‘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 suggestingI’vebeen ...’ – 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 himhastravelled 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? Ifthis 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.
