Long Time Lost (8 page)

Kate walked with Miller along the seafront promenade, keeping her head down against the driving wind. It was raining steadily, the tide a long way out beyond the sodden beach and slickened mud flats.

They trudged by a derelict outdoor swimming pool, the word
TROPICANA
picked out in bas-relief on stonework that was discoloured and crumbling. The lights of the Grand Pier shone gaudily through the drizzle; forlorn streaks of neon in search of absent tourists.

‘Hungry?’ Miller asked, pointing ahead through the rain in the direction of the Winter Gardens, where a grinning cartoon whale was suspended above a fish-and-chip cafe.

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

The cafe was close to empty, the windows all steamed up. Stepping inside and standing in front of the heated counter, smelling the hot frying oil, water dripping from her hair and clothes, Kate had a sudden sensation of the world around her being too vibrant – overloaded with colour and sounds and smells.

Miller, sensing her unease, stepped up and ordered cod, chips and mushy peas twice, then asked for two mugs of hot tea that he carried over to a window booth with leatherette seats.

Kate drifted after him, sliding in opposite. She dabbed at her face with paper towels plucked from the metal dispenser at the end of the Formica table. There was a boxy television high in the corner of the room, above the service counter. It was screening Sky News, the volume on low.

‘Hey, you’re smiling.’ Miller shed his jacket and began rolling his shirtsleeves up his forearms.

‘I used to beg my parents to bring me to places like this. They thought they were slumming it but I loved the smell, the atmosphere. There’s a romance to a place like this, don’t you think?’

She curled her hands around her mug, looking down into her tea.
Romance
. What had she said that for?

‘How’s it going with Becca?’

‘You tell me.’

She was using the new voice Becca had been working on with her. It wasn’t dramatically different. Just a slight change in tone and pronunciation and emphasis. It was going to be difficult to maintain and already she was wondering if she’d stick with it.

‘It’s a good start. How about being in here? You feel OK?’

Kate did a one-shoulder shrug, reaching for the sugar dispenser, pouring a stream of granules into her tea. She didn’t take sugar normally, but maybe it was something the new Kate should try.

‘Because a lot of our clients feel threatened once they’re in the real world again. That’s why I thought it would be good to get out of the apartment. See how you cope.’

‘I’m OK.’

Miller leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the bench, water leaking from his hair. He looked tired and dishevelled, his fingers tapping restlessly on the faux-leather upholstery.

‘Thank you,’ Kate told him.

‘Hey, it’s only a chip dinner.’

‘No. For saving my life. I should have said something before.’

He smiled, a real slow-burn number, and Kate had to will herself not to look down, touch her hair, do any of the hundred and one other things Becca had mentioned.

‘Sure you’re all right? You look like you’ve just had a stroke.’

‘It’s Becca.’ Kate shook her head. ‘She’s got me questioning everything I do.’

‘You’ll get used to it eventually. I did.’

She tipped her head on an angle and stared at him, only now aware that she had no idea how much of what she was seeing was genuine. Were any of his reactions really his, or where they all part of an act? Was everything he said and did filtered and distorted?

‘Messes with your head, doesn’t it? But if you want to see something authentic, watch me eat this.’

He pointed towards the heaped plate of food that was being slid in front of him by a pretty waitress, no more than sixteen years old. The girl passed Kate her own meal, then smiled shyly, almost bowing, before backing away.

Kate popped a chip in her mouth and bit down. It was hot and soft, dowsed in vinegar. She prodded the battered cod with her fork and found it to be crisp on the outside, fleshy in the middle. The peas were, well . . . they were just like most other mushy peas, but they tasted wonderful.

‘Good?’ Miller dunked a chip in ketchup, folding it into his mouth.

‘The best.’

‘I only take my clients to the very finest restaurants.’

‘Do you meet all of your clients?’

‘That’s the way it works.’

‘Hanson and Becca, too?’

‘I couldn’t do any of this without them.’

‘What’s Becca’s story? She said you did some kind of favour for her. A big one.’

Miller chewed, watching her. He didn’t answer right away and she wasn’t sure he was going to. Then he reached for a napkin and dabbed at the corner of his mouth.

‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘I didn’t like to press her.’

‘But you’re willing to press me?’

‘I’m curious is all. You’re asking me to trust her. She’s kind of high-profile.’

‘And you’re worried she might be unreliable? Don’t be. She had an ardent fan who got much too ardent. I warned him off.’

‘How?’

‘That’s the part you probably don’t want to know and I’ll probably never tell you. The guy was scary, Kate. He had prior convictions.’

‘And you took justice into your own hands.’

‘I told you before – I’m good at providing protection. I protected Becca. Just like I’ll protect you.’

‘And Hanson? Shouldn’t he be in Silicon Valley making obscene amounts of money instead of breaking the law on your behalf?’

‘Probably. And one day I guess he will be. But for now, he works with me.’

‘So what did you do for him? More vigilante justice?’

‘Isn’t it possible he might just believe in helping save people like you?’

‘Oh, please. Becca tried that one on me already.’

Miller held her gaze, smiling tightly.

