The Sister (79 page)

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Odd for him is what I meant. Maybe he was disturbed, or some other reason. Who knows with these people? Anyway, the boyfriend was fully clothed under the suit, as you might expect, but so were the women. We know that when he didn't come back, a team was called in to search a nearby mine. They assumed he'd died in a roof collapse, buried under tons of rock." She stirred a sugar into her tea.

Deep lines of concentration creased Miller's forehead while he ran possibility against probability. He didn't want to reveal that he knew more than he was letting on. "So, how did he come to be in the water wrapped up in a boiler suit?" he said.

She laughed, "You're the investigator, you tell me!"

He took a sip of tea; he looked serious.

Carla realised she'd led him into reliving part of his childhood ordeal. Her smile evaporated. She kicked herself for being so insensitive.

"It's all right Carla," he seemed to know what she was thinking. "I knew the second I laid eyes on that place, with the boys that day. I knew it wasn't right. I didn't know enough about things then to warn them in time…" Miller looked at a spot in the mid-distance and drained his cup. Topping it up, he held the pot out to her.

"No thanks," she said.

Stirring the cup helped him think. "From what you have told me, we know he was a caver who was into exploring old mines."

She nodded, "That's pretty much what I found out."

"People like that, don't go off doing things like that alone, it's too dangerous. Normally there would be at least two of them. Did you find out who the other girl was?"

"She was identified as Christina Fischer, a German national. Reported missing a few days after the Australian disappeared. He met her and Lei Liang at university; they were all very close…"

Full of admiration for the way Carla had put it all together, he couldn't add anything to what she'd already found out.

"I spoke to the caver's brother in Australia. He'd heard about this spooky place; a mine shut down after a disaster a hundred and fifty years ago. Now, from what I can gather from speaking to her mother in Germany, Christina just told her that she'd planned to go on a little trip somewhere, but it was all very secretive. She said she'd tell her all about it when she came home. Of course, she never did. My theory is that they were lovers – did I tell you she was Lei's best friend?" she asked, raising a querulous eyebrow. "Anyway, at some point, after they pitched camp, the killer attacked them. He left the tent in place, taking all the caving equipment, everything, deep into the heart of the old workings, where he caused a collapse. The bodies were then disposed of in the lake." She settled her gaze on him. "If it hadn't been for the unfortunate demise of your friends, we might never have known…"

Miller nodded.

"And I couldn't believe nobody had missed these people at the time they disappeared," she said looking incredulous.

"I suppose because they were all foreign students, people just assumed they'd gone home for the summer?" Miller suggested.

"Maybe, but quite how Lei came to be there, is a bit of a mystery."

He gave her a sideways look. "You put all this together through speaking to the brother?"

"That's right; I built up a background, found out what friends he spoke of, girlfriends and so on. Then I found out that all three were connected, and had all gone missing within the same ten-day period. It makes you wonder how the police missed it at the time doesn't it?"

A blizzard of thoughts blew into his mind, as if a door had opened during a snowstorm, before slamming shut. Part of what had made no sense when he'd seen inside The Sister's head came together now. The pieces were in the air; he watched them as they settled into place.

Irritated that he appeared to have lost interest, Carla, trying to catch his eye, noticed them flickering, and leaned in to get a better look. It seemed to her that he'd slipped into a trance-like state. She waved her hand in front of his face. His eyes remained focused on something only he could see.

"Miller, what the hell are you doing? Are you having a fit or something?" At first, Carla thought he was just play-acting. He was scaring her now. "Miller!"

He snapped out of it, allowing his mind to refocus. His gaze returned to her. "His name was Thomas; he met up with Christina Fischer; they were going to explore the mine together. They were secret lovers. The killer caught them on the rocks by the river, down from the pit entrance. He smashed the Australian's head in from behind, with a rock. Christina trapped beneath the body. A sitting duck… I don't think I have to tell you the rest."

"His head
was
smashed in from behind. How did you know that? Have you been doing your homework without telling me?"

Miller didn't answer.

She stared at him suspiciously. "Well, how else could you have known, unless you read my mind?" Carla's mouth gaped as her thoughts illuminated with possibilities. "You're scaring me a little bit here,
tell
me."

"I got the information from an eyewitness," he said.

"Miller, you have got to be kidding me. An eye witness from forty years ago?" She sat back with her arms folded across her chest and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Who is it?"

"It's actually two people, and one of them is me, although I only saw part of it at the time."

"Miller," she shook her head in disbelief. "What is this bullshit?"

