Impact Page 7

  ‘Even you don’t believe that,’ said the wolf.

  Marie’s car was outside. A small, bright yellow coupé parked up in front of a detached twin garage. She thumbed a button on her keys and the lights blinked eagerly. She climbed in the driver seat. I took the passenger seat. There was hardly enough leg room for a child, and after an awkward moment fumbling around for the handle to crank it back several notches, Marie flicked on the engine and pulled out into the street.

  Classical music filled the car. Moonlight Sonata - one of my favourite songs of all time - met my ears, and for a moment I thought of my mother. This was a song of an eclectic childhood lived between a hardworking, no nonsense father, and a creative, sporadic mother. It brought back countless memories finger painting in the kitchen, or creating plaster casts of dragons, or writing fantastical stories in the garden on hot summers days. It brought a swell of emotion into my heart that took me by surprise. The dark car interior hid the tears in my eyes.

  ‘What was the name of the hotel?’ Marie asked. She hadn’t noticed my predicament.

  ‘I can’t remember the name, but I can direct you.’ I said, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.

  Marie twisted and turned through progressively quieter streets for ten minutes. Moonlight Sonata transcended into Für Elise - another of mum’s favourites - and as we pulled up into the hotel carpark, I was adrift in a sea of distant memories. Only as the engine died was I pulled back to the real world.

  I looked up and saw the receptionist still sat at the counter.

  ‘You’ll have to go in alone, I’m afraid,’ I said.

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘I had to lie quite a bit to get that receptionist to talk,’ I said. ‘She can’t know I’m involved.’

  ‘Won’t she be curious that two people have asked about the same customer?’

  ‘It’ll be fine. All you need to do is convince her to let you know what room number he’s staying in. We can take it from there.’

  She cast an awkward side glance in my direction. Not exactly the greatest first step in my impromptu career change to get the client doing all the heavy lifting

  ‘You’ve got this,’ I insisted. ‘I have faith in you.’

  With a brisk smile that lacked the warmth or grandeur of the one she had given when I promised to help her, Marie climbed out of the car and strode towards the entrance. I watched her go. Her walk was stiff from all the tension in her muscles, which made her look less genuine, and more like an animatronic. But pain affects everyone differently, and she had been through enough for one day without being criticised on her walking.

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ sighed the Wolf. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m helping.’ I said, not looking at him.

  ‘Helping? Is that what we’re calling this charade?’ he barked. ‘Why don’t you hot-wire this car and get out of the country before she realises she’s hired a monster? Or better yet, get her back home and rob the place. If she’s got three hundred euros lying around to spare for every fool who comes her way, imagine what she’s got hidden away. It could be enough to set us up for life.’

  ‘You really are the worst, you know that?’

  ‘Hey, I’m just part of your mind. You’re the one thinking these thoughts.’

  I sighed and looked at him, right into my own eyes.

  ‘You ever consider not being a total piece of shit?’ I asked him.

  ‘You ever consider not being a pseudo goody-two-shoes?’

  ‘I’m not robbing a recently bereaved woman,’ I said.

  ‘The state she’s in, she wouldn’t even notice.’

  ‘Go away.’

  He didn’t, but nor did he continue his villainous suggestions. I sat and wished I could keep listening to the radio, and return to a childhood spent free from hassle. But such is the way of life. There’s no going back. Not for anyone.

  Without an audio account of the conversation, it was difficult to tell how well Marie was getting on. She had engaged the receptionist enough that both had moved away from the counter, towards a pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs by the vending machines. But other than that, it looked like it could go either way. At least getting her out from her reception shell had to be progress, unless the pair were discussing the wanted fugitive hiding out in the car outside while waiting for the police to arrive.

  That’s right, Marie, pass the time with some light chatter while the cops prepare for an all out assault, I’ll wait.

