Dead Man's Grip

‘Nick, I want you to get everyone in MIR-1 to stop doing what they’re doing for two minutes and have a hard think about this, right? If you’d abducted a child, where in Shoreham might be a good place to hide him? Somewhere no one goes. Maybe somewhere no one even knows about. This whole city is riddled with secret passages going back to smuggling days. Have a quick brainstorm with the team, OK?’

‘Yes, chief, right away.’

‘We’re dealing with someone smart and cunning. He’ll choose a smart place.’

‘I’m on to it now.’

Grace thanked him and drove on, turning right at the next opportunity. He drove slowly through a network of streets, a mixture of terraced houses and industrial buildings. Looking for a needle in a haystack, he knew. And remembering, as a mantra, the words that his father, who had been a policeman too, had once told him. No one ever made a greater mistake than the man who did nothing because he could only do a little.

102

Tyler felt the car rock suddenly. Then he heard a loud boom, like a door slamming. Followed by scrunching footsteps.

He waited until he could not hear them any more, then he threw himself around again, kicking as hard as he could, drumming with his feet and with his right shoulder and his head, breaking out into a sweat, drumming and drumming until he had exhausted himself.

Then he lay still again, thinking.

Why hadn’t they found him yet?

Come on, Mum, Mapper! Remember Mapper!

Where was his phone? It had to be in here somewhere. If he could somehow get whatever was covering his mouth off, then he could shout. He rolled himself over on to his stomach, moved his face around, but all he could feel was the fuzz of carpet. There had to be a sharp edge somewhere in here. He wormed forward, raised his head up. Soft new carpet, like rubbing against a brush.

What would his heroes have done? What would Harry Potter have done? Or Alex Rider? Or Amy and Dan Cahill in The 39 Clues? They all got out of difficult situations. They’d have known. So what was he missing?

Suddenly he heard a scrunching sound. A vehicle! He started kicking out wildly, as hard as he could again. Here! In here! In here!

He heard doors slam. More footsteps.

Fading away.

103

Carly did not hear a word from Sussex Police throughout the flight. Every time a member of the cabin crew walked down the aisle in her direction, she hoped it would be with a message. It was now 8.45 p.m., UK time. Tyler had been missing for almost ten hours.

Feeling sicker by the minute, she had eaten nothing, just sipped a little water, that was all, on the flight-from- hell, squashed in the tiny part of her seat that the sweating fat man next to her, who stank of BO and drank non- stop vodka and Cokes, hadn’t overflowed into.

She replayed her decision to go to New York over and over. If she had not gone, she’d have collected Tyler herself from school and he would be safe. He’d be up in his room now, on his computer, alone or with a friend, or doing something with his fossil collection, or practising his cornet.

Fernanda Revere, who could have stopped all this, was dead.

Lou Revere scared her. There was something feral and evil about him. Woman to woman, she might have had a chance with Fernanda Revere, when she was sober. But not with the husband. No chance. Especially not now.

The plane came to a halt. There was a bing-bong, followed by the sound of seat belts being unclipped and overhead lockers popping open. People were standing up and she joined them, relieved to get away from the stinking fat blob. She pulled her bag and coat down, then quickly called her mother to say they had landed, and in the hope she had some news. But there was none.

A couple of minutes later she nodded to the two cabin crew standing by the exit, then followed the passengers in front of her out through the plane’s door and on to the covered bridge. Instantly she saw, waiting for her, the tall figure of Glenn Branson, accompanied by a younger male officer in uniform, whom she did not recognize, and DS Bella Moy.

‘Do you have any news?’ Carly blurted.

Branson took her bag for her and steered her to one side, away from the crush of emerging passengers. She looked at him, then at DS Moy, then at the stranger who was in uniform, desperate to read something positive in their eyes, but she could see nothing.

‘I’m afraid not yet, Carly,’ Bella Moy said. ‘Presumably you’ve heard nothing?’

‘I rang all his friends – the parents – before I got on the plane. No one’s seen him.’

‘They’re certain he’s not anywhere in their house or their garden or garage?’

‘They’ve all searched thoroughly,’ she said forlornly.

‘How was the flight?’ Glenn Branson asked.

‘Horrendous.’

‘One positive thing, Carly,’ Branson went on, ‘is we are fairly sure that Tyler is still within the Brighton and Hove area. We believe he may be in Shoreham or Southwick or Portslade. Do you have any friends or relatives over there that he might go to if he runs away?’

‘From his captor, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have some friends on Shoreham Beach,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think Tyler knows where they live.’

‘We’ll get you home as quickly as we can,’ Bella said, ‘and we’ll keep you constantly updated.’ Then she gestured to the uniformed officer. ‘This is PC Jackson from the Metropolitan Police – we’re in his jurisdiction here at Heathrow. He’s very kindly going to fast-track you through the Immigration process.’

Carly thanked him.

Fifteen minutes later she was in the back of a police car, heading through the airport tunnel. Glenn Branson drove and Bella Moy sat in the front passenger seat. Moy turned to face her.

‘We have a number of questions we need to ask you about Tyler, Carly. Are you happy to talk in the car or would you rather wait until we get you home?’

‘Please, now,’ Carly said. ‘Anything I can give you that might be helpful.’

‘You’ve already given us the names and addresses of his friends. We’re looking to see who he’s been in contact with, outside of his immediate circle, on his computer and iPhone. They’re being examined by the High-Tech Crime Unit.’

‘His iPhone?’ Carly said. ‘You have his phone?’

DS Moy’s face froze. She glanced at Branson, then awkwardly back at Carly. ‘I’m sorry – didn’t anyone tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’ Carly began shivering and perspiring at the same time. She leaned forward. ‘Tell me what?’ she said again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘His iPhone was found in that underground car park – the one you alerted us to on his Friend Mapper.’

‘Found? How do you mean found?’

Bella Moy hesitated, unsure how much to tell the woman. But she had a right to know the truth.

‘There were broken fragments on the ground – then it was discovered in a waste bin in the car park.’

‘No,’ Carly said, her voice quavering. ‘No. Please, no.’