Never Coming Back (28 page)

I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him toward me. “Tell me where Haven is!” But then I noticed something: blood was dripping from the back of his head.
Shit.
I turned him. In the light from the flashlight I could see the damage: there was a black wound on the dome of his skull. My eyes traced the ground. Directly beneath his head was a rock.

When I'd punched him, I'd punched him back into the rock.

And now he was bleeding out of the back of his head.

I laid him back down gently.

“Prouse, listen to me.” He blinked a couple of times, his eyes eventually finding my face. “I'm going to call you an ambulance, okay? But first I need to know something.”

No reaction from him.

“Where's Haven?”

“Where I buried them all.”

“Yes, but
where
is it?”

“In with all the water.”

This was going nowhere. “Paul and Carrie are there, right?”

“Yes.”

“What about the girls?”

He shook his head.

“So where are Annabel and Olivia buried?”

“I don't know.”

“Where are they, Prouse?”

“I don't know.”

I studied him, searching for a lie, but he wouldn't have been capable of spinning a lie. Not now. Fresh blood leaked from his nose. “
Think
. Tell me where the girls are.”

“Cornell.”

“Cornell killed them?”

He nodded.

My heart sank. “Where did he put them?”

He stared up at me.

“Prouse?”

Nothing from him now. His eyelids fluttered.

“Haven,” he said softly.

Haven.
He'd talked about putting them in with all the water.

Had he dumped them out to sea?

I'd have to figure it out later. Now, I had to get him an ambulance. He was dying in front of me. I grabbed my phone—once I'd called it in, I'd get the hell out.

He muttered something incoherently.

The line connected.

All of them are dead.

“Kalb.”

I looked at him. “What?”

“Kalb.”

“What's Kalb?”

No response. His eyes were closed now.

“Prouse?” I said to him. “What's Kalb?”

“The man on the beach.”

“The one you were supposed to put in Haven?”

He nodded, then mumbled, “He's the man in the photograph.”

Instantly, I killed the call.

“Wait, the man in the photograph is the body on the beach?”

He didn't reply.

“Prouse?”

No answer again.

He's the man in the photograph
.

D.K.

Or
D. Kalb
.

Then, from somewhere behind me, footsteps.

I grabbed the duct tape I'd pinned to the car and placed it against the fisherman's mouth. Then I killed the light. The footsteps stopped as soon as it was dark. For a while—maybe ten seconds—the night was like standing in front of a black wall: there was no definition to anything, no hint of any object in any direction. About six feet away, somewhere on my right, Prouse was moaning gently. I ignored him, ignored the sound of the water stirring on the lake, something gliding across its glassy surface. The rain had eased off again, but there was the whistle of a soft breeze, like air traveling through the neck of a bottle. And behind it all was the sea, its noise smothered by the whispering movement of the reeds, by the banks of the Ley, but still impossible to stop, there in the background.

I ducked my head, closed my eyes and willed myself to listen.

No footsteps anymore.

No sound of movement at all.

I looked up again. Slowly, I started to be able to make out the curves of my car, six feet away, parked between the dirt track and the lake. Off the other way, Prouse's face emerged from the night, like a swish of gray paint, looking in my direction. I couldn't see it clearly, couldn't tell if he was conscious or not anymore, but the jet black of his beard gave him a sinister, otherworldly look; like a man with only half a head. Briefly I thought of the man in the photograph, of the girls, and then of Paul and Carrie Ling, buried in a place called Haven I might never even find. But I instantly pushed it away.

I couldn't afford for my concentration to stray.

My hand out in front of me, I inched back toward the car. As my fingers brushed the bodywork, I dropped down again and listened. The noise of the Ley seemed to deaden. For a moment, all I could hear was the rhythmic rise and fall of the sea, but then the breeze rolled in across the lake and the reeds started rocking from side to side, the movement creating a soft chant, like a monastic choir. Swapping the gun from my left to my right, I traced the circumference of the car, keeping out of view of the track, until I found cover at the front of the BMW, next to the headlights, and could see any approach.

