Restoration (26 page)

  The lift came to a halt. He made to leave before realising that the damn thing was between floors.

  "For Christ's sake…" he stabbed at the button again, demanding it took him to his bed.

  The lift shuddered and he gave a startled yell that he hoped nobody was awake to hear. It shook again, this time violently enough to throw him to the floor. He rolled into a sitting position just as the lift jolted back into life and climbed the last few feet. As it came to a halt, Mario began to wonder if he hadn't been drinking far more than he should. The view on the other side of the gate was not the sixth floor of his apartment building, it was a bright, gleaming shopping centre. He got to his feet and yanked the gate open. As he stumbled out a tannoy croaked into life. "Passengers wishing to take the 4.15 from Paddington should be warned that murders are taking place on that service. If they do wish to travel they should ensure they have an alibi and an up to date will and testament."

  Mario's English was rusty but good enough. Not that the announcement made the least sense to him.

  "Where the fuck am I?" he wondered, stumbling out of his old life forever.

 
 
 

 

Captain Warren Shepard had seen countless horrors in his career. He had visited domestic disturbances where women hung off the arms of their abusive husbands, black-eyed, snotty-nosed and wailing their adoration for the men that treated them as punchbags. He had seen kids of no more than sixteen, glass-eyed and cold, their nostrils caked with cheap-shit coke that had stopped their parent's hearts as surely as their own. Two years into the job he had broken down by the side of the road at the sight of a child's sneaker, blood-stained and weighted with more than just a shed sock. The broken glass and burned rubber on the tarmac had been gathered around the mangled frame of a kid's push-bike. The rest of the body stuck to the underside of a Lincoln Continental further up the road. It was the first – and last – time that Shepard had shed tears on the job. After awhile you just had to wall those emotions up. They came out in the end of course, over a drink or in the middle of the night when all you can hear is the cicadas outside and the gentle rise and fall of your wife's breathing. Nothing stays walled up forever. But on the job, when wearing that uniform, you become immovable. You let the civilians wail and curse and beg their God for an answer, that's their job, it's not yours.

  But when faced with the absurd freakshow at the Home Town construction site Shepard nearly let that granite exterior crumble once more. Nearly. Thinking back on it later, he thought it had probably been the sight of that glinting wedding ring. A plain gold band that had made him revolve his own, spinning it around his warm, living finger with the rough pad of his thumb. Yes, he figured it had probably been that.

  "What the hell do you think happened?" Dutch Wallace asked. Looking as always to the higher rank for answers. Like a few more pips could help you understand this, Shepard thought.

  "Damned if I know, lieutenant. Just make sure you keep the press back if they show – and they will – I don't want them guessing an answer to that question either."

  He stared at the scene for a couple more minutes, watching the forensics team digging away the bodies like a bunch of archeologists. Then he went to the foreman's office to interrogate the only man working on the site who was lucky enough to be still drawing breath.

  Corben Alliss had lost all of his usual swagger. His glasses were folded away in the breast pocket of his work shirt and he was staring at the walls of the Portakabin with pale, panda eyes.

  Shepard had already decided that Alliss wasn't a suspect, you just didn't fake that walking-wounded look. But that wouldn't stop him pursuing him as one officially, he wasn't paid to make sweeping decisions, whatever his gut might tell him. Still, given time, he had little doubt that the evidence would rule him out. Until then he would interview him with the caution a police officer reserved for anyone whose neck may be within cricking distance of the noose. Say nothing, listen to all.

  "What can you tell me about this Mr Alliss?" he asked, sitting down on the opposite side of the foreman's desk and cradling his hands gently at his crotch.

  The big man shook his head, glancing towards the window in momentary confusion as if he'd heard someone shouting his name outside.

  "Saw nothing," he replied after a moment. Quietly, as if he were talking to himself.

  "You been in here all day, that it?"