"Carla, if you knew how hard this was to convey." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bear with me; I'm going to give it a try. It's a little bit like coming out of suspended animation, or at least, what I
think
that would be like. Little by little, I seem to be remembering things. At the moment, I can't explain it any better than that."

"Miller, you said you were one of two people and you didn't see it all. I'm assuming that means that the other person did. Do you realise that with this, on top of everything else? The judge would throw away the key."

"Carla, there's one or two problems here. The police have to catch him first, and the other person — witnessed it from two hundred miles away."

She slapped her hand down hard, making the cutlery bounce on the tabletop. "I'm not in the mood for this Miller!" A few heads turned in their direction. When she saw how weary he suddenly looked, she couldn't help but feel sorry for him. "I freaked out there," she placed her hand on his arm. "I apologise. Who's the witness?"

"When you've finished, we'll get into that…" The focus of his eyes shifted. He looked confused.

"Are you sure you're all right? You look exhausted."

He squeezed her hand and smiled reassurance. "Did you find out any anymore?"

She seemed to have caught some of his weariness, but she smiled and cleared her throat. "I was trying to get a bit more background," she took a sip of tea. "I called the brother in
Australia again. He told me at first that he simply refused to believe it was Thomas. He wouldn't have believed it unless dental records proved otherwise. When I asked him how he could be so sure it wasn't his brother, he told me. 'Simple, although by then he was just a pile of bones, he always wore this leather belt, see. I brought it for his eighteenth birthday, before he left for Europe, and they never found it. Even if the leather had perished, when they went over the site with a fine tooth comb, with metal detectors, or whatever they use, they'd have at least found the buckle.' He sent me a photograph he'd taken before the trip. Thomas posing in a new bush hat and Tee shirt, with the belt worn around a new pair of Levis. You'll never guess what?"

"Carla, I'm too tired for guessing games," he said with a thin smile.

"Oh, Miller, I'm sorry. I had the photo enhanced. It looks like he was wearing the same belt Midnight had on in the video that he sent to the News of The World. If it
is
the same man and it
is
the same belt . . ."

Coming alive with enthusiasm, he said, "You know something, Carla? I think you're on the verge of a big story here, well done."

She looked pleased and fluffed herself up with pride. "Speaking of stories, you've been keeping something back from me. The witness and that business just now, I want to know what's going on. And you never did tell me what you were doing in Scotland."

He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Okay, I could have told you more," he said, looking tired again. "The thing is I don't confide in people really, not like I should. I just got into the habit of not doing it…" He took a deep breath. "When I was seven years old, I saw him - the killer, and he had the Chinese girl slung over his shoulder . . . He chased me," he raised a hand and waved to the waiter. "I don't know about you, but I need a coffee."

She shook her head, anxious to hear the rest.

"It took the accident with the boys to unlock the door to the earlier memories, if it hadn't been for that, I'd never have visited Dr Ryan, and if I hadn't visited him…" Miller struggled to find the right words.

"Yes," she said, patiently.

"When I said I didn't understand the rest of it…" Miller searched for the right words. "It was like automatic writing or something like that." A look of consternation crossed her face. "Well how else do I put it?" Miller said, "I'm just opening up and letting whatever it is come through. All I know for sure - is that something started happening before I contacted Ryan, and since I went to
Scotland a few weeks ago, it's turned into something else."

"You're talking about the day after you left me?"

"That's right."

"What happened?"

"Can I trust you, Carla?"

"Of course you can," she said with sincerity.

His coffee arrived. He left it black, stirring in a single sugar, while she rummaged in her bag for something. She pulled out a Kleenex and a compact mirror.

"Something in my eye," she explained, dabbing at it.

He waited until he had her full attention.

"Carla, I just asked if I could trust you, and you told me, yes." Miller scrutinised her face.

Although she flinched, it was almost imperceptible. She met his gaze, chin out, defiant, but she shifted, no longer comfortable in her chair.
He knows.

"Why are you taping this conversation without telling me, Carla?"

"Because I don't want to forget anything you say, and because I want to play it back over and over, looking for clues . . ." She bit her bottom lip and looked at the ground.

"All you had to do was ask. I wouldn't have refused," he said, disappointment evident in his voice.

"I don't suppose you trust me now, do you?" She half-smiled, "I'm a reporter, sometimes I forget there are more important things…" she trailed off, hoping for another chance.

After a moment's contemplation, he said, "Come on, let's get out of here."

He paid the bill.

"Does this mean you're not going to tell me what you were about to confide?"

