The Sister (62 page)

"I don't know, a kind of dirty deep golden colour?" She shrugged, her face quizzical.

"Well, that's what his eyes looked like. His skin was bad; pock marked. Not so terrible that it ruined his looks, but those eyes and his
magnetism
made him irresistible to young women."

"Where has he been all my life, he sounds like just what I've been looking for," she yawned, fanning it with her hand as she slouched in her seat. He shot her a sharp look, and then noticed the German had dozed off. She was mimicking his slumped position.

"I am not bored! My bum has gone to sleep, and it's making me tired that's all," she declared, wriggling herself upright.

Miller heard the trolley rattling up the aisle. "I'm going to have a drink, and it sounds as if you could do with a coffee. Would you like one?"

Her eyes crinkled. "I'll have tea."

"Not long after that
London trip, I spotted a headline in the paper.
Heiress goes missing in Europe.
The Times ran an in depth article on the family. Her father had made a fortune out of exporting English antiques all over the world, but primarily to the States. When he became rich enough to purchase his own estate, he changed the family name from Lake to Kale; all this had happened before she was born. Her name was Olga, and she'd vanished during a visit to Amsterdam. Apparently, she was fiercely independent and headstrong. It was probably the reason she travelled alone and in denial of her fathers wealth. She wanted to believe she was just an ordinary girl, so she dressed like a hippy and hung out with like-minded, disaffected youth."

The trolley arrived, and Miller paused, not wishing to be overheard.

When it moved off, a drunk shuffled up and fished through his pockets with some difficulty and grabbed a handful of biscuits, which he shoved onto their tray. The biscuits were mostly chipped or broken, distinctly unappetising. The drunk said in a high, reedy voice,
"
A wee biscuit to go wit' your tea?"

They thanked him, and he hovered unsteadily, examining the German with disdain. He raised the back of his hand to his mouth and confided in them. "Drunk . . ." he said, jerking a thumb at the sleeping man. He swayed, checking his bearings before finally tottering away, the neck of a bottle of whiskey sticking out of a side pocket in his baggy grey jacket.

She leaned forward and picked a piece of pocket fluff from one of the biscuits. She held it up between her thumb and forefinger. "Can you believe that?" Her face was a picture of amazement and disgust.

Miller told her the rest of the story.

"Is that it?"

"No, actually that wasn't the end of it. Kale decided to have them shut down. It wasn't easy. It dragged on for a while, but he did it. He obtained evidence that they were harvesting vulnerable kids, especially young girls with wealthy parents. Once they'd brainwashed them and bled them dry, they got them working for them; selling all kinds of merchandise, including drugs - selling themselves - they even forced some of them to appear in porn movies. They arrested the leading pastor, but the guy with the lion's eyes and his minder got away."

"Did they ever get them? You told me you didn't have any unsolved cases."

"That's true, but he wasn't one of my cases. I'll tell you what I did find out about him, though, and you'd never guess. Not in a month of Sundays."

"I'm too tired to try guessing, just tell me."

He beckoned her closer, to whisper in her ear. "It turned out he was wanted for the assassination of key political figures in
Colombia, the Middle East and Africa."

"You're kidding me!" She checked to make sure she hadn't woken the German.

"I kid you not," he said, smiling. "Beat that!"

She shook her head. "I wish I had my recorder on for all of that. My God, is all that true?"

"He's still out there somewhere. Back then, he was calling himself Carlos. The authorities were obviously very keen to apprehend him, but no one's seen or heard of him since. Apparently, he didn't live on the commune; he and his friend were brought in as bodyguards for the leader and his recruiters while they were out. At some point, he realised he'd make a good recruiter himself. It was thought he must have had a vested interest because so much money was unaccounted for. It had been transferred all over the place, and vast sums had been taken out in cash that sort of thing."

The half-empty cups had become cold; the biscuits untouched. "For a while, I lived under an alias, the police had information that my life was in danger."

"How did you cope with that, it must have been really hard for you?"

"No, not really . . . I've been living under an alias all my life."

"What do you mean?" She had a feeling he wasn't going to elaborate. "Oh, come on . . . you can't say something like that and then not tell me!"

"Yeah, you're right, I shouldn't have said anything at all." He couldn't let on that he'd worked for Kale since.

She tried to question him further. He divulged and dodged, in equal measure.

In the hope, it might encourage him to talk about himself more, she told him more about herself and then dropped a surprise on him.

"You know I told you about that tape?"

"Mm-m." He stared out of the window.

"Guess what, I didn't tell you everything."

"You took a copy."

"Now, how in heavens name could you have known that? Next, you'll be saying you know what was on it!" She stretched her arms out fully and yawned. "Sorry," she said.

"That's okay. It's been a long journey," he looked out of the window, thoughtful. "But yes, it's a possibility my grandfather could have done. He was the seventh son, not the all seeing seventh of a seventh, but he had a talent for knowing what was about to happen." He said, turning back to face her.

She'd fallen asleep. The old devil that cheated him of happiness had intervened once more. He'd been about to ask her about dinner.
Things happen for a reason.
He couldn't afford to get too close; he wouldn't want anything to happen to her.

With her sleeping, the remainder of the journey allowed him introspection. He returned to window gazing, lost in the black holes of forgotten memories. The last three stops passed largely unnoticed.

