It had been there when he arrived. Next to the DVDs. It didn’t look like anything, just an album with a grey cover and a red spine. No title on the front or anything saying who wrote it. He’d made the mistake of opening it. Every time he’d gone to sleep since then he’d had nightmares about the pictures in it. Horrible pictures of horrible things. Now he was afraid to go to sleep.
There was a metal flap at the bottom of the door. It would open and food would be pushed through. Mostly cereal, sandwiches, or potato chips, with juice. If he got down on his knees he could see a man’s hand push it through. He thought it might be the driver’s hand but he couldn’t be sure because the person never said anything.
The worst part of it was being alone. He wondered if people were looking for him. His dad must be. He tried to imagine the door opening and him walking in. He’d close his eyes and think of him scooping him up in his arms and cuddling him. Like Natalya used to do.
Then his mind would flash on to what happened to Natalya in the boat. Or worse, a picture from the album. Then he’d have to open his eyes again. And when he opened his eyes his dad would be gone, but the album would still be there. Then he’d start to cry again.
Sixteen
It was close to four in the morning by the time Lock got back to his own apartment, a studio in Morningside Heights, within spitting distance of Columbia University. There was nothing more that could be done now anyway. The lab was busy running the match to the body they thought was Natalya. From what Frisk had said, it was almost certain to come back positive. NBC were already trailing Carrie’s exclusive with Richard Hulme, which was due to air later in the day. And everyone else with a job to do in the morning was asleep. Lock decided to join them, crashing out on top of his bed, fully clothed.
Less than four hours later he was awoken by a sliver of low winter sun creeping across the room. It took almost as much resolve not to throw a pillow over his head and go back to sleep as it had to storm the sniper position opposite the Meditech building. In the bathroom, he realized that limited time meant the choice was shave or shower. He wouldn’t have time for both. Prioritizing body odour over smooth skin, he undressed quickly and climbed under the blast of hot water.
Standing with a towel around his waist, he rifled through his wardrobe. He wasn’t short on dark colours, but suspected that blackout gear and a ski mask wouldn’t be considered appropriate attire for a funeral. In the end, he compromised with black trousers, white shirt left open at the collar and a black parka jacket bulky enough to cover a multitude of sins, and his gun — returned to him last night after another heated exchange with Frisk.
As he dressed, he opened his fridge, only to be met by a mouldy and festering collection of food items worthy of a Gordon Ramsay smack-down. Grabbing a black garbage bag, he dumped most of the contents. Breakfast would have to wait.
The buzzer went. Lock pressed the intercom button. ‘State your business.’
‘It’s Ty.’
Lock cracked the door open and went into the bedroom. When he came back out, Ty was standing in the kitchen, rifling the cabinets. Ty was almost always hungry but no matter how much Lock watched him eat it didn’t appear to make a difference to his lanky six foot four basketball player’s frame.
‘You don’t even keep cereal in this dump?’ Ty asked him.
‘I’m never here.’
Ty turned, stopped and stared at Lock. ‘Wow, man. Just. . wow.’
‘I look like shit?’
‘No, more like. .’ Ty paused, ferreting out the word. ‘Roadkill.’
Lock scratched at his stubble. ‘Late night.’
‘Dude, I’ve seen guys who’ve spent ten years on the pipe that look better than you. Anyway, shouldn’t you be resting up?’
‘I should be.’
‘So why ain’t you?’
‘They found Josh Hulme’s au pair.’
‘Good. What she have to say for herself?’
‘Not too much. She’d been shot in the face and dumped in the East River.’
‘Harsh,’ said Ty, his expression unchanging. He studied Lock’s apparel. ‘That why you’re all duded up like Walker, Texas Ranger?’
‘You saying I look like Chuck Norris?’
‘Chuck on a bad day. Look, Ryan, you do remember me telling you that we’re not getting involved.’
‘
‘Ryan, you’re an employee of Meditech, same as me.’
‘And while I’m convalescing, I thought I’d do some pro bono work.’
Lock grabbed a towel, walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
Ty shifted some stale underwear from a chair and sat down as Lock disappeared into the bathroom. He smiled to himself. It had to be said, this was classic Lock. The guy had never found a lost cause he didn’t like.
It was how Lock had been ever since they’d first hooked up in Iraq, Ty in the Marines and Lock, bizarrely, in the Close Protection Unit of the British Royal Military Police. Lock had become a source of instant fascination to Ty. Although he walked, talked, even chewed gum like an American, here he was working with the limeys, having flown to England to enlist straight out of college. The decision, Lock later explained, came courtesy of a Scottish emigre father who’d served in the same unit but had fallen in love and married a girl from California — in the days before the Beach Boys let the rest of the world in on the secret.
Post-Iraq, and both finally out of uniform, Ty had hooked Lock up with the Meditech gig. He wasn’t even fazed when he found out that he’d be working as Lock’s second-in-command. Putting aside his own ego, he knew that when it came to close protection work the RMP Close Protection Unit was as good as it got. No bravado. No special forces heroics. They simply got the job done with the minimum of fuss.
Lock emerged from the bathroom. Ty resolved to give it one more shot.
‘This isn’t a good idea, brother. Brand’s after your job.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
Both Lock and Ty knew Brand had been looking to step into Lock’s shoes ever since his appointment.
‘And he’s been whispering in Stafford Van Straten’s ear. Saying how you were grandstanding when it all went down at headquarters,’ Ty said.
‘Pot. Kettle.’
‘Maybe so, but Stafford’s been at his old man to dump you entirely. Listen, you’re on their payroll and they don’t want to get involved with this kidnapping.’
‘Richard Hulme worked for them long enough. They owe him this much.’
‘Not how they see it. Tell me to butt out if you want, but leave this alone.’
‘They send you?’
‘Hell, no. They don’t know anything about this.’
‘So what they don’t know can’t hurt ’em.’
Ty’s face split into a grin. If that was how Lock saw things, then hell, he might as well go along for the ride.
Seventeen
Carrie looked straight down the barrel of camera two. ‘It’s every parent’s nightmare. A crime which grips the public like no other. Your son or daughter snatched, by a person or persons unknown. Who can possibly imagine the torment felt by a loving father’ — they cut from Carrie to a close-up of an uncomfortable-looking Richard Hulme as
