Chapter 14 Miles #2
‘As you know, that DNA didn’t match any individual on our criminal database, but that won’t necessarily be the case forever.
What often happens in this scenario is, at some point, we’ll pick someone up for a different offence – say, shoplifting or drink-driving, for the sake of argument – and then, bingo: there’s a match. ’
‘So that’s it? You just wait and see?’
‘No, Mr Deverill, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s one strand of inquiry. In terms of DNA, we are still actively trying to find the scarf Caira was wearing, as we believe the killer’s DNA will most certainly be on that.’
‘And how are you trying to find—’
‘Mr Deverill, I appreciate your interest, of course I do, but I don’t have the time at the moment to give you a full debrief on our investigation.
If there are any significant developments, we’ll let you know, and if you have any further questions feel free to put them in an email and I’ll do my best to answer them. ’
The call ends abruptly, and Miles shakes his head as he tries to digest all this new information.
He walks wearily towards the rest of the group, his brain crackling with noise but not focused on any one clear thought.
All of their bags have been offloaded from the carousel, and everyone looks expectantly at Miles for an update but instead he just says, ‘Let’s go,’ and they pick up their stuff and head for the exit.
He’s mute, lost in thought, as they weave through the other travellers.
It’s a small airport and it doesn’t take long before they’re outside and loading their stuff into a white people-carrier at the taxi rank.
Elis takes the seat next to the driver and the rest of them pile into the back and they head off.
Fatigue and jet lag have knocked the life out of them and they’re out of the airport and on to a main road by the time anyone speaks, and when they do it’s Polly, speaking hushed into Miles’s ear: ‘What did the cops want?’
‘Oh, nothing. They were just giving me an update.’
‘About the emails?’
‘Mostly, yeah.’
‘And? What do they know?’
Miles knuckles his eyes. ‘What do they know? I’ll tell you what they know: the square root of sod all. We were right about the AI, though.’
She pats him on the knee. ‘Try not to think about it. Whoever they are, they’re on the other side of the world now.’
The taxi rounds a corner and everyone except the driver turns their head to the left, where a curtain of trees and buildings has been pulled back to reveal a spectacular view: a long body of water – a lake or inlet – stretches out for miles, and behind it and all along its edge rises a ridge of mountains.
Miles allows his tired eyes to unfocus, and the landscape takes on a blurry symmetry, the ridge floating suspended between the greys of the water and sky like the stripes of a triband.
He cracks open the window and cold air rushes against his face as they follow the road that tracks the edge of the lake.
Alex Burnfield. That name continues to turn over in his head; he tries to reach high into the rafters of his mind for some memory of it, but the journey is short and there’s barely time to think, or even admire the view, before they reach the town.
Queenstown is low-lying and reminds him vaguely of Aspen, the way the squat apartment complexes and chalets shrink against the looming landscape.
The town is so small that within minutes they have driven through it and are pulling up at their hotel: a disproportionately huge, gleaming white lakeside building.
They’re dropped off outside and haul their bags into a bright and airy lobby to check in.
Miles and Polly each have their own double, while George, Elis and Reubyn will be sharing a family room.
Key cards and directions are issued, and the group leaves the check-in desk and – with the exception of Polly, who heads straight upstairs – pauses to confer by the lifts.
Should they go out and explore, get their bearings?
Grab some lunch somewhere, maybe? Elis seems keen, but even he has been drained of his normal get-up-and-go.
They’re all jet-lagged, unclean and exhausted.
Miles calls the lift and knows exactly what he’s in the mood for, and all of it can be done from the confines of his room: shower, white robe, room service.
He’ll try to stay up as late as he can – he’s set himself a target of remaining conscious until 5 p.m. – but there is no guarantee he can hold off sleep for that long.
Miles’s friends leave the lift and he continues up to the fifth floor, then takes a left in search of room 508.
He swipes his way in, and the door swings closed, snapping the room into silence.
Miles drops his bag, slides open a glass door and steps out on to the balcony.
He blinks, then stares wide-eyed, briefly paralysed by the panorama that’s unfolded in front of him.
It’s incredible. The lake is vast and flanked by firs on one side and walled at its furthest reaches by sheer mountains that weave and cross into a gorge with such depth it could go on forever.
He rests his weight on the balcony rail and tilts his head downwards to where the water laps at a thin and empty beach below.
A small eruption on the surface grabs his gaze; a cormorant lumbering into the air with great effort, flapping its heavy wings and gliding on to a branch of some unidentifiable foreign tree.
The sense of isolation is overwhelming. This is it, he knows: they’ve reached the back of beyond, a thousands-of-miles-away hinterland that has no knowledge or memory, and Miles feels the madness start to drift away, like steam from a cup, all of it: the murder charge, the incarceration, the trial, the press intrusion, the abuse, the trolls, the emails.
Alex Burnfield. None of it matters anymore.
Not out here. His mind is starting to clear, a sense of order returning.
The sun emerges through a gap in the clouds, sets light dancing all across the surface of the lake, and paints the firs a vibrant green.
The drained muscles in Miles’s face ache from being pulled tight.
How long has he been smiling? He has no idea – he didn’t even realise he was.
All he knows is: it’s done. The nightmare is over. And it’s time to start living again.