Sixteen
I wasn't sure how long I was unconscious for. It could have been a few minutes, more likely it was an hour or two. It was impossible to tell because when I did finally open my eyes and clamber slowly to my knees, I was still quite drunk. My head felt like lead, and when I touched my forehead there was a big painful lump there. I looked round, waiting patiently while the room came into focus. There was no sign of Ramon. Nor any sign that he'd even been there.
I got to my feet and staggered into the bathroom and over to the toilet, experiencing a wave of nausea. I fell to my knees and threw the whisky up into the bowl in violent spasms, staying in that position for a long time, head bowed, taking deep, painful breaths.
Finally, I staggered back into the bedroom, trying hard not to picture Ramon sitting there lifeless, and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, knowing that I was incredibly lucky to be alive. Twice now I'd come within a hair's breadth of death, and twice I'd been given another chance to carry on. I knew that I should simply accept that this was a battle I'd lost and do what that callous saucer-eyed bastard had told me to do, because it was clear that he wouldn't hesitate to kill me if it came to it, not to mention my family.
I'm the type of person who avoids confrontation. I've always preferred the quiet life. Maybe that's why I gave up the frenetic pace of the City and tried my luck as a writer. But I also have a strong sense of justice. I know that it's essential that people do the right thing, because if we neglect that basic tenet, then society collapses. Some people say that in the UK we've started doing it already: crossing the street to avoid the kids hanging around outside the shop, refusing to intervene to stop rowdy behaviour. I've done it myself. I once saw a school kid about twelve years old being mugged by a group of older kids. They were making him empty out his pockets and one of them looked like he had a knife. The kid seemed terrified. He looked over towards me, trying to get my attention, but I turned away and kept walking. I did phone the police, but only once I'd got round the corner where the muggers couldn't see me.
I'd hated myself for that. Truly hated myself. I remember Yvonne asking me if anything was wrong that evening, and I was too ashamed to tell her about what had happened, because I knew that however much she might understand my actions, she'd be ashamed of me too. And if I did nothing now, I knew I would never be able to live with the guilt. It was as simple as that.
For some reason, Jenny Brakspear had been snatched as part of a conspiracy (and whatever Tina Boyd had claimed, it was a conspiracy) involving a total of three people, the kidnappers and the doorman – four, if Jenny's father was in on it too. And if they'd gone to that much trouble to take her, and to cover up their crime, then there was a very important reason behind their actions. Which meant that, unlike Ramon, there was a possibility Jenny was still alive.
Things were different now, though. The people who'd snatched Jenny had shown me how utterly brutal they were. And how well organized. They'd found me with no trouble at all, and they knew that I'd talked to the police, which meant that if I continued on the path I'd chosen I was going to have to be a lot more careful in my approach. I also needed to make sure that no one else close to me got hurt. Yvonne and Chloe were OK for the next two weeks at least because they were away in Sweden, but Dom might not be.
I drank a glass of water, then called him on the mobile. I had to make sure he was safe, and the only way I could do that was if I stopped him worrying about Jenny.
He was out at dinner with clients, but excused himself so he could take the call. Taking a deep breath, I told him that I'd been drinking very heavily the previous night, that I'd been on medication for depression, and that my imagination had ended up playing tricks on me because I'd heard from Jenny this evening and she was fine.
At first, Dom was furious with me, not only for causing him a night of needless worry but also for getting drunk when I was on prescribed drugs. Eventually, though, he became more sympathetic, asking me how long I'd been depressed for and whether I was getting counselling. Keen to get him off the phone, I answered his questions as best I could, and he told me that we'd get together when he got back and try to sort out my problems. 'You've got to put the past behind you, Rob. Yvonne's gone. Think of the future and don't piss your life away.' I promised him I wouldn't and he signed off by saying that unless I pulled myself together I'd end up dead in a ditch somewhere. Utterly unaware how close that had already come to being a reality.
But at least he'd bought the story.
Now that I'd got rid of the only person who'd actually believed me, I was effectively on my own, and as I was an investment analyst turned writer, not a detective, this meant I needed some expert help.
I was still thinking what I was going to do about this when the landline started ringing. I sat up suddenly and my vision blacked out temporarily, taking several seconds to return. Still feeling pretty awful, I looked at my watch for the first time since Ramon had been killed, surprised to see that it was almost half past midnight. I reached for the receiver.
'Mr Fallon,' said Tina Boyd. 'Have you sobered up yet?'
I almost laughed at the sound of her voice. Even after everything that had happened, Tina Boyd still gave me confidence. But I was also aware that the man who'd come here tonight was no idiot and might have left behind some kind of bug to record any calls I made. It was time to start thinking like them.
I knew from research I'd done for
'Can I call you back?' I said. 'Five minutes?'
