My children are in the hands of some paedophile monsters who shot a man in the back of the head. And no one has any clue where they are.
105
At some point during the sleepless night they had made love. Maybe screwed would have been a better description, John thought, because that’s what it was. A coupling borne out of some primal need. They hadn’t even kissed, Naomi had just drawn him into her, and they had worked away until they had both come, then returned to their respective sides of the hotel room bed.
At seven o’clock he pulled on his tracksuit and trainers, slipped out of the room and down to the lobby of the hotel. Then, as he walked through the revolving doors and out into the dry, grey morning, a battery of flashlights strobed at him, and he immediately went back inside, in panic.
There was an entire army of reporters and news vehicles out there.
He ran across the foyer, following signs marked first to the ballroom, then to the conference centre, and moments later found himself in a large, empty, conference hall.
He made his way to the back of it and out of the rear exit, walked up a wheelchair ramp and came to double doors with a metal bar. He pushed them and to his relief found himself in a deserted side street.
He ran through the bitterly cold air, up a long hill, heading away from the reporters and the sea towards the town centre, and after a few minutes emerged into a wide, deserted shopping street. A police car went by, then a taxi, then a bus with just a couple of passengers. He ran along, past shop windows filled with mannequins, hi-fi, furniture, lights, computers, past a bank that had been converted into a bar, then halted at stop lights and looked at his watch.
Luke and Phoebe were in the hands of strangers. What was happening to them? Were they still alive? He closed his eyes, wishing he could do something more than just answer damned questions, wishing he had woken and looked out of the window and seen those bastards taking his children and torn them to pieces with his bare hands.
As he ran across the road, he saw a teenage boy on a bicycle pedalling away from a newsagent, and stopped as he reached the shop, then went inside.
It was a small, narrow space, lined on one side with magazines, several of them soft porn, and on the other with both British and international newspapers. The proprietor, a surly-looking man, watched him from behind the counter.
Every British paper had the story on its front page. Several international ones did, too. There was even a photograph of himself and Naomi beneath the splash of one newspaper printed in a language he didn’t recognize.
DESIGNER BABIES ABDUCTED! TWINS KIDNAPPED! DOUBLE KIDNAP TRAGEDY FOR DESIGNER BABY COUPLE.
He picked out one paper at random and opened it. His and Naomi’s photographs stared out at him. Taken in front of their house. The image was a little soft – it must have been taken with a long lens by one of the photographers in the fields yesterday morning.
He started reading the article.
Swedish scientist Dr John Klaesson and his wife, Naomi, are distraught after the kidnapping of their twins, Luke and Phoebe, early yesterday morning.
In an emotional appeal on television last night ‘Hey.’
John looked up, startled, to realize the proprietor was addressing him.
‘Either buy it, mate, or clear off.’
John held up the page showing his photograph for the man to see. ‘They’re my children,’ he said lamely.
‘What’s that?’ The man wasn’t even looking at him, he was rummaging below the counter for something.
‘These twins, in the headlines, these are my children.’
He looked up at him and shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Either buy it or clear off.’
John put the paper back on the rack and patted his pockets. He had no money on him, not a bean.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, distraught. ‘I’ll come back.’
The man wasn’t interested; he wasn’t even looking at him any more.
John slunk out of the shop and ran, half-heartedly, back towards the hotel and in through the door he had exited and left open.
Naomi was in the shower when he came into the room. ‘Renate Harrison rang to see how we were. She’s going to be waiting outside the rear entrance just before nine,’ she said.
‘Has she any news?’
‘She said there have been some developments overnight, we’ll get details at the police station.’
‘But they haven’t found them?’
‘No.’
Naomi switched off the shower and stepped out. John passed her a towel. She looked so vulnerable, he thought, with her hair plastered to her head, and water running off her body. He wrapped the towel around her and stood silently, for some moments, hugging her.
At least if they haven’t found Luke and Phoebe, there’s a chance they are still alive, he thought.
And in Naomi’s eyes, he saw exactly the same thought reflected back at him.
106
As they sat at the round table in his small office, accompanied by Renate Harrison, it seemed to John much longer than twenty-four hours since Detective Inspector Pelham had entered their lives.
‘Right,’ he said, looking sharp and fresh. ‘Did you manage some sleep?’
‘Not really,’ John said.
‘None,’ Naomi said.
‘You’ll be able to go back home tonight.’
‘Thank you,’ John said.
Addressing Renate Harrison, Pelham said, ‘You’d better get them fixed up with something to help them sleep.’
‘What news do you have?’ Naomi asked.
‘Some progress,’ he said. ‘Not as much as any of us would like, but some. OK, this is the latest position. Our mystery man Bruce Preston is still in a coma following sixteen hours of neurosurgery yesterday. He’s under round- the-clock police guard in the Sussex County Hospital, and if he regains consciousness, we’ll interrogate him as soon as we are permitted. But he has severe brain damage and his prognosis is not good.’
‘Have you found out about his identity?’ John asked.
‘It’s false. I’ve had the FBI check him out and the trail goes cold in Rochester, New York State.’
‘No link between him and the cult we told you about?’ Naomi said.
‘The Disciples people?’
‘Yes.’
‘None so far. We’ve sent photographs of him and the woman in the picture in his wallet to the FBI, and we haven’t heard anything back yet.’ He paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘An analyst from our High Tech Crime Unit, who’s been working around the clock on your two computers, has a number of questions he wants to ask you – he’s coming in at ten.’
‘Did you find anything on Bruce Preston’s laptop?’ John asked.
‘Not yet; it seems he was very careful – or very good at hiding his tracks.’
