Chapter 21 Miles
Miles
Miles stomps along the waterfront, past the main pier with its bright signs advertising boat trips, and sees his three friends ambling in his direction.
He quickens his step, and his heart rate, already high, ticks up with it.
George has spotted him. He points and says something to the other two.
As Miles gets closer, it becomes audible – something about him being a snake – and, when he gets closer still, George addresses him directly: ‘I’m only letting you get away with this because of your annus horribilis, you little—’
‘Shut up,’ Miles snaps. He pounds right up to them, causing all three to come to an abrupt stop.
‘What’s up with you?’
Miles jabs a finger in their direction. ‘I think you know. At least one of you knows.’ George, Reubyn and Elis trade looks.
They appear genuinely baffled. Either Miles has got this wrong, or someone here is a convincing liar.
‘If you’re playing some kind of joke,’ he says, ‘then I want to know now, because it’s not funny. ’
They stand, bewildered, for a few moments, and then Reubyn breaks the silence. ‘Honestly, I don’t think any of us has a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Okay’ – Miles takes his phone out and opens his emails – ‘maybe this will jog your memory. I received it about ten minutes ago.’
The four of them huddle around Miles’s phone and he presses play on the audio file. Miles studies their reactions. If anything, they appear even more confused than before. Shocked, even. When it’s over, they all stare at him, eyes wide.
‘Mate,’ Reubyn says, ‘seriously, why would any of us do this? We’re your friends.’
Looking at them now, the realisation that he’s right lands with a thumping clarity. There is no plausible reason for them to do it. ‘So how do they know about the Macallan, then?’
George shrugs. ‘God knows.’
‘Did any of you mention the Macallan? To anyone at all?’
They shake their heads.
‘What about on your socials? Did you post it anywhere? Or write it in an email?’
‘It was just a drink,’ George says. ‘It’s nothing to write home about.’
‘So, you’re sure? We’re the only ones who know about it?’
‘We must be,’ Elis says. ‘Just us four and the woman who poured it.’
There’s a silence, then Miles turns around, looking in the direction of The Globe. The bar staff – he’s right, they might know something. ‘I’m going over there,’ Miles says. ‘I need to talk to her.’
The others follow, and George falls in by Miles’s side. ‘What are you hoping to get out of this?’
‘I’m not sure. But I’ve got to do something.’
‘You’d be better off going to the police.’
Miles stops by the side of the road, waiting for traffic to pass. ‘I will. But right now, they’ll be asleep. It’s the middle of the night back at home.’
‘I mean here. We could go to the local police station.’
They seize a small break in the traffic and jog across. ‘That would be pointless,’ Miles says, slightly out of breath. ‘I’m not spending the next two hours explaining this whole saga to PC Plod from Queenstown police.’
They arrive at The Globe. It’s much quieter than yesterday, but it’s early – they probably just opened.
Miles tells the other three to stay outside, but George ignores the instruction, following him through the door.
Inside are two men: one behind the bar who unfolds his arms as they enter, and one in a pale pink shirt who doesn’t look up from his laptop.
Miles heads straight to the bar, and George skips ahead of him.
The barman smiles. ‘Kia ora. What can I get you?’
‘There was a girl working here yesterday,’ George says. ‘Blonde hair, tattoos, nose ring. Is she around?’
The smile disappears. ‘Are you a friend, or something?’
‘Not exactly. We just need to talk to her for a minute.’
‘She’s got a boyfriend, bro, if that’s why you’re here.’
‘It’s not that,’ Miles interjects. ‘We were in here yesterday and—’
Miles stops at the sound of an old throat being cleared, like a shovel being driven into hard ground.
They turn around to see Pink Shirt, a short, grey man with a face full of broken capillaries, who has departed his laptop and crept up behind them.
‘Is there something I can help with? I’m the owner. ’
‘They want to talk to Heather,’ the barman says.
‘I gathered that much.’ The owner straightens, summoning as much height as he can muster. ‘But I’m afraid we don’t give out the contact details of our staff to random blokes.’
Miles shows his palms. ‘Look, I’m not some weirdo. It’s just I think she might be able to help me.’
‘And how’s that?’
‘I think’ – Miles exhales slowly – ‘I think I might be being followed.’
‘Right.’
‘So, is she on shift today?’
‘She’s not here.’
‘When will she be in?’
The owner pinches at the loose, ruddy skin under his chin. ‘Look, I know who you are.’
Miles tries not to react. But his heart has just been punched out of rhythm. ‘You do?’
‘You’re Miles, right? One of my staff recognised you when you were in here yesterday. I’m not judging, or whatever, but I don’t want any drama in my bar.’
The heat in the room rises, and Miles feels strangely naked, feels the judgement of the man standing in front of him.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong,’ George says. ‘He was falsely accused.’
The owner’s eyes flick to George. He opens his mouth, and his attention is drawn towards the door.
They all turn to look. Walking in with a backpack hanging from her tattooed shoulders is the bartender from yesterday.
Heather, apparently. She stops in the middle of the room, confused by the four sets of eyes locked on her.
‘Hi,’ she says, with a drawn-out rising inflection that makes it sound more like a question. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Give us a minute,’ the owner says. He shoots Miles a look as he leads Heather to a table in the corner.
Miles feels the barman’s stare burning into him, also.
His cover has been blown – all the staff here know who he is, and they’ll all have been gossiping about him.
How on earth was he recognised on the other side of the world?
Do the people of New Zealand really take such an interest in the court cases of the UK?
It seems unlikely. Although places like this have a high turnover of staff and it’s plausible some of them are British.