Except I wouldn't see any approach.

It was too dark.

Which meant it was also too dark for whoever was here.

I came out from behind the car, keeping low, and moved silently across the track to the other side. From memory, I knew the track zigzagged back up to the main road, first through a maze of reeds right down here on the lake, then through the high banks of trees and bush that smothered the sound of the sea, then finally across a sprawling swath of flat grassland. I'd heard vehicles out on the main road, but not in close, which meant, if someone had got this far down the track without me hearing, they'd come in on foot.

Pausing, I looked out to my left. On this side there was no lake, just an ocean of shoulder-high yellow grass, vaguely drawn against the dark of the night, growing out of wet, mulchy ground. I used it as a guide, moving alongside it and quietly up the track, into an enclosed area, tall reeds on both sides. Suddenly it became difficult to see anything, thick knots of reed obscuring whatever vague definition I'd managed to gain before. I stopped, trying to force my eyes to see more. Twenty feet ahead—maybe more, maybe less—an animal scurried across the track, one side to the other.

I took another step forward, eyes trying to pick out any movement, any sign there was another person here, but after ten paces I stopped again. There was no light now, not even a hint of it: nothing coming through the reeds, no break in the clouds, just a black mass. Feeling around in my pocket, I removed my phone, and then stood there, trying to pick out sounds coming down the track at me. If I switched the phone on, I immediately put myself on the map; if I didn't, I stood here in darkness, cast adrift and walking blind.

Then a noise behind me.

Footsteps
.

Twenty feet away.

I turned slowly, feet soft on the ground, gun up in front of my face. The blackness was total, like standing with your nose against a wall. There were no edges, no shapes or definition—just the night. Nothing else. As I squeezed my fingers harder against the grip of the gun, a stone scattered along the path, toward me, settling somewhere to my left.

Despite how cold it was, I could feel sweat all down my back, tracing the length of my spine; feel my heart pounding in my chest, its echo in my ears. I swallowed, and in the silence it felt like the noise was immense. I tensed, expecting some kind of reaction.

All I got was silence.

But then, a couple of seconds later, there was a gentle squeak; one tiny moment of sound that seemed to carry along the track like a gunshot. Blind in the dark already, I closed my eyes, trying to focus my other senses, trying to understand what it could be.

Then it came to me.

The soles of someone's shoes.

Six feet away. Maybe less.

We're right next to one another
.

I opened my eyes and pushed against the resistance of the trigger, squeezing it to its halfway point, ready to fire into the dark if I had to—but then there was another noise.

From the Ley this time.

A gurgle.

Suddenly, I heard the scratch of boots against the track—much less than six feet away—and someone took off, back in the direction of Prouse. The Ley was so silent now, the movement seemed to rip across it, one side to the other. Birds scattered somewhere in the darkness, the
whup, whup, whup
of flapping wings, and as the footsteps died out, the wind picked up again, passing through the reeds either side of me. In the quiet of the aftermath, they made a disconcerting noise, almost human, as if warning me to stay where I was. But I didn't. I followed, moving fast and quiet, and headed back to the lake.

Gripping the Glock, I got there as quickly as I could, jogging along the track toward the car. I stumbled a couple of times, hitting uneven patches beneath my feet, but when I emerged from the tunnel of reeds there seemed to be a subtle switch in the light: the total blackness of the night had given way to a soft charcoal hue; still dark, but not totally.

I lifted the gun to my eyeline.

No sign of movement.

Prouse was on his back, arms out either side of him, half in, half out of the water. I didn't approach him from directly across the track. Instead I edged around the BMW, making sure no one was using it for cover. Once I could see him again, I stood with my back to the lake and scanned the area. The field of yellow grass was still swaying, its gentle ballet of movement massaged by the wind, but now I could see it had been bent, a path trampled through it.
An escape route.
I crossed the track, keeping my head low, and paused on the edge of the grass. I could only
see for about forty feet, even in the changing light. But I saw the path carved into it—snaking across the belly of the field—until the darkness finally claimed it back.