'I'll be waiting,' she said, and cut the connection.
Seventeen
Tina was sitting at her desk drinking her third coffee of the night when Fallon called back.
'Where are you speaking from?' she asked him.
'I'm walking down my street.'
'Is it safe at this time of night?'
'A lot safer than my flat. I had a visit tonight.'
'What happened?'
'One of the kidnappers broke in and threatened me with a knife. He knew I'd been speaking to the police and he was the one who made me call you.'
'Which of them was it?'
'The Irish guy. The one who'd had the plastic surgery.'
'Can you give any further description of him? Something you may not have mentioned last night?'
'He had scarring round his chin. It looked a bit like someone had cut him with a bottle, but it wasn't that pronounced. I think the plastic surgery must have got rid of most of it, which makes me think that at one time he must have been hurt pretty badly.'
Tina frowned as she wrote down this information. It all seemed so improbable somehow, yet her initial suspicions that Fallon had indeed been telling the truth were turning out to be correct. 'This man didn't hurt you, did he?'
'No, but he left me in no doubt that he would if I carried on searching for Jenny. That's why I'm phoning you from four hundred yards down the road. I don't want anyone else listening in.'
'And are you sure you're not being followed now?'
'I'm being extra careful, I promise.'
'Glad to hear it. And don't worry. We can offer you protection if you need it.' But even as she said the words, Tina wondered if they actually could.
Fallon sighed. 'I think I'm going to need it. What did you find out that made you call me?'
She told him about the doctored CCTV footage and the doorman's criminal record.
'So, the bastard was involved.'
'Almost certainly, and that makes it a major criminal operation. If they're going to this much trouble and planning, then there's a very specific reason why they kidnapped Jenny. Her father claims that nothing's happened to her-'
'He's lying. He's got to be.'
'I agree. And I think he's lying because he's under duress, which means the kidnappers are in contact with him. But we still don't know why.'
'It's usually money, isn't it?'
'Usually, but I'd be surprised if it was in this case. I've got some background on Roy Brakspear. He's a widower who lost his wife to cancer five years ago, and he's the director and part owner of a reasonably profitable mid-sized company based in Cambridge which supplies raw materials to the pharmaceuticals and technology sectors. He takes a salary of one hundred and seventy thousand pounds per year and he holds fifteen per cent of the company's shares, which if he sold them tomorrow would net him about three hundred thousand. He's not going to be hitting the poverty line any time soon, but it doesn't make him a rich man. So there's something else, and I think we need to focus on Brakspear himself to find out what it is.'
'What do you need me to do?' asked Fallon, sounding eager to help.
'Right now, nothing. Go back home, get some sleep and leave the investigating to us.'
'Are you going to take finding Jenny seriously now? She's been gone twenty-four hours, and I'm really worried about her.'
'We've got enough evidence to move on this now so, yes, we are going to take it seriously. And I'll keep you informed of progress too, you have my word on that. But I want you to promise me you're not going to speak to anyone about this. Because if you do, it could jeopardize our inquiry.'
Fallon said he wouldn't, and she ended the call, returning to the pile of witness statements for the stabbing on the Holloway Road that afternoon.
It made the usual grim reading. A loud argument between a bunch of school kids, insults thrown, followed by a flurry of fists and feet, then suddenly one of them pulls a knife and plunges it into his nearest opponent. A single stab wound to the chest, delivered without thought of the consequences, and now a fifteen-year-old was in a hospital bed fighting for his life. Tina had never become inured to the casual violence she had to deal with and she found incidents like this – petty, pointless disputes that ended so horrifically and with so much attendant suffering – profoundly depressing. The only positive was that it wasn't going to be difficult to ID the perpetrator. This meant that CID resources could be freed up to look for Jenny. Tina had now decided to speak to DCI Knox about it as soon as she finished her shift. With Jenny missing for twenty-four hours now, time really was of the essence. It crossed her mind to go straight to the Met's Kidnap Unit but she knew they were snowed under with drugs-related cases and probably wouldn't take what she had that seriously. It would be easier if Knox referred it.
She yawned and reached for her cigarettes, deciding that she could probably get away with having one more at her desk, rather than puffing out of the toilet window. But as she lit it she saw an exhausted-looking DCI Knox approaching along the corridor. She'd just thrown the cigarette into the dregs of her coffee cup and deposited it under the table when he opened the door and came inside.
Knox was usually annoyingly upbeat and full of motivational psycho-babble, but tonight he didn't look very happy at all. 'Bad news,' he said wearily. 'Our stabbing's just become a murder. The kid died at midnight.'
Tina's heart sank. Not just because a fifteen-year-old had lost his life and a family would now be grieving, but also because of what it meant for Jenny Brakspear.
Tina would never get the resources she needed now.
