The Sister(212)

‘Thanks, John, I’ll call you back.’

Taking a deep breath, he phoned Stella.

‘Hi, Stella, it’s me. Is everything okay?’

‘Jesus, Miller, what was that all about. I couldn’t get anything out of Rosetta, what is it about you? I’m beginning to believe you when you say you’re dangerous to know!’

‘I haven’t got time to explain it now. The main thing is you and Kathy are okay. How much longer before you arrive in London? Tanner is going to send someone to meet you, but listen, do me a favour. Don’t say anything about what happened with The Sister.’

‘How can I say anything? I can hardly remember a thing.’ She laughed nervously.

The taxi arrived.





Deciding to catch the train home in the morning, he checked into the nearest hotel to the railway station as he could.

Moments later, his phone rang. Carla.

‘Miller, where are you?’

‘I’m in a little room at a hotel in Edinburgh—’

‘I called you straight away. Guess what? No, don’t bother. I’ve just discovered Michael Simpson posted some documents into an email account he’d set up under an alias. I’ll explain everything later, but I now know who killed him, and why.’

‘I thought we were clear—’

She interrupted, ‘Yes, but you’ll never believe what I found out.’

‘Oh, Carla, please just tell me.’

‘It’s Kale – he’s the leader of the Resurrectionists.’

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Despite everything else that came before, he’d not seen that coming.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, ‘Carla, give me a minute, I’ll call you back.’ He disconnected her.

His mind raced. When Vera had touched him, and he’d seen those things: the neon sign, the garish cross over the church glowing high on the mountain.

It all became clear.

The Sister had her reasons for throwing a blanket over his senses, and he realised she’d known her destiny all along and used him to do what she couldn’t do directly herself.

He’d unwittingly helped her to get inside; now she would at last finish the task fate had set her long ago.

Miller wondered if he’d ever see her again, and then he smiled.





Calling Carla back, he laid his cards on the table. ‘Listen, you’re going to have to drop the investigation—’

‘Miller, are you kidding me? No way!’

‘Will you just hear me out? You have a great story, and we both know that, but to leak it now benefits no one, puts lives in danger and spoils whatever chances there might be of a better one, and besides, what’s happened about Carlos?’

‘Trail’s gone cold. I haven’t enough for a story really. I have some more on his background, but I don’t do half a job.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

‘Okay, okay, I’ll drop it for now. I was thinking about writing a book about Boyle.’

‘Boyle? There’s a story there, but you can’t finish that one either.’

‘Oh, I think I can,’ she said.





Rosetta stepped off the train into the cool night air and made her way towards the seafront.

The buildings in the side street leading towards it were derelict, boarded up; most of them had been that way for years. Only the dregs of society, drug addicts, winos and the down-on-their luck used them now. It was almost midnight.

It was safer on the streets during the day, while most of them slept off the effects of the night before. After dark, it was a place best avoided.

Two rough sleepers sat facing each other, with their backs against the red brick wall of a porch. At the bottom of the stone steps leading up to it, was a black iron gate with three-foot railings each side of it. It was a visible deterrent to invasion, which although not unassailable, made them feel safer.

One was Irish, the other Czechoslovakian. They took turns guarding their snug in the daytime. They hadn’t left it unattended, since a couple of Romanian gypsies had laid claim to it some time ago. It hadn’t been easy to get it back. One would go off to forage for money, drink and food, while the other stayed behind. The arrangement worked well.

When they spoke, it was quietly, to avoid drawing attention to themselves. They finished the last of the drink; it was the trigger – knowing there was no more – to descend into oblivion. It beckoned the Czech first, as always, and the conversation dwindled to almost nothing.

It was the same every night.

‘She’s not coming, is she?’ the Irishman said, out of the blue.

The Czech’s head tipped back as he drained the last drops from the purple tin in his hand; he rolled his eyes in his companion’s direction without moving his head.

He spoke from the corner of his mouth, as he swallowed. ‘Who’s not—’ His chest heaved, interrupted by a choking spasm. His lips pressed tightly together to prevent the loss of any precious liquid, his eyes bulged as he struggled to regain control of the reflex. Finally swallowing, he coughed a piece of phlegm and spat it over the wall. ‘— not coming?’

The Irishman shook his head in dismay. ‘Did your mother not tell you never to speak wit' your mouth full?’