I returned to Prouse.

His blood was washing out into the lake by the time I got there, both eyes looking up to the heavens like chunks of polished black marble. He was making a gentle gurgling sound, a single, controlled puncture wound visible at the bottom of his throat. It was the work of a pro. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing. In a matter of minutes, Prouse would be dead—but not before he'd suffered. I looked back across my shoulder, to the grassland.
Whoever it is, they're here
.

I realized how lucky I'd been: in the darkness, between the reeds, I'd been blind—but whoever had come for me had been blind as well. My car would have told them I was here, but not where—and their one noise, right at the start as they approached, had been what saved my life. If I hadn't heard it, I'd have been here with Prouse—and the killer would have come up behind me and put a knife in me too.

I wiped down the Glock and left it on the shore of the Ley, next to Prouse. As I did, his fingers brushed my jacket.

I looked down.

He started coughing, and as blood spilled out on to his beard, I wondered if he'd ever imagined, even in his darkest moments, whether the end might come like this, out here on the edges of the Ley, alone and cold, with no one to claim him.

Maybe violent men never thought about the end.

Maybe they never feared it.

But, as I looked across the track to the route his assailant had used, back through the grass, I knew the end came for men like Prouse, just the same as anybody else.

Just the same as the end had come for the Lings.

As I got to the main road, I looked down at the clock. Just after six-thirty. Dawn would be breaking in about fifteen minutes, sunrise about thirty minutes after that. I quickly went to my phone and put in a search for “D. Kalb.” Eleven million hits, but nothing immediately useful: the website and Wikipedia entry for a musician; a university lecturer in Canada; LinkedIn profiles for professionals with the same surname; Facebook profiles, Twitter accounts, Tumblrs. I looked again at the clock and knew I'd have to come back to it later. I needed to call Carter Graham, to warn him he might be in danger. Jamming the phone into the hands-free cradle, I scrolled through until I found his number and hit Dial.

Finally, a groggy, barely awake voice said hello.

“Carter, it's David Raker.”

It took him a couple of seconds to place the name. “David?”

“You need to listen to me.”

He cleared his throat and I heard a squeak, like mattress springs, and the sound of him shifting around in bed. I remembered then that he'd had the gala the night before.

“Hold on,” he said. “I need to find my glasses.”

“Did you organize extra security yesterday, like I told you to?”

“Wow.” He coughed a couple of times. “It
is
early.”

“Did you organize extra security?” I repeated.

“Yes. Just as you suggested.”

“Are they at the house with you?”

“Yes. They're here now.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. Good.”

“Why, is there a problem?”

“There might be.”

“What kind of a problem?”

There was no way to break the news gently. “You're in danger.”

“What?”

“You remember I talked to you about Cornell yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“That you have something he wants?”

“Yes.”

“I think one of his people is coming for it.”

“
What
? When?”

“Now.” I gave him a couple of seconds to process that. “You need to prep your security team. Put them on high alert and lock down the house. Don't let anyone inside. Is that clear?”

Now he was awake. “Yes,” he said, his voice already shredded with fear.

“How many people do you have there?”

“Seven.”

“Good. Prep them all, put them at the entrances. After you've done that, I want you to call the police. Just dial 999 and tell them to come to the house. Then, after that, phone direct into Totnes and ask for DCI Colin Rocastle. Tell him I sent you and that it's to do with Prouse. He'll understand that. Are you getting this?”

“What's Prouse?”

“It doesn't matter. Just do as I say, all right?”

He sounded panicked. “What the hell does Cornell want?”

He wants to kill you
.

“Look, I know you're in shock here, but there are some questions I need to ask you—so try to clear your head. Do you remember I asked about a photograph yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Ever remember having your picture taken with a guy called Kalb?”

“Kalb?”

“I think it might begin with a K. K-A-L-B.”

“No. Should I?”

I changed tack. “Did you find a picture of the three of you?”

“I found a few.”

