‘I see.’ Miles thinks back to the forensic examination of his bedroom, his devices, hiseverything, after Caira’s murder; if it washimunder investigation, they would find a way to access that data, he’s sure of it. They would have found some useable CCTV footage. They would have someone in custody by now. Now the tables have been turned, they just can’t be bothered.
‘Be assured that we are taking this seriously,’ the detective says. ‘And, again, I should make it clear how important it is that you be vigilant. Don’t engage with this individual, don’t hand over any personal or bank details. The person behind this has been reasonably sophisticated in the way they’ve gone about it, and the fact that the first email was sent so close to the conclusion of the trial suggests it was premeditated – that recording had been prepared in advance. The criminal intent is quite clear, and I’d be surprised if you’ve heard the last from them.’
‘Right.’ Miles’s voice is so small he’s not sure if it’s being heard. ‘I see.’
‘Do let us know if they contact you again, and I’ll be sure to let you know if we get any further developments our end.’
His tone suggests the conversation is over. He’s clearly irritable. Miles isn’t sure what time it is at home in Britain, but it’s definitely evening and probably late.
‘Wait.’ Miles walks back and forth along the back wall of the concourse like a zoo cat stalking the perimeter of its enclosure. ‘What can you tell me about the murder investigation? Are there any other suspects yet? Have you investigated Ben Knight, Caira’s ex-boyfriend?’
The detective clears his throat. ‘Mr Knight was eliminated as a suspect early in our inquiry. Cases like this can be very complexand take a lot of time, and’ – a deep breath, or a yawn – ‘after the acquittal we launched a formal review of the case to try and identify any missing lines of inquiry ...’
Miles listens as the detective talks in circles without saying anything meaningful, like he’s reading from a script full of technical language and police jargon. As he goes on, Miles can only think of one thing: the DNA. The police played down its relevance during the trial, but now they must be revisiting it. Surely, that’s where they’re looking. Police found Miles’s DNA on Caira’s body, which made sense – they spent the whole evening together before she died. But they also found the DNA of another, unknown person. A forensics expert told the court that it could have come from anyone; modern techniques for recording DNA are so sensitive that the transfer of material could’ve happened by her bumping randomly into someone on the street. It was easy for everyone to dismiss that mystery DNA when they were pointing the finger squarely at Miles, but not anymore. The detective finally concludes his meaningless spiel, and Miles jumps straight to the point: ‘What about the DNA? There was unidentified DNA on her body, are you looking into that?’
‘That is a strand of our inquiry, but there isn’t a lot we can actively do at the moment in regard to that.’
‘Why not?’
‘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’snotwhat I’m saying. It’sonestrand of inquiry. In terms of DNA, we are still actively trying to find thescarf 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.
Chapter 15
The Trial
After the opening statements, there was a week allocated for the prosecution to call witnesses and present its evidence against Miles. The whole evening in question was pieced together through WhatsApp messages, CCTV and phone data. It was creepy to see his movements recorded in grainy, covertly captured images: him driving, sitting in a restaurant, walking through the entrance of a pub. And it was disturbing the way the prosecution made a concerted effort to portray Miles as entitled and selfish, which seemed incredibly unfair.
Also disturbing was the evidence from Caira’s friend, who had gone to call for her and spotted her body through the living-room window. Next called as a witness was a police officer who described the crime scene as they had found it. Some of Caira’s clothing had been removed and neatly folded. Her hands had been washed in bleach. Even the first officers on the scene had a pretty clear idea of how she died: there was a visible ligature mark around her neck, as well as other inglorious physical signs she’d been strangled. A pathology witness explained that it would have taken multiple minutes of sustained pressure around her neck for the life to be squeezed out of her.