Miller put his finger to his lips and held it upright.

Steering her to the right as they left the cafe, they walked in silence for several hundred yards, before she asked where they were going.

"We're going back to my hotel," he said, accelerating into a brisk stroll. She confirmed her willingness by clattering along behind, on heels not designed for the pace. She stopped and slipped them off.

When she finally caught him up, she asked, "You will tell me what you were going to say, won't you?"

They swept up the steps to the main entrance. Miller held the door open for her. "Of course I will . . . afterwards." He pushed the lift button. The doors opened straight away, and he stepped inside.

Her head turned away. Pushing her full lips into a petulant pout, she followed him in.

Once in the room, Miller poured them a drink from the mini bar.

Carla sidled up to him and then moulded herself into his body. He felt the beat of her heart through his shirt. With one hand, he scrunched the hair at the back of her neck. She placed a finger between their lips. "Wait, I don't want to be distracted from this with your secret on my mind. Tell me
now
."

Miller didn't need to be clairvoyant to know what would happen in the next few minutes.

"Okay, when I left you in Edinburgh I went to meet a former nun, but she wasn't like any nun I'd ever met before. She's known as The Sister and has the power to heal, read the past and help to put wrong things right. She can also tell the future."

"I can do that," Carla said with a wicked grin.

"Whereas I saw Boyle carrying Lei, she witnessed the actual crime from her home in Ireland. She touched me and sparked a sort of transference of knowledge and experience from me to her."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you bull-shitting me . . .?"

"No, she wasn't expecting what happened next. I got a flash of something from her. She tried to stop it, but it was too late. I'm still making sense of it now. Are you following me?" She nodded. "Anyway, the point is; she wants me to help her in some way. She has this power, but she's forbidden to interfere directly with fate."

"So what does that mean?"

"I'm not sure, but I think it was no accident that I connected with her. I've seen another murder through that connection, and I've seen the man who did it. A priest murdered a choirboy and got away with it, because she couldn't break her vow of silence. It's not my normal line of work, but I'm going to see justice done."

"That's very commendable." Carla hardly dared to believe him. If what he said were true, he would have provided her with more great stories than any other single source.

"Do you mind if I have a shower?" she said, already closing the bathroom door.

"No, you go ahead." He turned, and saw in the mirrored wall opposite that she'd left the door open a few inches. The powerful jets of water thundered against the toughened glass cubicle. Carla called out to him above the roar. "Are you coming?"

Miller stripped out of his clothes and went to her. The cubicle door popped open. She let him in. The sight of her shapely body stirred him; each beat of the heart increased his desire. She held him. They kissed, tentative at first, and then consumed by a hunger, devoured each other. Her breasts were pert, and slightly upturned, with nipples like rosebuds. The water dribbling off them made them

stiffen and stand out more erect; he nibbled each in turn, tracing a line down through her belly. He tongued her navel; her hands grasped the back of his head, guiding him down to her lower abdomen, she was shaven and smooth, with a fine, black tattooed line of tiny words running down to her clitoris. He struggled to make out what they said in the trickling rivulets of water.

M

e

l

é

c

h

e

r

Carla arched, thrusting herself forward, expectant. She sensed his hesitation and looked down. "What are you
doing
, Miller, it doesn't say
read me
in French, it says
me lécher -
lick
me
."

Carla gasped as he obliged, whispering, "I
knew
you were going to do that."

Afterwards, he asked if she was worried that she might come to some sort of harm, because of what he told her about people dying around him.

"Oh, I see, it was a health warning was it. I don't take much notice of things like that. How can you live a rich and fulfilling life, if you worry about every little thing?"

"Look, my three best friends, my girlfriend . . ."

"It was just bad luck; that's all. How many millions of people smoke and don't get cancer?"

"Hardly the same thing."
She arched her brow at him and traced the outline of his tattoo with a well-manicured fingernail. "With all the excitement over
my
tattoo, I forgot to ask you about yours. Tell me, what does it mean?"

"It means, 'Keep me away from wicked things', or something like that."
Carla licked his chest and nibbled at him; throwing the covers off she went further down. "Well it hasn't worked has it?" she said, as she took him in her mouth.

Chapter 151

Hot water from the shower pummelled his upturned face with needle-like jets, as he moved around in a clockwise circle offering his head, neck and shoulders the benefits of the same high-pressure treatment. Without opening his eyes, he fumbled for the shampoo he'd balanced on the soap dish. Locating it, he squeezed a blob of the viscous liquid into his palm and washed his hair. He thought about Stella, the last time they'd spoken she told him she'd be in touch when she was ready.
I'll give it until the end of the day and then if I don't hear anything; I'm calling her
.