  After a couple of minutes, the receptionist returned to her desk, and then another minute later, Marie left. She walked briskly back to the car, arms wrapped around her torso like her chest cavity would tumble out otherwise, and climbed into the drivers seat.

  ‘How’d it go?’ I asked.

  She didn’t speak straight away. Instead, she turned on the engine, and twisted the dials on the dashboard to get some heat blowing into the car.

  ‘Marie?’

  ‘The gentlemen you saw checked out earlier this evening,’ she said. ‘He left in a hurry.’

  Thirteen

  Marie drove back in the direction of her house in silence. She killed the radio, leaving us with only thoughts of indecision as for what to do next.

  My problem was twofold. Firstly, I had no idea how we could track a man we knew hardly anything about with no support, and next to no time to spare. Secondly, I had no idea where on earth I was going to stay for the night. With the only hotel in town that I’d seen so far a complete write off, and the hour too late to book somewhere else further afield. I regretted not just biting the bullet and asking Marie if she had a guest bedroom I could use. But no, my ego was too resilient for that.

  ‘What is next?’ Marie asked as I contemplated another night under the stars.

  ‘Who is Andrew?’ I asked. ‘Amie mentioned the name in her video.’

  The name made her flinch. She closed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel, but she said nothing. I gave her a minute, then I changed the subject.

  ‘Do you have a spare key for Amie’s house?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said tightly.

  ‘Then I think I should check that out. See if there’s anything we can find out from there. Do you have the key with you?’

  ‘We can go there tomorrow,’ she said, ‘it’s too late tonight. I will meet you there in the morning. Where can I drop you off?’

  Marie let me out on the corner by the library and set the time to meet the following morning outside her sister’s house for ten o’clock. Her tone was cold, but I brushed that off as disappointment and exhaustion from what was quite possibly the worst day of her life so far. And as she drove off into the night, I turned around and walked away, praying that the rain would hold off long enough for me to find adequate shelter.

  In the end, I decided to go back up to the woods. I knew where the charity shop was, which would be my first port of call in the morning to buy a new change of clothes so I could at least try to look less like a hired hobo. So I aimed to not stay more than a half hour’s walk from its front door.

  I found a spot in the trees that looked to have been used as a campsite at some point over the last year, judging from the patch of dead, charcoaled earth where a fire had burned out, and the surrounding rubbish that clung to the trees. I salvaged what I could to make a fire and, repeating the process from the night before, got myself a campfire burning just bright enough to stave off the cold.

  Sleep came with reluctance. My mind was too full of thoughts and theories to drift quietly off into the night. I replayed the recording in my head, remembering the way Amie’s eyes had struggled to stay locked onto the camera’s lens, almost as though she could feel her sister looking back at her from the future. What had happened to this poor girl that had ended up with her on the tracks of an oncoming train? What was the involvement of the three men? And why had she gone to the length of making a suicide note if it was in fact, murder?

  When finally I awoke, it was to the gloom that
preceded dawn. Only the meekest of light nosed its way over the horizon, doing little to guide my path back towards the town of Prisches. My clothes were coated with mud, such was the price of sleeping outdoors in winter, and my bones felt like they had been replaced with carved ice replicas. If this investigation was going to last longer than a single day, I would need to work out a better place to sleep than out in the cold. That, or buy some proper camping gear, at least.

  I was outside the charity shop long before the store owner arrived. She gave me a sheepish, polite smile as she walked around me and busied herself with opening up the shop. She let me in a couple minutes before nine, probably out of guilt that I’d had to wait so long. I didn’t mind. To her, I was just another waif down on his luck. A dime a dozen. She seemed nice enough. My kind of people. Those who didn’t judge.

  I picked out a navy woollen jumper, the likes found on fishermen all up the north sea, and a pair of smart black trousers. I took another white shirt off the hanger that was too big, but would be hidden well enough under the jumper, and found a flat cap that I guessed would finish the look off nicely. No shoes in store that were my size, but my boots would last another day at least. I asked the owner if she sold socks and pants, but she said no. I think the question made her pity for me grow a little, as she knocked a couple of euros off the total, and gave me a warm smile.

