Chapter 24 Miles
Miles
Miles wakes alone. Jessie was keen to come over last night, but after what happened, Miles’s head was too fraught to be dealing with company.
Plus, he needed to give a full update to Lewin while everything was still fresh in his mind.
It was nearly four in the morning when he finally pressed send on the email.
He included everything: the Macallan, what Heather told him at The Globe, and the fiasco that led him and George to the park.
Miles was in two minds about whether to include the whole story about the man they chased last night – he didn’t want to appear to be taking the law into his own hands.
But, after some thought, he decided to include the lot.
He and George didn’t do anything wrong. They only wanted to talk to the guy, and the fact he bolted was confirmation enough that they’d identified the right man.
Miles signed off his email with a plea for the police to take the matter seriously and promptly track down his harasser.
Lastly, he attached the photo George took on his phone while watching the man in the bar last night.
It’s slightly blurry, not totally sharp on the man’s face, but clear enough for him to be identifiable.
Unfortunately, though, it isn’t possible for him to be identified by Miles.
He must have stared at that picture for the best part of an hour, and concluded he’s never seen him before.
Or at least he has no memory of it. He certainly isn’t Caira’s ex, or any of her close relatives, or that weird junior barrister, or anyone in the public gallery during the trial.
But, still, it is something of a breakthrough – George did well to get such a good image.
They’ve done all they can. The police have everything they need to find this man – including a picture of him.
Miles swipes through his apps. As is always the case lately, his stomach curdles as he opens his emails – they so regularly bring bad news now.
There’s a new one from his mum, and a reply from Lewin.
There is nothing from ‘Caira Kennedy’. It’s possible, he supposes, that the man behind those emails might have been sufficiently spooked that they might now cease altogether. Miles taps open the email from Lewin.
Good morning, Mr Deverill.
Thank you for your very detailed description of yesterday’s events.
I can assure you that we, in coordination with our colleagues at New Zealand Police, will be treating this as a priority and will update you as soon as we’ve been able to speak to the person you’ve identified.
Our work to identify the author of the most recent communications you’ve received is underway and ongoing.
I must warn you, however, it is imperative you don’t make any more attempts to confront any suspect yourself. Not only would you be putting yourself and others in danger, but the law would not look upon you with any leniency if you were to commit a crime during such an undertaking.
I strongly advise you to maintain a very low profile while we investigate, even if that means keeping to the confines of your hotel. I appreciate that is probably not how you wish to spend your holiday, but nevertheless it is for your own safety.
Thank you for your patience in this matter. I will be in touch as soon as I can.
Miles closes the app and sits for a moment on the edge of the bed.
There’s something in the tone of Lewin’s email that he doesn’t appreciate.
He sounds impatient. Patronising, maybe.
Ungrateful, definitely. But maybe Miles is being oversensitive – the tone of an email can so easily be misinterpreted, can’t it?
With the human voice and expression removed from a communication, a man can cheerfully type out what he thinks is a polite message and it will be taken as pure poison by the recipient.
Still, there was no word of thanks from the police for the way he and George effectively did their job for them last night.
Surely their efforts deserve some kind of acknowledgement.
George seemed to think they were worthy of a medal.
Miles goes to the window and opens the curtains.
Once again, Queenstown is a different place; today, strong winds have chopped up the surface of the lake, and low-lying grey clouds have reduced the brightness to near zero.
Down on the street, Miles’s eye is drawn to a gleaming white motorhome that’s newly parked up.
It’s too big for the space it’s occupying and encroaches into the bus stop outside the hotel.
Reubyn must be intrigued by it, because he’s down there, pointing at the rear doors and talking to a woman in a black suit – the owner, presumably.
Miles dresses for what looks like chilly weather – jeans and a jacket – and heads out.
It’s eleven o’clock; he’s missed breakfast, so he’ll have to go foraging for something to eat.
As he waits for the lift to take him down, Lewin’s words repeat on him: maintain a very low profile while we investigate, even if that means keeping to the confines of your hotel.
That’s all well and good, but Lewin wouldn’t want him to starve.
And, after watching his stalker run for his life last night, he can all but rule out the possibility of him attacking Miles in the street as he walks to the corner shop – especially in broad daylight.
