Long Time Lost (34 page)

‘Maybe. It’s too early to say.’

‘We’re leaving,’ Miller told her. ‘There’s nothing for us here now.’

‘No, you’ll wait.’ Lloyd swung the revolver towards them, her arm extended, a sweaty gleam on her face. ‘You’ll have to run through it all. You’ll have to give statements. You know I can’t leave you out of it.’

‘So don’t. But we won’t be here.’

‘I have a gun.’

‘So do I.’ He withdrew the SIG from his backpack, turning it in his fist as if he hadn’t the faintest clue how it had got there. ‘But I don’t plan to use it and you really don’t want to shoot us. Right now, you’re a winner. You have a big success on your hands. We led you to this. We’re giving it to you. The truth, all wrapped up. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

Lloyd wet her lip. She glanced back towards the tunnel opening.

Was Renner weeping in there? It sounded that way to Miller.

‘Two questions,’ Lloyd said. ‘Will you answer them for me?’

‘Depends on what they are.’

‘The fire at your house – I want to know, did you find your wife and Anna dead and see it as an opportunity? Were you the one who set the blaze?’

‘You honestly believe I’m capable of that?’

‘I’ve wondered.’

‘Then stop. The fire was already raging. Wade set it. Wade killed them. I couldn’t get in the house. I tried. I tried everything I could. Believe me.’

Lloyd watched him carefully, weighing his words. Maybe she did believe him. It was hard to tell from her reaction. But then she sighed and shook her head and beckoned to Kate.

‘Give me that torch. I’m going to need it if I’m sticking around here on my own.’

Kate hesitated, looking between Miller and Lloyd until Miller snatched the torch from her and stepped forwards to pass it across. He held Lloyd’s eye for a beat, then turned and caught Kate’s hand and guided her towards the open door and the waiting lake.

Kate was almost outside ahead of him when he paused and looked back, tugging on her arm. Lloyd was switching her attention between Miller and the tunnel opening, the torch clamped beneath her elbow, tapping the lighted display of her phone with her thumb.

‘What was the other question?’ he asked her. ‘You said there were two.’

‘Melanie.’ Lloyd’s thumb hovered over the phone. ‘How is she? Is she well?’

‘She’s alive.’

‘And happy?’

Miller considered it.

‘She will be. She’s been lost a long time. Both of us have been. I’m hoping now this is over we can find our way back to each other again.’

‘So go to her.’ Lloyd made the call and raised the phone to her ear. ‘Get away from here and hide. It’s what you do best, I think.’

Eight a.m. in London and Jennifer Lloyd buttoned her silk blouse, tucking it into the waistband of her fitted skirt. She checked her make-up in the mirror, patted her hair. The style was softer than she was used to. Longer than before, swept back around her shoulders and tinted. She liked it, and so did a lot of other people judging by the compliments she was receiving from colleagues and friends. Colleagues who
were
friends. That was something new. Lloyd had become part of a team in a very real way.

Her life had changed, so it seemed only fitting that her view had, too. She'd invested in a two-bed apartment in a waterside complex next to the Thames. It was a modern place with a curved glass balcony that offered her a glimpse of Tower Bridge and, on a clear day, the dome of St Paul's. But not this morning, because Lloyd was in a hurry, swallowing the last of her tea and popping her mug in the dishwasher before locking her apartment and pressing the call button for the elevator.

The doors parted and a silver-haired professional in a tailored suit flashed her a wolfish grin as she stepped inside. Which amused her, though not because she was attracted to him. The fact was Lloyd was seeing someone. It wasn't a regular thing, and it was long-distance, but she had a feeling it might develop into something more. Julia Summerhayes was ten years her senior, but she was a remarkable woman: intelligent, kind, funny, but most of all, wise. It was Julia who'd helped Lloyd to understand how her perceptions had changed.

The fallout from events at the Lane estate had been complex and frenetic. They'd led to the arrest of Mike Renner on multiple serious charges, to the release of Russell Lane from prison, to the formal burials of Larry and Diane Lane in a local churchyard, and to the cremation of their son Connor, whose ashes, despite the wishes plainly expressed in his will, had been scattered by Russell from the side of a small boat over the deepest, darkest waters of Windermere.