  I dressed in the changing rooms and put my old clothes in a bag. Then it was over to the pharmacy for a spruce up. I bought gum and a packet of wet wipes to clean off my anorak, as well as provisions for the day. Food, water, and a pair of sunglasses.

  Marie was there by the time I arrived. Her yellow coupé was parked up alongside her sister’s memorial. Flower wreaths lay dewy by the fence, some already starting to show signs of decay. Through the windscreen, I could see Marie staring at them, lost in the chasm of her grieving mind. The spell held her right until I tapped softly on the window. She jumped out of her dour thoughts and looked up at me. She had been crying again.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said as she climbed out into the street. ‘I was just thinking about things.’

  Things.

  ‘That's no problem. I hope you weren't waiting long?’ I said.

  ‘Just a couple of minutes. It's fine.’ She looked from me to the building. ‘The police told me they had finished with their search yesterday. We should be okay to go inside.’

  Standing there in a long maroon dress that looked better suited for an office than a rummage around a dead woman’s house, Marie didn't look ready.

  ‘Would you like me to go in alone?’ I suggest, but she shook her head.

  ‘I need to do this,’ she said, her voice stiff. ‘I’ve got to go in sooner or later anyway to sort out her things. Best I get used to it now, I guess.’

  I gave her all the time she needed, which turned out to be not that much. She took a deep breath and rummaged in her handbag for her sister's keys. The set she pulled out looked old. A little marble key chain had been noticeably scuffed and chipped. She stared at them like they were a portal to her sister, before she clasped her fingers around them and moved for the door.

  She pushed open the wrought-iron gate and walked along uneven slabs of concrete to the front door. Unlike her own front garden, Amie had not taken much care of the exterior of her property. Weeds poked up through the long grass, and I could see more than one empty bottle of wine discarded in the overgrown shrubs. Whether Marie noticed them, she didn't say. Instead, she put the key into the lock and pushed open the front door.

  Fourteen

  The first thing to hit me was the smell. Damp has a very distinctive stench, like sewer water or putrid meat, it lingers as an ode to the forgotten. It was prominent as soon as I crossed the threshold. Marie shot me an embarrassed glance, but said nothing. I upheld her decision not to bring it up.

  ‘Where should we look first?’ she asked as she walked into the kitchen come living room.

  ‘Here's as good as any place,’ I said. ‘Try to look for anything suspicious. Something that ties Amie to those men, or something they might have wanted from her.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don't know. What did Amie do for a living?’

  ‘She was a receptionist for a housing firm, last I checked.’

  ‘Last you checked?’

  Her face reddened.

  ‘We didn't see each other much,’ she said, not looking me in the eye. ‘We had very different upbringings, and it-’

  ‘You don't have to explain yourself to me,’ I said. ‘I’m not here to judge anything. For what it's worth, I'm the same with my brother.’

  That eased her up a little, but not much.

  ‘If you check in here, I'll start on the other rooms, okay?’ I said.

  ‘Okay.’

  I smiled and headed back into the corridor. The house wasn't big. Maybe a third the size of Marie’s, maybe not even that, and no where near as well kept. The smell of damp intensified as I opened the door to the bathroom and saw large patches of mold oozing across the ceiling like vociferous alien blobs. I made quick work of that room. I doubted there would be much evidence to be found amongst her selection of shampoos, tablets and toothpastes. I backed out and closed the door behind me.

  If one thing was clear from a quick preliminary of the house, it was that Amie did not want for much. Hers was not an eclectic selection of trinkets and keepsakes. Instead, she had opted for a minimalist lifestyle. I saw the value in that, especially these days. A house full of belongings does you no good when you have to up and leave at a moments notice. But the second thing I could tell was that it had not always been that way. Amie had downsized.

