As I make my way back to Marek’s bar, a realisation strikes me. It’s something I think I realised a while back, but perhaps not consciously. Ever since I left Herne Bay I’ve been telling myself that being on the run is a way to give myself the time and space to think and to work out what’s gone on. The fact of the matter is I don’t think I’ll ever be able to work out what’s gone on. Who could? I’m kidding myself if I think I’m going to do a better job of this than the police. But then that’s not the point, is it? Deep down, I know why I ran. And I know why I’ve continued to run. And I know why I’ve not made any serious, concerted effort to try and get to the bottom of what’s happened. It’s because I’m enjoying the adventure.
It sounds bizarre, considering the circumstances. Of course I didn’t enjoy Lisa’s or Jess’s deaths. But that instinct to up and leave and start again is a very male thing. It’s all about the adventure. I feel safer here – I don’t really feel as though the police are on my tail. Nor the killer. But I also know I have to assume that they are or I’ll never be truly safe. I can’t get complacent.
Telling Marek that my name was Bradley felt good. Really good. It was like inventing a whole persona. In that flash of two syllables, I could see my whole life story behind me. The childhood growing up in Australia, having barbecues on the beach, surfing with my friends. All a lie, but one I am more than happy to live. After all, I’ve lived plenty of lies that I’ve been less than happy to live.
I’ve already pretended to be the faithful husband, the hard-working provider. I’ve been living the life of adventure the whole time, but never living it with truth. It’s always been hidden behind this false facade of a normal life. Now, though, this is my life, and I’d be untrue to myself if I were to pretend I wasn’t enjoying it.
It’s a case of taking every day as it comes. Sooner or later, the police will have to realise that I wasn’t responsible for Lisa’s death. Nor Jess’s. I don’t know how they’re going to prove that, but they’re going to have a better chance than I am. Sure, they’re not going to be trying to prove it because my disappearance is going to make me their prime suspect anyway, but I have to cling on to that hope. It’s all I’ve got.
The text message sent to Lisa’s phone is the big problem. The police would surely be able to tell that it wasn’t sent by my phone, but I can’t guarantee it wasn’t. After all, the phone was in my hotel room the whole time. If the killer was, too, then it’s entirely possible they sent the message from my phone. How, I don’t know. Would they be able to tie in the exact time the text was sent with CCTV images from the restaurant downstairs? If they could, they’d be able to see that I couldn’t possibly have sent the text. CCTV would perhaps show Lisa going up to my room and me arriving a few minutes later, but it wouldn’t confirm that she was dead before I got there. Whatever happened in that room will remain a mystery in that sense.
Either way, the biggest problem I have is that this whole thing seems to have been very carefully planned. I know from watching enough crime dramas and reading books that the easiest killers to catch are the impulsive ones, the ones who react in the heat of the moment and try to cover their tracks afterwards. The ones who are never caught are the ones who plan well in advance and are always a number of steps ahead.
There are estimates as to how many undiscovered murders happen every year. The number of people who are ‘off the grid’ is huge. Murders that never go reported. Bodies that are never found. People who won’t be missed if they disappear. I wonder if Jess will be one of those. Apart from Claude, who does she have? And I don’t know for sure that there’s any paper trail linking him to her, so he might never find out about her death. He needs to know. I owe him that much. I tell myself that when this has all blown over and it’s safe to do so, I’ll tell him. He deserves that. Jess deserves that. She doesn’t deserve to be another nameless murder victim, one of the forgotten.
It’s amazing how a bit of distance and a change of scenery can change your perceptions. This has always been about justice. Ever since Lisa died. Until Bratislava, it was justice for me – vindication for what happened, clearing my name. Now this is about justice for Lisa and for Jess. For the two who died needlessly. For the two who died because of me.
44
Marek greets me with a warm smile and a bear hug when I get back to the bar, as if I’m a wanderer returning from a long voyage.
‘You came back!’ he says, beaming. ‘Welcome to your new home.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, pulling the rucksack off my shoulders. ‘Can I put my stuff upstairs?’
Marek smiles even wider and steps aside, ushering me behind the bar and up the stairs to my room.
When we get there, I’m pleasantly surprised. I was expecting something similar to the dreadful room at the hostel, but it’s actually pretty good. It’s less of a room and more of a luxury flat. It’s tastefully decorated, seems to have mostly new appliances and furniture and has a great view out across the streets of Bratislava.
‘This is lovely, Marek,’ I say, looking around. ‘Really nice.’
‘I’m glad you like. Now, my brother has job for you. Delivery. You earn some money, yes?’
I’m amazed at just how trusting and welcoming this guy is. ‘Uh, sure. But I don’t know Bratislava very well. It might take me a while before I can get started.’
Marek waves his arms in front of his face as if he’s wading through a swarm of mosquitoes. ‘Is easy, is easy. I have map. Listen, is good money. For delivery of parcel, Andrej will pay thirty euro.’
‘Thirty euros? What, a day?’ It can’t be thirty euros a week, surely, I think.
‘No, no. Thirty euro every parcel.’
I feel my jaw drop. ‘Thirty euros per parcel? And how many parcels are there?’
Marek shrugs. ‘This depends. It changes. Sometimes many, sometimes not many. Depends if busy.’
I guess Bratislava is like any capital city around the world. Getting parcels from A to B is actually pretty difficult in a city centre. I know for a fact that a same-day motorcycle courier delivery in the centre of London can easily cost twenty quid for a small parcel. If we’re talking valuable items and a city that’s even harder to get around in a car or van, the motorcycle courier business could be pretty lucrative. Thirty euros isn’t much over twenty pounds.
‘That’s good pay,’ I say, but I can’t help myself from asking the obvious question. ‘Why does he need a same-day courier, though, if he’s a builder? What do builders need to send by courier?’
Marek looks at me blankly for a split second before smiling and half laughing. ‘Andrej has many businesses. He is also in jewellery trade and import of luxury goods. This part of business, I am manager. This bar, we own together.’
‘Ah, I see.’