An investigation had been launched into the failures and oversights of the UK Protected Persons Service, during which Nadine Foster had been found guilty of gross misconduct and dismissed from her role with the National Crime Agency. Foster would never work as a police officer again, but that was the least of her worries, since the Crown Prosecution Service were still considering the criminal charges she would face.

Lloyd had been called to give evidence in front of a six-person investigatory board that counted Commissioner Bennett among its members. Bennett had smiled knowingly when she'd taken her seat in the faceless meeting room in Whitehall. This was the moment he'd been waiting for; a chance for Lloyd to give voice to the many doubts and concerns they shared, not just about the way the Protected Persons Service was being run, but about its very existence in the first place.

And yet, by the time Lloyd found herself clearing her throat and leaning towards the microphone in front of her, she'd come to realise something. Yes, there were flaws in the way the service was being operated, but when she thought of everything she'd experienced in the wake of Kate Sutherland's disappearance, when her mind turned to the murders of Sarah Adams and Anna Brooks, to the repercussions of Connor Lane's actions throughout Europe, and to the desperate measures Nick Adams had taken to safeguard his daughter, she had to state for the record, in clear, concise terms, that the Protected Persons Service was a highly valuable programme that did important work and that its future had to be secured, no matter the difficulties involved.

And then – to hell with the inappropriateness of the setting, or to the unmistakable distaste she could see spreading across Bennett's skeletal face – she made a pitch to play an integral role in the future of the programme, to help guide it and shape it, with the aim of making it the best, most comprehensive scheme of its kind anywhere in the world.

Which was a little over the top, she had to admit, but her passion had impressed enough key members of the board that her proposals were taken forward for further discussion despite Commissioner Bennett's complaints. Not long afterwards, she'd been promoted to the rank of DI and placed on permanent assignment to the National Crime Agency, with special responsibility to develop and implement a new set of rules and procedures for the handling of protected persons.

Lloyd lived for the role. She had a fresh hunger for her job, and for her life outside it. Yet there wasn't a day that went by when she didn't think of Nick Adams and Kate Sutherland, and wonder where they might be or what they might be doing.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open and the silver-haired man in the expensive suit motioned for Lloyd to step out ahead of him. She crossed the foyer towards a bank of mailboxes to retrieve her post and found there was only one item waiting for her.

It was a postcard.

Six days previously, Miller sat in a canvas restaurant chair beneath a parasol, his arm resting on Kate's freckled shoulder. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a short-sleeved shirt over linen trousers. The remains of an octopus salad were on the table in front of him, next to an empty bottle of Sauvignon blanc.

Across the table, Becca smiled lazily from behind her Jackie O shades, her bosom straining against the material of the patterned sundress she had on. Hanson was bent forwards over the last of his lobster dish. He looked different with his new contact lenses. Younger, if that was possible, though perhaps Miller was swayed by the pink polo shirt and skinny shorts he was wearing.

The early-afternoon heat was intense, even in the shade of the restaurant terrace, and the tourists ambling along the limestone esplanade seemed wearied by the ceaseless sun. Miller could feel the warmth of Kate's skin through the thin cotton of the pink vest top she had on. He could smell the sea and he could hear the wheeling gulls. He felt drowsy from the wine and the heat. He was relaxed and content.

‘It's been so good seeing you both.' Kate reached across the table to squeeze Becca's hand.

‘You too, sweetie.'

‘Really good,' Hanson added, sucking lobster juices from his fingers. ‘So what's next for you? Have you decided?'

Miller felt the muscles ripple and tighten across Kate's back.

‘We've been talking,' she said, glancing at him. ‘And I think I should go back to the UK. It's safe for me now with Connor gone. And I'd like to meet my brother. Or try to, at least. Thanks to you.'

She kicked Hanson's feet under the table, and he smiled broadly, his lips shimmering with grease.

Becca pushed her sunglasses down on her nose, staring at Miller over the frames as if she expected him to intervene.