I paused. Carrie had put a date on the photograph of about 1971. That would have placed the men in their midtwenties. “Okay, listen. Do you have a picture there of the three of you—Ray, Eric and you—perhaps taken when you were all out in the States at the same time. Maybe Ray was on holiday, or maybe he'd come out to see your LA office.”

“Uh, I can go and grab them, I suppose.”

He sounded reluctant to go anywhere now.

I told him to go ahead and do it. As he put the phone down, I looked both ways along the empty road, looking for any sign of life—of cars watching me, of people hiding out of sight—and a sudden realization hit: Cornell was trying to close the circle. He was killing off anyone even
remotely connected to the photograph. They'd failed to get me at the Ley, but they'd come for me again—after they'd done for Carter Graham. I felt sure of that. Like Muire and Schiltz, he was tethered to Kalb somehow, even if he didn't know how, and once he was out of the way, I was a minor bump in the road. Just a loose end. I glanced right, out along the road, to the village. In the hills above it was my home.

I couldn't go back now.

It was too risky.

“Okay.”

Graham was back on the line.

“What have you got there?” I asked him, still scanning the road, left to right.

“I've got four photos of the three of us.”

“Describe them to me.”

“This first one was taken at our thirty-year school reunion back in 1991—”

“What about the next one?”

“Uh. This was a golfing holiday we took to Palm Springs. We stayed with Eric for a week, and then had a week up to Napa, wine tasting. It was a surprise for Ray's fortieth.”

“So that would have been 1985?”

“Correct, yeah.”

“That's not it. Next one?”

“This one was when we all met up in London in 1996.”

“That won't be it either. What about the last one?”

A pause. Then: “Oh, I remember this. This was taken when the office was being built in LA—so it would have been February 1971.
Ish
. Eric and I clubbed together and flew Ray out for a holiday. I think he'd just split up from his girlfriend.”

This could be the photograph of Kalb
.

“Describe the picture.”

“Uh, well, there's Ray and me in the center of the picture. I can see one of the city's mountain ranges in the background. I'm not sure which one. Eric took the picture—”

“Wait. The picture doesn't have all three of you in it?”

“No. Just Ray and me.”

“Are there any other people in the background?”

“In the background of the shot?”

“Yes.”

“No. It's just Ray and me.”

Damn it
.

“Is there another picture from the same trip, with all three of you in it?”

A pause on the line.

“Carter?”

“It's weird,” he said, distantly, as if caught in a memory. “Eric e-mailed a picture, I don't know, maybe a year ago, maybe eighteen months. Something like that. He was scanning in all his old photographs. I remember it because it was taken around the same time as this one—except his one had all three of us in.”

“Did you print off a copy of it?”

“Yes.”

“So where is it?”

“I don't know. I keep all my pictures in the same place.”

“Which is where?”

“In a shoebox in the library.”

I realized what that meant. “Does anyone else know about the shoebox?”

“The shoebox? Katie might know.”

She'd taken the photo for Cornell. Just like the copy Ray Muire had.

“What about your e-mail? Would a copy still be in there?”

“No,” he said. “I get such a vast amount of e-mails, as you can probably imagine. I only keep the last six months' worth. That's why I printed off a copy of it.”

I tried not to let my frustration show: “Okay, put all the photos back.”

“Why?”

“I'll explain when I get there.”

“You're coming over?”

“Yes. Now. There are some things you need to know.”

He sensed something ominous in my voice. “Things?”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes. Just make sure your security are doing their job, and call Rocastle as soon as you put the phone down. It's fine. He knows you already.”

“He looked into that family's disappearance.”

“Right. Do me another favor: don't speak to anyone about what we just talked about, okay? That includes Katie.”

He seemed confused by the request. “Wha—why?”

“Just trust me.”

“You're . . .” He stopped, a tremor in his voice. “You're worrying me here, David.” He meant he was scared. This was probably as close as he'd come to the unknown, of not being in control of a situation, for a long time. “David?” It sounded like a plea now.

“Prep your security, call the police, call Rocastle—got it?”

“Okay.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes. Everything will be fine.”

But I wasn't sure if I really believed that or not.