The Marks of Cain

43

Simon walked nervously down the cobbled high street. Autumn in the Bavarian Alps was quiet. The ski shops were shut; and tourists were few, mainly hikers huddled over big maps, flapping in the breeze. It was a cold and greyish day and the kitsch, gilded streets were largely deserted.

But he still felt nervous. He’d have preferred the anonymity of a hotel in a big city, but didn’t dare use credit cards or show his passport: so he’d chosen here, Garmischpartenkirchen, as a compromise. Suzie and he had been here on holiday years ago.

Suzie.

Suzie and Conor.

Suzie and Conor and Tim.

He was lodged in a cold austere cottage, in an ugly new development, in the silence of the Alps, just above the little town. But every minute of every day he’d felt the need for information. An overwhelming need.

So he’d spent half his time in the little town, on payphones to Sanderson and Suzie, or sitting in the internet cafe, with its tinkling bell above the door, and the wall full of red pennants for Bayern Munich FC.

He greeted the girl at the till; she smiled, with a polite nod of recognition, and returned to her magazine. Selecting a terminal amongst all the other dusty, unused terminals, he opened his webmail account. He could feel his own nervousness, like a bad taste in his mouth. Was there any news from Tim? About Tim? David and Amy? What about his wife and child?

There was just one email of interest. There were two unread emails but there was just one email he wanted to read. He didn’t want to read that other message. Because he knew it was the communication about Tim, from Tim’s captors. The email Sanderson had warned him about.

Don’t watch it, Simon. Really. Don’t watch it.

So instead he clicked on the other unopened email. It was from David Martinez. He read it twice, absorbing the very serious information, writing some notes in his pad. Then he stood and went to the girl at the till. She charged him a few cents and he paid the money.

The doorway swung open to the street. He stared over the shops and houses at the grey Alps beyond. They were a row of snowy faces, white and sombre: like a jury of elders looking down at his guilt.

Tim. The email about Tim?

The email about Tim.

It was becoming too much. He had managed to avoid opening the Tim email for three days now, and each time he came here it got harder, and harder, to resist clicking on it and watching, to resist the terrible temptation: the desire to know, to behold the worst.

He couldn’t resist any longer.

Twisting on a heel, he stepped back inside and, with an embarrassed nod at the cybercafe girl, he returned to the screen.

He sat down, and opened up his webmail account. He clicked on the email.

Subject: Your brother.

He steeled himself. Dry mouthed.

The email was empty except for an icon. An icon that linked to a little movie. It buffered for a second, then cleared: and there was Tim. Sitting in a chair. Half smiling at the camera with his chubby face. Nervous.

It was the video of Tim.

A masked man was standing beside Simon’s brother.

The captor spoke.

‘That’s right, Tim, look at the camera. Say hello to your brother.’

‘Hello!’

Tim was waving. Anxiously.

The masked man nodded. And said: ‘You have something to say to him?’

Tim’s smile was crinkled. He was probably hearing the voices again. Tim spoke through the voices.

‘Sorry Simon but hello. How are you. I am sorry the men are detaining me, we have been detained. Rather wrong. What can I say. Hello.’

The masked man said:

‘Good. What else, Tim? What else do you want to say to Simon?’

‘The dog. Gusty. They want me to mention Augustus. Do you remember when we went to the stream with Augustus, we were happy then weren’t we? Doubtless. Because I understand why, doing everything like this.’

Tim swallowed. The masked man waited. Simon’s mad older brother gazed right at the camera.

‘Simon can you tell Mother I’m sorry for what I did, stabbing her was wrong. So very wrong I understand. Mummy?’

Simon felt the prickle of tears; he fought them.

His brother’s face was fat and vulnerable.

‘Just wanted to say I remembered the football, too, and I believe we had a nice time when we were boys and if I ruined it, thus, because it was my fault my fault. Then if if…sorry Mum. Tell Mum sorry Simon, OK? Thank you.’

The masked man leaned closer to Tim and said quite loudly:

‘Tim, do you know why we are here? Talking to Simon?’

Tim shook his head.

‘I went to Oxford and after that it was very different. Believe me I undoubtedly…something happened.’

Tim turned and looked at the masked man. ‘I no longer want this. Why are we here?’

‘We’re here because your brother won’t tell us. We want him to tell us everything. Give us David Martinez and Amy Myerson. Tell us where they are. Tell us what he knows. Hand himself over…or else he will suffer just as you are about to suffer.’

Tim attempted a dreadful courageous smile. He was trying to smile, bravely, for Simon.

The pathos was unbearable.

Another man moved behind Tim. He had a rope and a piece of wood. A looped rope and a piece of wood?

The first man spoke calmly through his facemask. He had the faintest trace of an accent.

‘So, Tim, I am so very sorry we have to do this but it is because of your brother, he doesn’t care about you. So say goodbye to Simon, your brother who doesn’t care.’

The man slipped the garrotte over Tim’s head.

Tim began to choke, almost at once. His legs thrashed out, kicking and scraping, heels squeaking against the floor. The garrotte was tightened further, and harder. Now Tim’s face was going pink, then red, then almost blue.

The impassive man, standing right behind, just kept the garrotte tight, saying nothing. And then the killer released the garrotte, and Tim gasped, and gasped. He was still alive. Tim was still alive.

The first man leaned towards the camera.

‘Next time we kill him.’

The screen went dead.

Simon stared at the blackness. He pushed back the chair, and turned away, ready to go – to go anywhere, just anywhere else; he hurled some euros at the puzzled girl and then he strode out onto the cobbled street. He needed the fresh air to stop himself screaming.

Tim…

A police car was slowly rumbling along the cobbles of the main street. Heading uphill past the Gasthof Fraundorfer. Heading in the direction of the chalet.

Simon watched the car. Then he remembered David’s information. He turned the other way, and started running.