better than being annihilated at chess.’

Over the next ten minutes Winter outlined everything that had happened. Clarke had promised he wouldn’t breathe a word, and Winter believed him. You didn’t survive this long as a small-town journalist without knowing how, and when, to keep a secret. And it was good to have his thoughts out there in the open. All the same there were still far too many questions and nowhere near enough answers.

Never enough answers.

After he finished, Clarke didn’t say anything for a long time. He just sat there and nursed his drink. Little thoughtful sips. He placed his glass back on the table.

‘You feel guilty about the cook’s death?’

‘Not guilty as such, but I need to catch this woman. Let’s face it, if I hadn’t been there, he’d still be alive. Incidentally, his name was Omar.’

‘So what can you tell me about Omar?’

‘Not much. He’d been living in the US for almost a decade and was married with a couple of kids. And he was a really good cook.’

Clarke smiled and they fell into another long silence. Winter picked up his glass, swirled the whisky around and took a sip. Clarke was staring off into space, miles away. Patience wasn’t Winter’s strong suit but he was happy to wait this one out. He was enjoying the old guy’s company, enjoying the whisky. It was good to get off the merry-go-round for a short while.

‘Way back when, I did a front-page lead about a boundary dispute,’ Clarke said eventually. ‘On one side you had the town committee. They owned the disputed land. At any rate, they
claimed
to own it. I can’t remember the name of the person involved because we’re talking decades rather than years, so, for argument
’
s sake, let’s call him Mr X. With me so far?’

Winter nodded for him to go on.

‘Anyway, Mr X was adamant about where his boundary lay, and was very vocal on the subject. As far as he was concerned the committee was made up of scum-sucking bottom feeders. And that was one of the more polite phrases he used. So I write the story, get a few quotes from the mayor to balance out Mr X’s argument, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of things.’

‘Except that wasn’t the end of things.’

‘No it wasn’t. The mayor accused me of being biased, and he probably had a point. So the next week I write the story again, this time from the committee’s point of view. The thing is, all I did was rewrite the first couple of paragraphs of the original story and rework a few of the other paragraphs.’

Clarke stopped talking and repositioned his spectacles, pushing them back into place with his fingertips. Winter sat patiently waiting. Yet again the only time that had any real meaning was time as defined by Granville Clarke.

‘For all intents and purposes the two stories were identical,’ Clarke continued. ‘To this day the thing that gets me is that nobody noticed.
Nobody
. Not even my father, and he edited both of them. Don’t you find that incredible?’

‘Yes and no. If I’m honest, nothing much surprises me any more.’

‘So cynical for someone so young. The point is, you can take a whole bunch of facts and use them to tell a dozen different stories. Now, it seems to me that what you’ve done here is take the facts as presented by your mystery woman and weave your own narrative from it. I can see why you’ve done that, but I think it’s a mistake. The story you manage to divine from the facts is irrelevant. What you should be asking yourself is what story is your mystery woman trying to tell you? That’s all that matters here. The story she wants to tell.’