Diamond waited long enough to learn that not one of the neighbors had witnessed Naomi being bundled into the taxi. One man raised hopes by saying he had spotted the cab standing outside, and then could only add that the vehicle had been black and the driver white.
Down at the nick in Earls Court Road, someone must have issued a warning of imminent invasion. Two sergeants and a plainclothes CID officer-an inspector, as it turned out-were at the desk to repel Diamond. They didn’t succeed, of course. He’d long ago checked the identity of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner for Six Area West, and nothing opens a door better than naming the man in charge.
This being Saturday morning, the Big White Chief wasn’t about, so Diamond had to settle for his surrogate, Chief Superintendent Sullins, another name usefully committed to memory from the police directory in Kensington Library. For bis part, Sullins, a foxy little character in white shirt and red braces, trying strenuously to look the part of the Kensington supremo, claimed to have heard of Diamond, though they had never met until this handshake on the stairs.
“Everything under control” was Sullins’ text for the day, at least for Peter Diamond’s consumption. He was giving this matter of the missing child high priority. The police already knew all about Naomi (“I wish I did,” Diamond commented in passing) from the night of the alarm in Harrods. They’d gone to extraordinary lengths to try and establish who she was. And now everything possible was being done to trace the taxi. Cab firms all over London were being contacted. So Diamond was free to leave in the sure confidence that nothing he could do would speed the process.
“Thank you, but I’d prefer to stay,” he said amiably.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Sullins told him
“Why?”
“We don’t allow members of the public-”
“Ex-CID,” Diamond interjected.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Diamond, but we have our procedures.”
He countered with: “You mean you need to get the Chiefs consent? Understandable.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’ll fix it. What does he do Saturday mornings-play golf or go shopping with his good lady? I’m damned sure he carries a beeper, wherever he is. And if he has to trot back to his car for the phone, I dare say he won’t mind. Do you want me to mention you asked me to get clearance, or should I leave your name out of it, Mr. Sullins?”
No ambitious policeman was proof against that kind of blackmail. “Ex-CID, you said,” Sullins remarked as if he had only just registered the information. “I suppose it’s possible you may be of use. It’s highly irregular.”
Diamond nodded. “Cheers. I’ll keep myself inconspicuous.” Which was by some way the most unlikely assertion anyone had made that morning.
In the communications room, a WPC was keying something into the computer. Diamond squeezed around her to reach for the log of calls that the switchboard operator had beside her. “Got anything back from the taxi firms-about the Japanese kid?”
“Zero so far,” she told him.
“How many are there?”
“Cab firms? Have you looked at the Yellow Pages?
He picked a directory off her desk. What he saw depressed him. “How many have you done?”
“About twelve.”
“Keep going.”
She gave him a withering stare. “Who are you?
“It is a young kid,” he said.
“Japanese, aged about seven,” she chanted without looking at a note, “red corduroy dress, black tights, white trainers, accompanied by a Japanese woman about thirty, of smart appearance, with short, dark, wavy hair, grayJacket and matching trousers believed to be made by Rohan.”
He took the opportunity to ask how anyone would recognize Rohan garments and was told that the name was displayed on them.
So Mrs. Straw was not, after all, a connoisseur of fashion, but her information was probably reliable.
“They’re not cheap,” the girl added, “but they’re smart. Kind of sporty. Rohans are really something else in trousers-all those pockets.”
He thanked her. “Now can I help in any way, by calling over the numbers, perhaps?”
“Is that meant to be a hint, or something? I was going as fast as I could before you interrupted.”
“What if one of them calls back?”
“Harry over there will take it. He’s had nothing up to now.”
Harry over there was wearing earphones. He looked up from a copy of Viz and raised his thumb in greeting.
“I’ll let you get on, then,” Diamond told them tamely.
“Ta.”
He moved away. He fancied a cigarette now, and he hadn’t smoked in years. Didn’t even approve of it
Feeling alien and ineffectual, a sensation he’d never have dreamed was possible in a police station, he went to look for the canteen. Five cigarettes and two black coffees later, he went back upstairs, only to be greeted with Harry’s palms spread wide in a negative gesture.
In an hour he returned and the operator said that she’d contacted every taxi firm except three that had probably gone out of business. Most of them had said they’d need to check with their controllers or their drivers, some of whom had changed shift since eight in the morning. The standard arrangement was that they’d ring back if anyone could remember picking up the Japanese woman and child in Earls Court.
Harry was filling in a football pools coupon.
“Nothing yet?”
“Zilch.”
Diamond went in search of Superintendent Sullins. He found him in an office upstairs dictating a letter. “About to leave, Mr. Diamond?”
“We seem to have drawn a blank with the taxis.”
“Nil desperandum. One of the firms could ring back anytime.”
“I know, but it’s almost six hours since they were last seen.”
“Let’s not be melodramatic,” Sullins unwisely commented. “We’re not dealing with a mine disaster.”
“Melodramatic! This is a missing child.”
“Possibly.”
“Have you alerted the airports and the main line stations?
“Alerted them to what? A mother slapping her child’s leg? Let’s keep this in proportion. And now you’re going to tell me that we don’t know if she’s the mother.”