He was drying himself off, when the telephone rang; quickly wiping his hands, he answered it.

"Carla?" He dried around his neck and nestled the phone between his jaw and shoulder.

"You know you told me about that case, the researcher on cults, Michael Simpson?" The question was slanted with suspicion.

"Yes, is everything all right?" he said, sipping from a bottle of mineral water.

"Well, no actually. There I was asking all kinds of questions about his murder and you got me arrested—"

"What!" he spluttered, almost choking.

"That's right; the post-mortem revealed he was murdered."

"I told you someone was trying to kill him and then he was found dead—"

""Yes you did, but you didn't tell me that no one else knew that, did you? I got arrested, thank you very much, Mr Miller!"

"Whoa . . . when I gave you that tip off, I didn't expect that you'd go in like a bull in a china shop…"
"I haven't finished yet!" she said through clenched teeth. "The police wanted to know why I was asking questions related to a murder enquiry that had not been officially announced. As far as the press was concerned, it was an accident. And they wanted to know where I got my information from."

"You didn't tell them!" The few seconds she took to answer was intended to keep him in suspense.

"You'll be relieved to know I didn't, I blagged my way out of it, saying it was a hunch, but the thing is… How did
you
know? You told me on the train three weeks ago, before you'd had your meeting with The Sister, so I'm a little bit confused about what the truth is here."

Miller cleared his throat, unsure of the best way to tell her. "Carla, look . . . it's complicated."

"How did I know it would be? We'll come back to the question in a minute. Anyway, I've done some digging; it seems he was investigating a religious cult in Spain."

Miller felt a cold chill creeping over him; an electrifying wave swept over his flesh, across the follicles of his skin. The hair on his forearms stood on end. He had a sense of foreboding.
What's going on with you lately, Miller, have you turned into a magnet for strange coincidences?

"Apparently, he wrote a book about cults in the early eighties and he'd returned to researching to see how they'd moved with modern times. His studies show…" Carla carried on talking in the background
…The larger ones have done very well, might even be regarded as respectable . . .
Her voice faded as Miller's perceptions shifted, triggered by something she said. He had a glimpse, a view he recognised. It was a trail that led him back through his memories… he was in the car with Kirk again that rainy night when he was nineteen…
Look it up
… he transported himself into the morning after, back into the library, the book in his hands in his mind's eye . . . he folded it shut. He focused on the author's name on the front.
Michael Simpson!

Carla hadn't noticed that his mind was on something else. He tuned into her voice once more as he returned to his normal self.

"… This particular one seems to have been resurrected and rebranded from an older version, in other words, only the name has changed. The questionable practices are the same. I've heard rumours that they launder and recycle money in the same way as drug cartels. In fact, according to my sources, there's evidence to support the supposition that this cult is under the control of a major criminal. Simpson was in Amsterdam unravelling connections to the drugs and arms trade when he met with his
accident
. I think I'm going to need help on this one."

Miller bit his lip, unsure about her continuing with the investigation he'd set her off on. He knew she wouldn't just drop it, he'd have to do something, but he couldn't afford to compromise his position with the work he was doing for Kale. He needed more answers. "Did you find out anything else, Carla?"

"Okay, the top guy was taking these heiresses, once they'd been bled dry, he was running them as high class whores. Got them addicted to religion. Got them hooked on drugs. By then, they'd do anything he wanted."

Miller asked himself.
What is my life but a series of coincidences? It can't be the same one, can it?
In his heart, he already knew. All these things had come full circle, and they weren't finished yet.

"You didn't say what they call themselves now."

"To give them their full name: The Resurrectionists of Monte Cristo. Have you heard of them?"

He remained silent.

"Sometimes they're referred to as simply 'The Church'".

"The Church," Miller repeated, struck by a moment of epiphany. The garish
neon Church image and the disembodied voice he heard when The Sister touched him came alive inside his head.
You must find another place to live, or he'll find you! That's who is looking for The Sister, not the Catholic Church at all.

Several times since Kennedy's funeral, he'd deliberated the question:
How far could she go without direct intervention?
A series of mini revelations played through his head. All the unlikely coincidences . . . pointed to the hand of The Sister working indirectly behind the scenes. Boyle, Kirk, Ryan, Olga Kale the cult and everything else, her fingerprints were all over them.