Читать книгу Bestselling Conspiracy Thriller Trilogy: Sanctus, The Key, The Tower - Simon Toyne, Simon Toyne - Страница 46

Liv was driving slowly back along the I-95 with about ten thousand other people when her cell began to vibrate.

She glanced at the display. The caller’s ID was withheld. She dropped it back on the seat and returned her gaze to the slow-moving traffic. It buzzed a few more times then fell silent. Having been awake for what felt like a week, her only priority now was to get home and into bed.

The buzzing started up again almost immediately – too quick to be the answering service calling back. Whoever it was must have hit redial as soon as they’d heard the voicemail message. Liv looked at the river of red brake lights snaking into the distance ahead of her. She clearly wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry, so she swung her car over to the verge, slammed it in park, cut the engine and switched on her hazard lights.

She grabbed the cell and hit the answer button.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello.’ The voice on the other end of the line was male, unfamiliar and roughened round the edges by the hint of an accent. ‘Who is it I’m speaking with please?’

Liv’s antennae bristled. ‘Who are you trying to reach?’

There was a brief pause.

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ he said. ‘My name is Arkadian. I’m a police inspector trying to identify a man who was found with this phone number on him.’

Liv ran his response through her journalist’s mind, weighing every word. ‘What department are you with?’

‘Homicide.’

‘So I guess you’ve either got a perp who won’t talk or a victim who can’t.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So which is it?’

He paused. ‘I have an unidentified body. An apparent suicide.’

Liv’s heart lurched. She ran through the list of men who had this number.

There was Michael, her ex-boyfriend, though she didn’t really peg him as the suicidal type. Her old college professor, but he was on holiday with a new girlfriend who was about twenty years his junior – he definitely wasn’t suicidal.

‘How old is … was this man?’

‘Late twenties, possibly early thirties.’

Definitely not her professor.

‘The body does have some distinguishing marks.’

‘What sort of marks?’

‘Well …’ The voice faltered, as if weighing up whether or not it should divulge anything further.

Liv knew from experience how reluctant cops were to give out information.

‘You said this was a suicide, right?’

‘Correct.’

‘Well then, it’s not like a murder where you need to hold back information to weed out false confessions, is it?’

Another pause. ‘No.’

‘So why don’t you just tell me what sort of distinguishing marks you found and I’ll tell you if I know who it is?’

‘You seem very well informed about how these things work, Miss …?’

It was Liv’s turn to falter. So far she’d managed to give nothing away while the caller had revealed his name, his profession and the purpose of his call. The crackle of the long-distance line punctuated the silence. ‘Where are you calling from, Inspector?’

‘I’m calling from the city of Ruin, in southern Turkey.’ That explained the crackly line and the accent. ‘You’re in the United States, aren’t you? New Jersey. At least, that’s where your number is registered.’

‘They clearly didn’t make you an inspector for nothing.’

‘New Jersey’s the Garden State, isn’t it?’

‘That’s the one.’

The crackle returned to the line. Arkadian’s attempt to loosen her up with small talk clearly wasn’t working. ‘OK,’ he said, trying a fresh tack. ‘I’ll do you a deal. You tell me who you are, then I’ll tell you what distinguishing marks we found on the body.’

Liv chewed on her bottom lip, weighing her options. She didn’t really want to give up her name, but she was intrigued and she really wanted to know who had been walking around with her very private phone number and was now lying on a mortuary slab. A beep sounded in her ear. She glanced at the grey display screen. A triangle with an exclamation mark flashed above the words LOW BATTERY. She normally had about a minute between this and total shut down, sometimes even less.

‘My name’s Liv Adamsen,’ she blurted. ‘Tell me about the body.’

She heard a faint and infuriatingly slow tapping as her name was fed into a computer.

‘Scars –’ the voice said finally.

She was about to ask another question when the floor gave way beneath her.

Late twenties, early thirties …

Her left hand moved involuntarily to her side. ‘Did the body … does he have a scar on his right side, about six inches long … like a cross laid on its side?’

‘Yes,’ the voice replied with the softness of rehearsed condolence. ‘Yes, he does.’

Liv stared straight ahead. Gone were the I-95 and the morning traffic crawling into Newark. Instead she saw the face of a scruffily handsome boy with dirty blonde hair grown long, standing on Bow Bridge in Central Park.

‘Sam,’ she said softly. ‘His name’s Sam. Samuel Newton. He’s my brother.’

Another image filled her mind: Sam back-lit by a low spring sun casting long shadows across the tarmac of Newark International Airport. He’d stopped at the top of the steps leading up to the plane that would take him to the mountain ranges of Europe. Shifted the bag on his shoulder containing all his worldly goods and turned to wave. It was the last time she had seen him.

‘How did he die?’ she whispered.

‘He fell.’

She nodded to herself as the image of the golden boy faded and was replaced by the shimmering red river of the Interstate. It was what she always thought had happened. Then she remembered something else the Inspector had said.

‘You said it was suicide?’

‘Yes.’

More memories surfaced. Troubled memories that made her soul feel heavy and brought fresh tears to her eyes. ‘How long do you think he’s been dead?’

There was a brief pause before Arkadian answered. ‘It happened this morning … local time.’

This morning? He’d been alive all that time …

‘If you want, I can call your local police department,’ Arkadian said, ‘send some photos over and get someone to bring you in to formally identify the body.’

‘No!’ Liv said sharply.

‘I’m afraid we need someone to identify him.’

‘I mean it won’t be necessary to send photos. I can be there in … maybe twelve hours …’

‘Honestly, you don’t need to come here to identify the body.’

‘I’m in the car now. I can head straight to the airport.’

‘It really isn’t necessary.’

‘Yes it is,’ she said. ‘It is necessary. My brother disappeared eight years ago. Now you’re telling me that, until a few hours ago, he was still alive. I’ve got to come … I need to know what the hell he’s been doing all these –’

Then her battery ran out.