  "No… I…" that glance again, through the window and out towards the Highway, "just the last couple of hours." Just for a moment a chunk of the real Corben Alliss surfaced, a solidifying of the man's gaze as an idea occurred to him in the here and now. "Had a few calls to make."

  "That right?" Shepard nodded, taking his time, performing his own form of archeology. You didn't get dirt under your nails, he thought, but the digging's just as deep and the things buried there just as nasty. "Who did you call?"

  Alliss shook his head again. It was a tiny gesture, little more than a twitch but Shepard caught it nonetheless. Not that he'd needed it to know the man had been lying. "Few suppliers," Allis said, "the boss."

  There was a shift in tone on that last, Shepard noted.

  "The boss? Ted Loomis?" Alliss nodded. "What did you talk to him about?"

  "Just stuff, y'know," Alliss scowled as if the subject was distasteful. The face of a man who had just found the treads of his work boot packed with dog shit.

  "No," Shepard replied, "I don't know. What sort of stuff?" There was no harshness to his tone – he'd let that creep in later if he had to – for now it was all just gentle digging. Like dabbing away with those little brushes he'd seen archeologists use in the movies as they carefully uncovered ancient skulls and hidden temples.

  Alliss looked confused then slightly angry. "Just approvals, you know? Have to call about shit like that all the time, how much to spend on this or that."

  Shepard nodded. "Where did you reach him? The office or at home?"

  "The office," Alliss replied quickly. "I never call him at home."

  Shepard nodded again. "Figured as much, don't get much thanks invading a man's private time."

  Alliss tried to smile. "Damn right."

  Shepard smiled right back. There was no more genuine humour to his than the foreman's but he was better at pretending. "Maybe I ought to try using your phone then," he said, "we've been trying to get hold of him but his secretary says he hasn't been in all day. You think she's lying to us?" Alliss' smile faded and Shepard found he was glad of the fact, it had been more like a death rictus.

  Shepard reached for the phone, pulling his notepad from his shirt pocket and riffing through it while cradling the receiver at his neck. He found the number and dialled, watching Alliss all the while. "Hi there," he said as the call connected, "could you put me through to Mr Loomis please? It's Captain Warren Shepard from the Kissimmee Police Department, the call is urgent." There was a pause while the woman on the other end answered. Shepard kept his smile in place and his eyes on Alliss. "Really? You tried to raise him at home?" Another pause. "No luck there either huh? Well, yes, I think you'd better keep trying he's going to want to get in touch for sure. Thanks." He put the phone down. "Still no sign of him," he said to Alliss, "guess you must have hit lucky?"

  Alliss grew even paler. His mouth moving noiselessly as he tried to think of something to say, like his lips were caught in the breeze.

  "I'm sure we'll get hold of him in the end though won't we?" Shepard continued. "Unless he's one of the poor bastards we have to dig up out there of course." He let the words sink in for a moment. Let Alliss picture those hands protruding from the soft earth. "Might that be the case, you think?"

  Alliss shook his head. "I don't know…"

  "You don't know?"

  "No."

  Shepard nodded. "If he'd been around you'd have seen him though I guess?" Alliss squirmed. Trying to work his way around the impossibility of his situation. "I mean," Shepard continued, "if he'd been on site you'd have known wouldn't you?"

  Alliss shook his head again. "I don't…"

  "Of course you'd know," Shepard continued as if Alliss hadn't even spoken. "You're the foreman, you'd know if anyone came out here wouldn't you? You'd be straight on anyone who showed up, right?"

  There was a sudden flash of panic there and Shepard noted it. That had been important. He had hit something square on.

  "Anyone show up here this morning, Mr Alliss?'

  Again that glance to the window and the busy road beyond. Shepard let the silence hang there for a moment, let the foreman stare beyond the glass of his little cave.

  "Who came out here, Mr Alliss?" he asked in the end. "Who did you see?"

  After a moment Corben Alliss told him.

 

 

Miles and Carruthers, robbed of a viable plan, walked along the Highway hoping they might stumble on a better one. Neither of them fancied their chances much but sometimes it was good to just make some distance pass under your heels.