‘The truth? OK. Hanson works with me because of Sarah.’

‘Your wife Sarah?’

‘Yes. But if you want to know more about it, I suggest you ask him.’

‘Maybe I will.’ She speared a bite of fish with her fork and popped it into her mouth. ‘So what else do I need to know about how all this is going to work?’

‘Lots, probably. But the main thing we should talk about is the system you’ll use to check in.’

‘Here? Is that safe?’

Miller made a show of glancing around the cafe and Kate turned in her seat to track his gaze. The waitress was busy wiping down the counter with a dishcloth while an overweight guy in a white tunic and checked trousers poured a basket of uncooked chips into the deep fat fryer. An elderly couple were seated at a booth towards the back, chomping through pie and chips.

‘I think we can risk it. I gave you a phone to call me on before. Remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘Well, we can’t do that when you’re out in the field.’

The field.
As if she was some kind of spy now.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s complicated. Hanson-level complicated. He changes my phone all the time for a bunch of reasons I don’t pretend to understand, but the bottom line is that a phone is out for you.’

‘So what do I use instead?’

‘Have you ever heard of Dungeon Creeper?’

‘I think I may have dated him once.’

Miller reached into his jacket and removed an iPad Mini from the inside pocket. He switched the tablet on and swiped a greased finger over the screen, tapping it multiple times before turning it for Kate to see.

‘Dungeon Creeper is an online role-playing game. It has a big following in Europe. Germany, mostly.’

Kate stared at the home page. There was a lot of flashing text, some spooky music, plenty of cartoon-style graphics. She could see dragons, dwarves and scantily clad damsels.

‘And you can communicate via this?’

‘There’s a message board with thousands of members. People use it to pass on tips or to trade weapons and other stuff.’

‘Power-ups.’

‘No wonder Hanson likes you.’

Kate took hold of the iPad and muted the sound. She clicked on a button marked
ENTER
and a new screen opened up. She saw more dwarves, more dragons and more busty girls in fur bikinis.

‘So what do I do?’

‘Hanson will give you some login details. Every Tuesday, between seven and eight o’clock in the evening, GMT, you’ll send a private message to the username Hanson will provide you with.’

‘And what will I say?’

‘If everything is good, and you’re safe, you type “Green Flag”.’

‘Green Flag. That’s it?’

‘Assuming everything’s OK.’

‘And if it’s not?’

‘Then you type “Red Flag”.’

‘Wow, Miller, that’s a pretty complex code. I really hope I can remember it.’

‘None of our clients have ever had to send us a Red Flag. If you follow the rules, you won’t have to, either. I’ll be checking in with you in person every three weeks or so. You won’t know exactly when but I’m not trying to catch you out. It’s just that I never know when I’ll be with a particular client. Take what happened with you. I had to respond very fast once we knew you were under threat.’

‘What if I have a problem on a day other than a Tuesday?’

‘You can send a Red Flag at any time. Hanson has an automatic alert set up.’

Kate powered off the iPad and slid it back across the table.

‘What if I can’t get to a computer?’

‘You have to.’

‘And if I can’t check in on a Tuesday?’

‘You have to do that, too. It’s your first and only priority every week. If we don’t hear from you between 7 and 8 p.m., we come for you right away. We’ll be with you within twenty-four hours. Faster, if we can make it.’

‘By which time it could be too late.’

Miller gathered in the iPad and butted it up against the table edge, pursing his lips.

‘Like I said, nobody has ever sent us a Red Flag.’

‘Today is Tuesday.’

She made a point of looking over towards the clock above the serving counter. The time read 6.20 p.m
.

‘Yes, and the reason I’m telling you all this now is that I want you to watch tonight. I want you to see all those Green Flags popping up. We do it with everyone we introduce to the system.’

‘How many Green Flags am I going to see?’

She half expected Miller to duck the question, or to tell her she wouldn’t be able to watch every message. But he didn’t flinch.

‘Five.’

So there were five other individuals being protected by Miller. Six, now, including her. Not a big scheme. Not a huge operation by any stretch of the imagination. Which she supposed was a good thing.

She remembered what he’d told her right at the beginning. He’d talked about a discreet, highly bespoke service. And yet it was one that required all of his time. He had to be on call at a moment’s notice, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What kind of life was that? What kind of drive would sustain someone to live it?

Then she thought of something else.

There weren’t just six of them in the system. There were seven, in reality, if you included Miller himself. He was the hub, no question, but he was in hiding, too. From the same man as Kate. Which brought everything full circle. And was probably a risk. Possibly a sizeable one.

‘Are you hiding any of the others from Connor Lane?’

Miller looked away from her, towards the rain-drenched seafront. But all there was to see was the steam on the glass.

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘But it’s possible?’

‘Anything is possible, Kate. But the other people in the system aren’t your concern. We have your back. That’s all you need to know.’

Kate pushed her plate aside. She reached for her mug and leaned back from the table, glancing up at the television in the corner of the room.

And almost dropped her tea.

She was looking at a picture of herself. The photograph had been taken four years ago, when the law firm she was working for refreshed all the staff profiles on their website. The word
MISSING
was stamped across a
BREAKING NEWS
banner at the bottom of the screen.