  And I could hazard a guess as to why. It was no secret that the economy was heading up the proverbial creek of shit with nothing resembling a paddle, and those at the lowest rungs of the ladder were the ones who felt the rising tide first. Patches of walls where pictures and paintings had once hung were not as faded as the wallpaper surrounding it. As too were tufts of carpet forever flattened where pieces of furniture had once lived.

  The bedroom, it seemed, had suffered the worst of it. The bed was nothing more than a mattress on the carpet, with scuffs on the walls either side where bedside tables had knocked against them. The wardrobe too had been enormously downsized, with only a handful of clothes left hanging amongst a graveyard of empty hangers. It was a sorry sight indeed, and it only strengthened the possibility that I was wrong. There is, after all, only so long you can see hoof prints in the dirt and call it a zebra.

  I searched nonetheless. Either way, we had to be certain of something. I started by flipping the mattress in the hopes a bundle of evidence was tucked away underneath. No dice. But a lot of stubbed out cigarette tabs flattened into the carpet. It was a miracle the place hadn't burned down already.

  Next up, I checked through the remaining clothes. Most were a collection of work attire, with three white shirts with her employer's company logo embroidered on the breast. Three sets of black trousers hung next to them, each with an assortment of scuffs and patches of worn down fabric. What remained of her personal clothes were hardly any better. T-shirts and jeans made up the brunt of it. I checked through the pockets, but found nothing of interest inside.

  Only one photograph adorned the wall. A family portrait. There was Marie, somewhere in her teens, standing beside two beaming parents, with a much younger, much happier Amie leaning into her mother's side. Marie did not look happy to be forced to pose for the photo, but the rest seemed happy enough. I took the picture off its hook and looked closer at it. The image was decades old. Marie herself being no younger than forty, not that I'd asked. I wondered if her parents were still alive. Probably not, considering everything that had happened over the last day.

  I flipped the frame over and looked at the back. Nothing there. Nothing to explain away her predicament, or hide her innermost secrets. Nothing. I carried the photograph through to the kitchen. Marie had not got far. She was absentmindedly checking the
back of a box of cereal. I put the photograph on the counter beside her. Her eyes glanced down at it, then returned almost instantly to the cereal box.

  ‘How're you getting on in here?’ I asked.

  ‘The sugar content on these is through the roof,’ she sniffed, ‘and they feed this to children. No wonder kids these days can't concentrate.’

  ‘Anything about Amie?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not even sure what we are looking for,’ she said. She put the box back in the cupboard and wiped her eyes.

  ‘I don't mind doing this bit by myself, if you'd like?’

  ‘No,’ she said tersely, before changing her tone. ‘No, I need to do this. I need to know.’

  I looked down at the photograph.

  ‘Where was that taken?’ I asked.

  ‘Blackpool,’ she said. ‘Papa took us when we were younger. I believe that is the pier behind us.’

  I looked closer, I could see some of Blackpool Tower off to the side.

  ‘I’ve been to Blackpool a couple of times,’ I said. ‘Wasn't much of a fan.’

  She said nothing to that. Instead, she turned and headed for the living room. I followed her through. The space was not much bigger than the kitchen, which itself was not much bigger than you'd allow for a child's bedroom. A grey, two person sofa had been squashed up against the wall and the kitchen counter, separating the space as much as it could without building a wall between the two. Just like the bedroom, only a single picture hung on the wall, but this time it was a poster for À bout de souffle. It sat in pride of place over a small box television, which itself sat on a flat pack set of drawers. Marie moved over and slid open the top drawer and pulled out a handful of DVDs.

  I headed for the sofa. The things that slipped down between the cushions of the average chair were unbelievable. I once found a set of false teeth tucked down by the armrest at the house of an elderly gentleman I was interviewing for a newspaper about the changes to independent living. The kicker was, the guy didn't need false teeth, and he lived alone.