  "You think he's after Elise?" Miles asked after a while, he didn't need to mention Tom by name, they both knew who he meant.

  "We've travelled to a point in time when she's still alive," Carruthers replied. "Would you be able to resist that opportunity were you in his shoes? I'm a damn idiot for letting him come."

  "Yep," nodded Miles, "and I'm a damned idiot for letting you let him."

  Carruthers smiled. "As long as we both understand how idiotic we are then all is well."

  "Oh, I've never been in any doubt," Miles replied. "Cut me in half and you'll find the word 'wassock' written through me like in a stick of rock."

  They walked along in silence for a little longer, watching the cars that sped by. Carruthers in particular was engrossed by them. "I would love to master the art of these automobiles," he confessed, "think how much of the world you could see with one of those beneath you."

  "Until you hit water," Miles said, "they're not so good at the away game."

  "Nonetheless, when you think of the months it took me to travel from one destination to another, trapped on slow steamers or hiking desert trails. Your world is all within reach," he frowned, "though I suppose that takes the point out of exploring rather."

  "There are always places people have yet to experience," Miles said, looking up into the sky. "In the sixties we managed to get as far as the moon but we've not managed much further."

  "The moon!" Carruthers sighed. "Was it made of cheese?"

  "No," said Miles "it's sort of…" he noticed Carruthers was chuckling. "Thought you were being serious, sorry."

  "Don't be, we need all the humour we can manage right now."

  "And a plan, perhaps?" Miles suggested. "That wouldn't hurt either."

  "No," Carruthers agreed, "it would be quite useful."

  Miles noticed a sign to their right and stopped Carruthers with a firm hand on the man's shoulder. "Panic not," he said, mimicking his friend's fruity tone, "the very solution to our malaise is at hand. I espy a dream palace that shall surely provide all the inspiration and answers we need." He took Carruthers' arm and led him off the Highway. "Prepare to be blown away my good man."

  Carruthers raised an eyebrow. "Somewhat tempestuous in," he checked the sign, "'Dunkin' Donuts' is it?"

  "A storm of doughy, chocolatey goodness, yes," Miles replied, holding the door open for his friend.

  They sat at the counter, Carruthers struggling for a while not to slip off the highly polished swivel-stool but getting the hang of it in the end.

  "I suppose a cup of tea is asking too much?" he asked.

  "Two coffees please," Miles told the waitress, "and enough donuts to choke a horse."

  "Sure thing," she replied with a smile. "Here on holiday are you?"

  "Something like that."

  "Thought as much, we don't get many Australian regulars…" she shuffled over to the coffee machine.

  "Australian indeed," Carruthers muttered.

  "They always get the accents mixed up," said Miles. "Never understood it myself. Mind you, it's mostly Dick Van Dyke's fault." He waved Carruthers questions away. "Doesn't matter, talking rubbish again."

  Carruthers nodded. "I did wonder."

  They ordered a mixed selection of donuts and took them over to a table by the window.

  "So," said Miles, dipping a donut with chocolate sprinkles into his coffee, "what next?"

  "You're putting it in your drink!" Carruthers hissed. "Have table manners completely vanished in the future?"

  "Completely," Miles said. "Roll with it. Luxuriate in the savage abandon of a sticky finger and a sweet tooth."

  Carruthers sighed, took a donut with vanilla icing and dipped it tentatively into his coffee.

  "Everything alright guys?" the waitress asked just as Carruthers had bitten off a mouthful of his soggy donut.

  He waved his contentment with a fluttered serviette and swallowed. "Enchanting my good lady, you are a queen of the baker's oven."

  She chuckled hard at that, forty Newports a day rattling around inside her chest as she did so. "You guys crack me up."

  "She doesn't bake them herself," Miles whispered to Carruthers, "they come ready-done."

  "From the Donut fairy one presumes?" Carruthers took another bite and smiled. "Whatever their provenance they are most pleasant."