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