James Carol - The Quiet Man

In a little over two hours’ time August 4 would become August 5. Neil Armstrong had been born on August 5, 1930, and gone on to great things. His one small step would be talked about for as long as mankind was writing history.

And last year on August 5 Lian Hammond had died.

And on August 5 the year before that Alicia Kirchner had died.

And the year before that it had been Isabella Sobek’s turn to get taped to the chair.

The date had to be significant. It couldn’t be random. Winter navigated to the folder containing the emails from Anderton, and scrolled down until he found the attachments relating to Isabella. He opened the transcript of Anderton’s first interview with Sobek and began to read. He could hear Sobek’s arrogance in the printed words. He could sense the perceived superiority. Some people considered psychopaths to be the next stage in human evolution. Who knows, maybe they were. And if that turned out to be the case, world watch out. Winter picked up his tumbler and took a sip, then carried on reading, searching for the significance of that date. It was going to be a long night.

Winter woke up on the sofa with a crick in his neck, a banging in his head, and no answer to the question of why August 5 was so important. His laptop was on the table, but he couldn’t remember putting it there. The last time he’d checked his watch it was after two. There was a quarter-inch of whisky left in the tumbler.

The banging started up again and it took a moment to work out that this wasn’t the start of a hangover. He stood up, scrubbed at his face to work the sleep away, then went to answer the door. Before opening it, he checked the spy hole. Just in case. The woman standing beside the room-service trolley looked too awake for this time of the day. According to his watch it wasn’t even six yet.

Winter yawned, then stood to one side so she could push the trolley in. She parked it by the sofa, then left quickly. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything. He walked over to the trolley and checked it out. There was a bit of everything. Pastries, fruit, cereal. Bacon and pancakes. Lots of coffee. He hadn’t been sure what he’d feel like, and Sobek was paying, so he’d used the scattergun approach when ordering. Right now, though, he didn’t feel much like eating anything. He poured a coffee, loaded it with sugar and called that a good start.

It looked like it was going to be another beautiful day. The sun was on the rise and the water of the harbour was glowing orange. The birds had the cloudless sky all to themselves. He drank some coffee and checked his cell. The world he’d woken up to was as close to the one he’d fallen asleep on as to make no real difference. Nothing happening on the case. Nothing out of the ordinary happening anywhere.

He finished his coffee and hit the shower, blasting it hot then cold until he felt human again. He dressed quickly. Clean jeans because yesterday’s were a bit stale, and a clean T-shirt because he wasn’t a complete slob. Frank Zappa was staring out from the front of the T-shirt, wild eyed and crazy as a loon. The long hair reminded him of Sobek’s. He still wasn’t hungry but forced himself to eat. There was no telling how long it would be before he got the chance to eat again.

A cab was waiting at the Shangri La’s entrance. The driver looked half asleep and was giving off a vibe like he’d rather be anywhere but here. This wasn’t a problem. If he’d been looking for conversation it wouldn’t have ended well. Winter knew how and where to hide the bodies. The driver asked him where he wanted to go. Winter told him. The driver’s surprise lasted all of two seconds. He shrugged a ‘whatever’ then pulled away from the hotel.

Winter spent the first part of the journey checking to make sure they weren’t being tailed. Freeman had promised to back off, but Winter had been around long enough to know that words meant only as much as you wanted them to mean. This time of day, the streets were practically empty. If anyone had been following they would have stood out straight away.

Fifteen minutes later the cab stopped outside the tall iron gates that marked the main entrance of Mountain View Cemetery. An Aston Martin Vantage was parked a little further up the street. It was a fine-looking vehicle. Sleek, grey and stylish. The cemetery was a 106-acre swathe of green that sat slap bang in the middle of Vancouver. As the name suggested, there was a great view of the mountains to the north. The location was a developer’s dream. They’d kill to get their hands on a site like this. The sign on the gate stated that the cemetery opened at seven. According to Winter’s watch it was five before. According to his eyes, the gates were wide open. It didn’t matter where you were in the world, money talked.

Winter told the driver to keep the meter running and got out. He closed the door and walked over to the gates. The area was deserted. Anyone with any sense was still in bed. He glanced back at the cab. The driver was already tugging his baseball cap over his eyes and settling down for a nap. Winter had printed off a map of the cemetery in the Shangri La’s business centre. Isabella Sobek’s grave was marked with a red cross.

He lit a cigarette and started walking. He was almost down to the butt by the time he reached the grave site. It was a picturesque spot in the shade of an alder tree. Rows of headstones spread out in all directions. They’d been positioned with military precision, order imposed on the chaos and uncertainty that inevitably followed every death. Winter took one last drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out, then pushed the butt into his cigarette pack. He’d find a trash can later.

Nicholas Sobek was already here. He would have arrived as the sun came up, and he’d be here until it went down again. That’s what had happened for the last two years. Why should this year be any different? He was sitting on a fold-up camping chair at the foot of his wife’s grave, gazing toward the mountains. The sun was still working at warming up the day and he was wearing a leather jacket. His long hair had been washed and brushed through and hung down loose to his collar. It looked as though he’d trimmed his beard.

Isabella’s grave was marked with a five-foot high white marble angel. The pedestal was engraved with her dates. She’d been born in March 1982, which made her a Pisces, and she’d been murdered on August 5 three years ago, which meant that she’d only lived to be thirty. The epitaph read: A THOUSAND YEARS BEGINS AND ENDS WITH YOU. The words sounded impressive and heartfelt, but what did they actually mean? That was the thing with death, the big gestures always seemed to ring hollow. There was an empty camp chair next to Sobek’s. Winter sat down and crossed his legs, then gazed toward the north where the mountains were rising up from the land, huge and humbling.

‘I was wondering when you’d turn up,’ Sobek said.

‘On this day in 1966, the Beatles released Revolver in the UK,’ Winter said.

‘And four years earlier in 1962, Nelson Mandela was arrested,’ Sobek replied.

‘And three years ago you killed your wife.’

Sobek stopped staring at the mountains and turned to face Winter. ‘I thought we established that I didn’t do it.’

‘No, we established that you didn’t murder her. That’s not the same thing. You killed Isabella when you opened the kitchen door. That’s a fact. There’s no doubt whatsoever. You killed your wife.’

Sobek locked eyes with Winter. ‘Do you have any idea what it feels like to kill someone you love? Do you have any idea how much guilt that entails?’

‘I can imagine.’

‘No you can’t. There’s no reference point for something like this. Either you’ve passed through the hurricane, or you haven’t.’