“We don’t.”
“But she produced a photograph, Mr. Diamond.”
An eruption was irnminent. Only a buzz on the intercom prevented it.
Sullins touched a switch. “Yes?”
The voice was female. “Sir, we’re taking a call from a taxi firm in Hammersmith called Instant Cabs.”
“Put it on,” Sullins ordered.
A man’s voice was saying, “��� went off duty at twelve, and we’ve only just been able to trace him. He’s your driver, all right He picked up a Japanese woman at seven-fifty this morning in Brook Green. She had a suitcase, dark blue. He drove her to Kempsford Gardens School in Earls Court-would that be right?-and waited until eight twenty-five, or soon after, when she came out with a child, a small girl. Japanese, like the woman. She seemed to be playing up, he said. He drove them to the airport.”
“Heathrow?”
“Yes.”
“Which terminal?”
“Three. The intercontinental.”
Diamond didn’t wait to hear any more. He was out and down the stairs and telling Harry to get Immigration on the line.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wedged into seat 1 IB in the Concorde, Diamond was about as comfortable as a stout person may expect to be on an aircraft noted for its slim contour. Eleven-B was immediately behind the serving bay, providing the dual advantage of increased legroom and a tray arrangement that allowed him to stand his champagne glass on a level surface rather than having it on a slope created by his stomach.
Rapid decisions were responsible for his being on the flight. Around 5:30 P.M., he had learned from Immigration at Heathrow that someone remembered a Japanese woman and child passing through the departure
gate about 1:00 P.M. More importantly, the woman had been wearing what was described as gray sportsgear and the child a red corduroy dress, black tights and trainers. Soon after this, British Airways checkin staff had confirmed that a Mrs. Nakajima, accompanied by her daughter Aya, had boarded flight BA177 at 1415, due at John F. Kennedy Airport, New York, at 1705, local time.
New York. This wasn’t a game for faint hearts, but Diamond was totally committed. By using his former police rank, he succeeded in extracting a promise from the Immigration Service at JFK that Mrs. Nakajima and daughter would be detained for up to an hour. From British Airways he had already learned that by taking the last Concorde flight of the day at 1900, he could be in New York fifty minutes after BA177 arrived-the sort of schedule that would have him looking at his watch all the way across. He’d booked a passage immediately, quoting Yamagata’s Gold Card number. The thought crossed his mind that he ought to have called the Albert Hall to get his sponsor’s approval, but he decided against it. “Mr. Yamagata is a rich man. He will pay,” the interpreter had promised when they had met, and presumably Mr. Yamagata, the man of honor, wouldn’t quibble over a mere five thousand and thirty pounds. Diamond preferred not to inquire at this stage.
Remembering just in time that he was a considerate husband, he did phone Stephanie to let her know that he was leaving the country. She wasn’t quite as devastated as he’d expected. “See if you can get me a pair of genuine New York sneakers while you’re over there. White, of course. Remember I take a seven, but that’s eight and a half in their size.” How did she know these things? he wondered.
He checked his watch again, thinking ahead. The U.S. Immigration officials would be the first test They were trained to spot conmen. He’d need to be sharp to convince them that he was on an official investigation. Then there was the Nakajima woman, who had thoroughly outfoxed the formidable Mrs. Straw. She was a real challenge. Even if she folded under questioning and admitted to abducting the child, there was still the matter of what action could be taken, and where. Extradition law had never been his forte.
A stewardess came along the aisle and handed him a note that must have been transmitted to the cockpit.
To: Supt. Diamond
From: US. Immigration
Time: 1721NYT
Will meet you on arrival. Ms. Nakajima and child detained.
A tingling sensation, a mixture of relief, anticipation and champagne, spread through Diamond’s veins.
“Good news, sir?” the stewardess inquired.
He gave a dignified smile. “Just confirming an appointment” In truth, it deserved a fanfare. For one indulgent moment, he likened himself to Chief Inspector Dew, the man who had crossed the Atlantic in 1910 to arrest Dr. Crippen and his mistress. A telegraph message, a dash across the ocean, and Crippen had been copped.
There the comparison ended. Crippen had been a murderer. Mrs. Nakajima was guilty, at most, of abduction.
The Concorde had already started its descent. The “fasten seatbelts” order came over the public address.
They touched down five minutes before schedule at 1750.
When the doors were opened, a woman immigration officer was waiting. Diamond introduced himself.
“May I see your ID?” she asked, taking stock of him. He didn’t fit the stereotype of a British detective, judging by the way she eyed his waistline.
“Will my passport do?” Helpfully, it had been issued four years ago and still listed his profession as police officer.
“Would you come with me, sir?”
The “sir” was encouraging. Stiff from the journey and slightly disorientated, but eager to see Naomi, he was taken through a roped barrier and along a corridor lined with filing cabinets. Another door, another corridor, and into an office looking like a scene out of a television police series with its sense of stage-managed activity as people walked through, stopped, exchanged words, presumably to develop different plotlines in the story, and moved on. A black officer in tinted glasses carved a way around a couple of desks and said, “You’ve got to be the guy from Scotland Yard.”