The lift pings as it reaches the ground floor, and Miles walks through the foyer to the sound of chaotic jazz. He’s relieved to hear it fade out as he passes through the revolving doors.
Outside, Reubyn is still in conversation with the suit on the opposite side of the road.
She’s pointing to a panel on the side of the motorhome, which looks even more enormous from street level.
It strikes Miles as odd that she’s giving him such a thorough tour, but, on second thoughts, it isn’t, really.
If you show a genuine interest – and Reubyn can come across as quite overexcited at times – the proud owner of pretty much any luxury vehicle will likely bore you to tears by running through its specifications in granular detail.
For a second, Miles considers crossing the street and joining the conversation, but he’s not in the mood.
Instead, he takes a left and walks towards the town.
A cold gust lifts the hair off his forehead and blows straight into his eyes.
The weather here is so confused and chaotic, the way it changes its personality completely by the day – sometimes even by the hour.
Yesterday it was warm enough for the beach, and now it feels like autumn has suddenly blown in.
Miles is about twenty yards down the pavement and squinting into the wind when he becomes aware of someone out of the corner of his eye.
A woman in an orange dress has left the bus stop opposite and is crossing the road in his direction.
Miles glances at her and keeps moving, quickening his step.
His focus is straight ahead, but, in his periphery, she is nearing – a body of blurry orange, her dark hair thrashing in the wind.
When she’s a few yards away Miles is forced to stop.
He tenses, stares right at her. And she looks right back, her face soft.
‘Miles?’ she says, and as she holds her phone out in front of her, he knows exactly what’s going on.
Miles’s heart thumps into a new gear. He says nothing, just glares at her. There’s no room left for politeness – what’s happening here is completely out of order.
Her smile is even smaller this time. ‘My name’s Felicity and I’m here on behalf of The Chronicle. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your trip – is it going well?’
‘From The Chronicle?’ Miles snaps. ‘They sent you all the way over here?’
Again, that smile. But this time it doesn’t show in her eyes, just pinches at the corners of her mouth. ‘No, not exactly. I’m a freelancer, here on their behalf. I’m based in Invercargill. So, are you having a good time here in New Zealand?’
Miles stares out at the lake. He remembers that shutter noise yesterday as he left the hotel.
It occurred to him then that it could’ve been a paparazzo, but he’d ruled it out – it had seemed absurd.
Suddenly it doesn’t. He fixes his stare back on to the reporter.
‘Did you have a photographer here yesterday? Taking pictures of me.’
She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I wouldn’t know about that.’
Like hell she wouldn’t. Miles’s eyes dart all around, examining the cars and trees. ‘Is there a photographer here now?’
‘No, definitely not. Now, tell me about your trip – what do you think of Queenstown?’
‘I’m not talking to you.’ He turns on his heels and walks back towards the hotel.
‘Miles, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’d love to hear about the first few days of your—’
He spins back around. ‘Leave me alone!’ His shout turns the heads of Reubyn and the suited woman across the road, and then Miles storms back into the hotel, his veins electrified with anger. He hurries through the lobby and takes the stairs up to his floor.
Back in his room, he draws the curtains and slumps on to the bed, his hands cupped over his face.
Miles squeezes his eyes as tears threaten.
What on earth is going on? He came to Queenstown to escape, but seemingly he has escaped nothing.
His stalker has followed him to New Zealand.
The hounding reporters have found him, too.
He thought he’d find anonymity here, but even the bar staff know who he is.
Miles could have remained in Britain and stayed with his family for a few weeks until everything had blown over.
Instead, he’s a prisoner in a hotel room on the other side of the world.
Miles runs his name through Google News.
There are no new articles yet, although he suspects it’s only a matter of time.
He tries to guess what the headline will be.
He can’t put his finger on the right combination of words, but he can imagine the gist: a rich kid who should be firmly behind bars is instead sunning himself in luxury others can only dream of.
Miles is still doomfully envisioning the story – and the pictures, and the comments, and the shares – when there’s a knock at the door.
He stands, suddenly light-headed. It can’t be the reporter, surely? She wouldn’t follow him into the hotel? The staff on reception wouldn’t just give out his room number, would they?
Miles tiptoes over to the door, careful not to make even the slightest sound to confirm his presence, and peers through the spyhole.