Five minutes from Waverley, she woke up not knowing at first where she was. She recovered her faculties and asked, "Why didn't you wake me?"

"To be honest I was enjoying the peace and quiet . . ."

She narrowed her eyes. "How's that shin?"

"You looked so peaceful and serene, I guessed you needed it. I should have slept, but I have this thing about not sleeping when there are strangers around."

"When I go, I sleep anywhere. I don't care."

"I'm jealous, no really. I can't tell you how many times I arrive in places absolutely worn out because part of me always has to stand guard."

She laughed, "What do you think would happen, if you did fall asleep?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is, I'll be awake for it." The grim look of someone who knew something bad was coming for him passed over his face. He realised he'd probably felt like that for most of his life.

She changed the subject, "Look I don't know what your plans are now you're here, why don't we meet up a little later?"

"I'd love to, but tomorrow, I have an appointment with destiny."

"Destiny, who's she?" she said, attempting to make light of it, forcing a smile. "Yeah, okay . . . You know . . . you come across all mysterious and I like that, but I'm going to leave it there because if I found out different, I'd be so disappointed." She regained her poise. "But I loved your
stories.
"

"Look, I really enjoyed your company, but what I'm here for … when it . . . Sorry, I - I'm so tired I'm tongue tied! They weren't just stories. I think you know that anyway."

She didn't answer, nor even look at him, preferring instead to stare into the distance at the darkened sky.

It's probably better this way.
He knew he would see her again. She'd have loved the bodies in the water story.
Tell her another time. She might even want to do a piece on it.

As the train pulled in, he suddenly remembered his original plan.

"I don't suppose you heard of the Michael Simpson case?"

"Michael Simpson?" she said, looking quizzical. "Which case was that?"
He told her, and then added cryptically. "They think he might have been murdered." He didn't elaborate further.

She arched her eyebrows raising a silent question.

He touched his nose as if to say he would not, or could not reveal his sources.

She made a note. "Mmm, that's interesting, I'll look into that one," she said. "I haven't been to
Amsterdam for a while, and from what you're telling me, it's a hotbed of activity, and it's supposed to be lovely in the springtime." She suddenly smiled at him; she didn't have to wonder if she'd see him again. She knew. After his earlier rejection, she suddenly felt better.

They exchanged business cards. He walked with her out of the station, and when they got outside, they shook hands.

First, he bowed, then he doffed an imaginary hat.

"I'll be in touch," she said.

"I'll look forward to that," he said and looked at her card:
Carla Black - Freelance Journalist.

Outside the railway station, he waited for almost half an hour. Rosetta didn't show, so he walked to his hotel and checked in. The receptionist handed him a note. He opened it.

Will call you tomorrow morning, 7:30 - R

He frowned, puzzled.
How could she have known he was coming to this particular hotel? He hadn't booked it until he'd left Ryan's.

Mounting tiredness and the thought of an early start, led him to consider eating in the hotel restaurant, but he then decided against it. He phoned Ryan to let him know he'd arrived, but he got the answer phone and hung up without leaving a message; he hated the things. Pulling the business card Carla gave him from his pocket, he carefully dialled the number. When he got to the last digit, his finger hovered over it for a moment. He completed the action.

"Carla?"

"Yes?" she answered sleepily.

"Can we meet tonight?"

There was a long pause. Miller regretted his weakness.

Finally, she said, "There's a place I know . . ."

He showered, quickly getting ready. Twenty minutes later, he walked out with a spring in his step. Suddenly he was no longer tired at all.

Chapter 128

Miller found his way into the bar at the bottom of a short flight of steps near the station as Carla had directed him. Once inside, it seemed everybody was talking about the vigilante killer. A conversation between two heavily built workmen wearing tartan lumber-shirts attracted his attention.

"Somebody must've tipped him off what was happening, it
's no' like you just
happen
to drop in on a place like that," he said and wiped beer foam from the straggly tips of his moustache onto the back of his red shirt cuff.
"Aye, you're probably right." His blue-shirted companion looked thoughtful. "He could have seen the kidnapping and followed them."
Red-shirt nodded slowly. "You know, you might be right, but surely he would have called the police in?"

"I don't think he wanted the police, but one thing is for sure, he must be one hard-arsed son o' a bitch to go in like that on his own."

Both men supped their beer.

Red-shirt resumed the discussion. "Aye, that's for sure. How do you know he was on his own?"

"The boy." He looked bemused. "Don't you
read
the papers? Police seek man . . . no'
men
." Blue-shirt whispered something in his friend's ear.

Red-shirt sputtered the mouthful of beer he'd just taken back into the glass. Whatever the other man said had clearly shocked him. "How do you know all this?"

"I have a friend on the force. He told me about it," he said, smug with one-upmanship.

Miller shut out their talking as he compared what they'd said to what Carla had told him on the train. He wondered if she and Blue-shirt had the same contact.
That would be too much of a coincidence.

The raised voice of Blue-shirt at the bar drew his focus back to their ongoing exchange.

"Aw c'mon, you wouldn't have wanted to face two Rottweiler dogs and two men, no' on their own turf like that. I mean, what kind o' man would do that?"

"His dad probably would, or an uncle, maybe another relative?" Red-shirt offered.

"No, this was one man, remember. I reckon it was ex-military, someone like that. Besides, the father has an alibi. I know it couldn't be him anyway. He's no' the type."

"Aye, you're probably right. Another beer?"