“Peter Diamond,” he said, offering his hand without going into the matter of where he was from. “You still have these people detained, I hope?”
“Sure have.” The man didn’t need to give his name. He had a tag hanging from his shirt that identified him as Arthur Wharton.
“Are they giving any trouble?”
“No, sir.”
“What have you told them?”
“The usual. A small technical problem over their passport. They’re yours.” Arthur Wharton nodded to the woman who’d brought Diamond this far and she beelined determinedly between two people crossing the office from different directions and into another corridor. Diamond realized that he was meant to go with her. Striving to go the same way, he found that he wasn’t so adept at dodging people.
He caught up with her by an open doorway. A uniformed member of the airport police was sitting outside, drinking coffee from a paper cup.
Diamond looked into the room.
He stared.
A woman and child were in there, certainly, but the child wasn’t Naomi.
She was at least two years younger. Seated on a steel-framed chair, swinging her legs, this little girl still had a baby face, tiny features and chubby cheeks. She wasn’t even dressed like Naomi. She had a blue dress, white socks and black shoes made of some shiny material like patent leather. She was Japanese, admittedly, but there the resemblance ended.
The Japanese woman who looked up anxiously at Diamond didn’t match the description he’d been given either. She was in a red skirt and jacket and she was wearing rimless glasses.
At a loss, he turned to his escort, but she’d already gone. He spoke to the man at the door. ‘Those aren’t the people. There’s some mistake.”
The cop shrugged.
He found his way back to the hub of the Immigration Department, and vented his frustration on Officer Wharton. “You detained the wrong people. I’ve never seen that kid before and they’re wearing different clothes, for Christ’s sake.”
“Hold on, Mac,” Wharton told him, pointing a finger. “Don’t give lip to me. We held the people you wanted. You gave us no description, just a name. That’s Mrs. Nakajima in there, no mistake. You want to see the passport?” He handed one across.
Diamond opened it No question: these people were called Nakajima. “But they don’t match the description,” he said.
“You mean this passport belongs to some other woman?”
“No. What I mean is that the people who were seen at Heathrow were dressed differently from Mrs. Nakajima and child.” Even as he spoke the words, the mistake he’d made dawned on him. “Oh, no!”
Wharton eyed him dispassionately.
“I assumed because Mrs. Nakajima and her daughter were Japanese and traveling alone that they had to be die woman and child seen going through the departure gate at Heathrow. After BA came up with these people, I just didn’t check the other airlines. They must have taken some other flight. They could have gone anywhere-any damned place in the world.” Mad with himself for being so obtuse, he ended by thumping his fist down so hard on Officer Wharton’s desk that paper clips jumped.
Three thousand five hundred miles on the Concorde chasing the wrong people. What a pea-brain! “Listen,” he said to Wharton, “it may be too late, but I want to contact Terminal Three at Heathrow. I want to fax every airline to check their passenger lists for a Japanese woman traveling alone with a child sometime after one P.M. today. Could you arrange that for me?” Sensing that die request was too stark, he added, “Arthur?”
“You want me to authorize those faxes?” Wharton’s expression didn’t look promising.
“You have the facilities here,” Diamond told him frankly.
“But you want me to handle this?”
“Exactly. If my name is given, there’s so much to explain. If the request comes from U.S. Immigration, they’ll act on it
promptly. No explanation needed. Speed is the key here.”
“Checking passenger lists? You’ve got to be joking, man.”
“They’re computerized,” Diamond pointed out. He’d not often thought of modern technology as an ally, but he had no scruples in this emergency. “It’s just a matter of tapping a few keys.”
Wharton rubbed the side of his face.
“Listen,” Diamond steamed on, “while you’re doing this for me, I’ll go back to Mrs. Nakajima and make your apologies. Fair enough?”
It wasn’t fair, and he knew it. Wharton knew it, too, but the urgency in the way it was put to him was compelling. “You’d better write down the message you want me to send,” he said with a sigh.
The crucial reply from London came in forty minutes later. By mat stage of the exercise, Officer Wharton had been thoroughly briefed about the quest to find Naomi and now he identified himself totally with the challenge. “Hey, man, this is it” He held up the fax he had just taken from the machine. “You want some good news? She’s here after all!”
Diamond was galvanized. “Here? In New York, you mean?”
“Right on. They flew in this afternoon on a United flight A Japanese woman and a kid.”
“Brilliant! When did they land?”
“Seventeen-twenty. About an hour ago.”
“An hourl” Diamond’s elation withered and died. “By now they must have cleared customs and left the airport.”
But Wharton gave a reassuring grin. “Not this airport. Takes a while to get through Immigration in JFK. The United flight?” He looked at his watch. “I figure they could be as far as the customs hall by now, but I wouldn’t bet on it”
Diamond was on his feet. “Which way?”
“Hold on, Peter,” Wharton told him. “You’re in serious danger of doing yourself an injury. We can check from here.” He pointed upwards to a set of eight television monitors mounted on the ceiling. “Video surveillance. See if you can spot your people. I’m going to see if I can raise the crew of that flight.”
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