‘All right,’ hollers the owner, beckoning Miles over.
‘You stay here,’ Miles says to George. He crosses the wooden boards to the table in the far corner where the owner and Heather sit on one side. Miles takes a seat opposite.
‘Okay,’ the owner says. ‘What’s this about?’
Miles takes a deep breath. How to explain this without sounding completely insane. ‘I think I might have a stalker.’
They wait for him to continue. Heather’s eyes narrow in confusion.
‘Last night, my friend over there’ – pointing to George – ‘ordered four glasses of whisky from you. It was a specific brand, Macallan.’
‘I remember,’ Heather says, her voice light. ‘We don’t sell much of that.’
‘Right. But the trouble is: someone is threatening me, and somehow that person knows I had Macallan last night.’
Heather’s eyes widen and she glances sideways at her boss. ‘Wait, you’re not suggesting I’ve been . . .’ – she shakes her head, lost for words – ‘I’ve never met you before in my life.’
‘No,’ Miles says. ‘I’m not suggesting you’ve done anything wrong – nothing whatsoever. But did you mention it to anyone? Does anyone else know that we had Macallan last night?’
‘Remember, you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,’ the owner says, unhelpfully.
‘That’s right,’ Miles says. ‘I’m not trying to put pressure on you. But someone is making my life hell, and I’d like to be able to report them to the police.’
Heather is silent for a moment. Her eyes wander, tracing across the ceiling, then fix again on Miles. ‘Actually, there was something.’
Miles shifts in his seat. ‘Okay. What was it?’
‘There was this guy, he came up to the bar and asked what the English blokes were drinking. I told him about the Macallan, and he asked to have the same. I told him the price, and then he changed his mind and ordered a cheaper whisky. I did think it was quite strange.’
Miles leans in, elbows on the table. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Just an average guy,’ Heather says.
Miles’s eye twitches. ‘Can you be any more specific?’
She shrugs. ‘He was average height, dark hair – cut short, like your friend’s over there.’ Heather thinks for a moment. ‘And he had a beard. Well, not a beard, exactly, but, you know, some stubble.’
‘Anything else? What was he wearing? Did he have an accent?’
‘All right, that’s enough,’ the owner says, as Heather opens her mouth to speak. ‘Heather here needs to start her shift.’
Miles’s mouth falls open. ‘Wait. What? This is important.’
The owner stands. ‘And so is the privacy of my customers.’
‘This is going to be a police matter,’ Miles says, also rising to his feet.
‘And are you a police officer?’
‘No, obviously not, but they’ll be investigating this, I guarantee it.’
‘That’s great – you send them my way. They can talk to whoever they want. I’ve got CCTV cameras, receipts, the works. I’m all above board. Whatever they want, I’ll hand it over, but for now, we’re done here, so order a drink or piss off.’
The owner folds his arms and nods at Heather, who scurries off and disappears into a backroom. He lifts his tangled white eyebrows at Miles.
‘Thanks for your time,’ Miles says. He leaves the table and walks out of the bar, closely followed by George.
Outside, Reubyn and Elis are sat at a table in the shade of a parasol. Their conversation ceases. ‘Any joy?’ Reubyn asks.
Miles slumps heavily on to the bench. ‘I’m definitely being followed.
’ His eyes dart all around – checking for eavesdroppers, especially any that might match the description given by Heather – and then he gives his friends the full rundown of what he’s just heard, his heart galloping along with the whole story.
‘Bloody hell,’ Elis says after a short silence, once Miles has inflated his cheeks to indicate he’s finished. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘There’s not a lot I can do. Obviously, I’ll pass on everything I’ve found out to the police, but I doubt they’ll get on to it very quickly. And in the meantime . . .’
Miles shakes his head; he doesn’t need to articulate it because they all know: in the meantime, this holiday has been ruined.
The longer he sits there in silence, the more it dawns on him just how disastrous this all is.
It’s as if the problem facing him has gained a physical mass, has him surrounded and is pressing at his flesh from all angles.
Now, there is no doubt: the person who’s harassing him has travelled to New Zealand, and that raises a whole new set of questions to which the possible answers create increasingly dark and nightmarish scenarios.
Who is Alex Burnfield, the stubbled barfly with the AI Caira voice?
What’s his motive? What’s he planning to do?
If this is not over, then what the hell is going to happen next?
Is Miles in danger? And to what extent? Before, it was easy enough to dismiss the emails as the work of a troll – a keyboard warrior who was out to unsettle him from behind the murky veil of the internet.
But now, this has to be taken seriously.
Travelling to New Zealand is a significant investment – both in time and in money – and that points to this man being hell-bent on carrying out whatever he’s got planned.
There is every chance he could be unhinged, or completely insane.
And what should Miles do before the police track him down?
Hide away in his hotel room? Abandon Queenstown and flee somewhere more remote?
George waves a hand across Miles’s field of vision, which has turned misty as his thoughts run wild. ‘What if we don’t have to wait?’
A sparrow lands on their table and skitters about, pecking at a few stray crumbs. They behave differently, here, the birds. They’re bolder, reckless in the face of danger. The scruffy little sparrow is inches away – if Miles were so inclined, he could whip out an arm and snatch it.
‘Miles,’ George says, raising his voice. ‘What if we don’t have to—’
‘I heard you the first time.’ Miles glares at him irritably. ‘What are you on about?’
‘I mean, we should take action.’ His eyes are piercing, serious. ‘We should strike while the iron’s hot.’
Miles huffs. ‘And how, exactly, are we going to do that?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ George says. ‘A way to identify him. Whoever this bastard is who’s following you, I wonder if we can smoke him out.’