But Miller had already talked with Kate. They'd discussed it many times.
There's no going back
. That's what he'd told her right at the beginning. And maybe he'd been wrong where Kate was concerned, but he'd been right about himself. There were crimes he'd have to answer for, decisions that held consequences he'd be required to face. Lloyd might have allowed him to run once, but if he tried to go home for good, she couldn't ignore what he'd done. He'd conspired to fake his daughter's death by concealing the murder of Anna Brooks. He'd broken the law countless ways to identify and protect his clients. And besides, people were reliant on him. There were Pete and Emily to think about. There was Darren and Agata. There was Melanie, Timo, Nico and Mia.

Becca kept staring, hitching her eyebrows, and when he remained motionless, she sighed and shook her head.

‘Honey,' she told Kate, ‘you know there's something else you can do. Miller will never ask you, or tell you that it's what he really wants, so I guess it's down to me. You can stay and work with us. You can help us to carry on with what we do. We have people who need us. People to look after. And you can bet there'll be more of them soon.'

‘We could definitely use you,' Hanson added. ‘You've proved that already.'

‘Plus, we love you, sweetie. And Miller loves you – in a different, down-and-dirty kind of way. You're good for him.'

‘You
humanise
him.'

 ‘Hey.' Miller raised a hand, sneaking a look at Kate. A lopsided grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘Well?' he asked her. ‘What do you say?'

‘I don't know.' She half smiled, half winced. ‘Maybe. I want to say yes. I do. But there's my brother to think about. I want to try and meet him. I need it.'

‘Yeah, about that.' Hanson dabbed at his lips with a cotton napkin. ‘We're great at hiding people, Kate. And we'd be better at it with you, no question. But don't ever forget we're also pretty great at finding people.'

He nodded to a point somewhere behind Kate, winking encouragement when she still didn't turn. Miller lowered his hand from her shoulder and swivelled with her, looking along the sunlit esplanade, lined with seventeenth-century stone buildings, towards a tall bell tower and a giant, ornate brick fountain.

A red-haired man was standing at the base of the domed fountain in a white button-down shirt and beige chinos with a travel bag slung over his shoulder. He was shading his eyes with one hand, scanning the plaza.

Kate pushed back her chair, the metal legs scraping on the flagstones.

‘You didn't.'

‘Trust me. It's Richard.'

‘Hanson.' She shook her head as she rose slowly to her feet. ‘I am seriously impressed by you right now. But don't think I don't know what this is really about. I get what you've done here. Because how could I possibly say no to working with you guys after this?'

She smiled against the tears in her eyes and started towards her brother, one hand trailing in her wake, fingers spread, beckoning to Miller.

‘You go with her,' he said to Becca and Hanson. ‘See that she's OK.'

‘You should come too.'

‘I will. Soon. I just have one thing to do first.'

He laid down enough cash to cover their bill, then glanced over at Kate, who was stepping towards her brother hesitantly, accepting his outstretched hand, the two of them shaking formally before her brother laughed and dropped his bag, opening his arms, pulling her close.

Miller watched them a moment more, then nodded once at Hanson and crossed the street, passing through the blazing sunshine into the shade beneath an arched colonnade, where he contemplated the display of postcards outside a souvenir shop.

Lloyd stared at the postcard for a long moment, her heart clenching, her vision seeming to throb.

The image was a view of a sun-bathed harbour. She saw azure waters, a dun-coloured citadel, moored yachts, and a cascade of white houses with terracotta roofing tiles.

Slowly, she flipped the card over. Dubrovnik. It was postmarked six days ago, addressed to her in a slanted biro scrawl.

The card wasn't signed. Lloyd glanced up and turned it over, weighing it in her hand, imagining Nick Adams writing his message in a seafront hotel room; thinking of him picking up his luggage and strolling away hand-in-hand with Kate to post the card before moving on.

She checked her watch. She was running a little late. She had a packed schedule of meetings ahead of her and a new case file to oversee. She should go. She should hurry outside and catch her bus.

But instead she walked back to the waiting elevator, hit the button for her floor and returned to her apartment. She entered her kitchen, took a magnet from a drawer and stuck the postcard to her fridge. Then she stepped back with her arms folded and lost herself in the blazing sunshine and turquoise waters of Dubrovnik. For a few precious minutes, she caught her breath.