Kate set her mug down too hard, drawing the waitress’s attention. She knew that she should smile, act casual, roll her eyes at her klutziness. Maybe then she could stand and lead Miller outside.

But she could do none of those things.

‘What is it? Kate?’ Miller’s phone started to buzz inside his jacket. ‘Damn.’ He fished it out, turning at the same time to see the television for himself, letting go of a low groan.

‘Stay calm. We’ve got this.’ He put his phone to his ear, grabbing his jacket and the iPad, sliding out of the booth. ‘We’ve seen it,’ he said, into the phone. ‘We’re on our way back.’

But Miller hadn’t seen everything. Not by a long way. Because as he’d started talking, another image had appeared on screen. It was a picture of Miller. Younger, smarter, neatly groomed in a suit and tie.

And scrolling across the bottom of the television was a ticker-tape message.

Connor Lane raised the television remote from the corner of his desk and paused the live news feed, freezing the image of Nick Adams on the wall-mounted screen.

‘You still think this was a good idea?’

He pointed the remote at Mike Renner. The two men were sitting in Connor’s study, which had been his father’s study before him and was furnished like a gentleman’s den. His desk chair and the club chair Renner was slouched in were upholstered in green leather with brass studs. Nearby was a globe that doubled as a drinks cabinet.

Not that Connor felt like offering Renner a drink anytime soon.

‘You wanted him found.’ Renner’s shirt was greying at the cuffs and collar, his tie tight as a ligature around his jowly neck.

‘By you, Mike. Not by the police.’

‘He knows how to hide. I had to try something big to flush him out.’

Connor’s gaze slid back to the television.

‘He’s changed his appearance.’

‘But not his size. He’s still huge. Practically an ape. Someone will notice.’

‘And when they do?’

‘We’ll have a lock on him.’

‘Most likely inside a police station.’

‘Which is going to be an uncomfortable situation for him to be in with Lloyd involved.’

‘You’re placing an awful lot of faith in her, Mike.’

‘One thing Larry taught me is when the stakes are high, you play your strongest hand.’

Connor turned his head slowly, lips pressed thin. Both men knew that Connor hated it when Renner alluded to the way his father would have handled a particular situation.

‘Even if your strongest hand is a bluff?’

‘Especially then.’

‘Has it occurred to you that now he’s come back, the girl may do, too?’

Renner knew the girl Connor was referring to. Anna Brooks had disappeared four years ago, only days before she was due to testify in court that Russell had raped her. Russell had admitted to having sex with Anna, although he claimed it had been consensual.

Anna had vanished on the same night Nick Adams had gone underground. The same night his wife and daughter were killed. The same night, to all practical purposes, that the prosecution case against Russell had collapsed.

Both men were convinced that Adams had hidden Anna Brooks from them.

‘That’s highly unlikely.’

‘I want her found, Mike. She can’t become an issue again. Not now.’

‘And I’m working on it. I’ve
been
working on it. But the first step is Adams. We find him and it unlocks everything else.’

Connor was about to respond when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. His PA, Stacey, ventured inside.

Stacey was, without question, Connor’s least competent employee. Several times a day she revealed herself to be painfully dim. But she was also physically desirable and unashamedly awed by Connor’s wealth, and she more than compensated for her many shortcomings by certain tasks she regularly performed against, on top of and beneath his desk.

‘I told you I wanted privacy.’

Stacey wrung her hands. Her skirt was still a little rucked up from a pleasing, if all too brief, interlude in Connor’s day a half-hour earlier.

‘I have a call for you. He says it’s urgent.’

‘Then take a name.’

‘He won’t give me a name. He says you’ll definitely want to talk to him. Says it has to do with an item on the evening news.’

Her eyes strayed to the image of Nick Adams on the television, then dropped to her hands.

Connor shared a look with Renner.

‘Put him through. Close the door.’

The two men waited in the sudden charged silence, the only noise the fading percussion of Stacey’s heels and the static hum of the television screen.

Then the phone on Connor’s desk started to buzz. He answered the call on speaker.

‘Mr Lane?’

The voice was drawn and wheezy. Not someone Connor recognised. Renner’s shake of the head signalled it wasn’t anyone he knew either.

‘Who is this?’

‘Who I am doesn’t matter. It’s what I can do for you that matters.’

‘This number is unlisted.’

The man’s laboured wheezing filled the room. Connor could hear the faint beat of dance music in the background and the yobbish chanting of a group of men. Was that German they were shouting?

The whispery voice said, ‘We have mutual acquaintances.’

‘None of my acquaintances would pass on this number to a stranger who won’t give me his name.’

‘Somebody did, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But let’s not get sidetracked. How about we focus on what I
can
give you, Mr Lane?’

‘And what is that exactly?’

‘The man on television. The man I’m guessing you’d especially like to find right now.’

Lane hitched an eyebrow at Renner, who pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded that he should proceed.

‘Supposing I know the man you mean. Why would you do that for me?’

‘You’re rich, Mr Lane. Why don’t you go ahead and take a wild guess?’