The Vanishing Point

by Val McDermid

  I was shocked and I must have shown it.

  ‘Well, what else was I going to do?’ Leanne demanded. ‘She wasn’t going to back off. She was doing my head in. And I got rid of her in a way that won’t blow up in Scarlett’s face. She should be grateful. That’s one less mad stalker bitch on her tail.’

  Of course I’d known that Scarlett and Leanne had come up as street fighters. But this was the first time I’d seen such stark evidence of how unpleasant things could get if you pushed one of the Higgins girls too far. I knew how scary obsessed fans could get, no denying that.

  But I really didn’t warm to Leanne’s way of dealing with it.

  27

  ‘And did your plan work?’ Vivian asked, tapping the keys of her computer to bring up an urgent message from the Chicago office. ‘Did you manage to escape from Pete Matthews?’

  ‘Amazingly, it did. He turned up at Scarlett’s place a couple of times, but we didn’t answer the intercom and he never caught sight of me, as far as I know. Various friends called to say he’d been looking for me, but nobody grassed me up. I stayed with Scarlett for about six months altogether, while my house was being sold and I was figuring out where to move to. Eventually I—’

  Vivian held up one finger. ‘Could you bear with me a moment? I need to deal with this message.’

  The email was from her boss.

  Vivian:

  I’ve had a message from our colleagues at State. The Embassy in London has been inundated with media inquiries about your Amber Alert kid. They’ve been told he’s the child of a reality TV star who died last year and they need an update. I’ve told them the circumstances, but I need a here-and-now from you.

  I understand from your brief that Jimmy Higgins’ guardian is a writer? Is there any possibility that this could be a publicity stunt? Abbott says she inherited the kid but no money. Could there be a book in the works that she’s trying to build up a profile for?

  I shouldn’t have to remind you that I need you to stay on top of this. The timing couldn’t be worse from an agency point of view. I can’t spare someone to come out there and hold your hand. Let’s get a good result on this one.

  Succinct and to the point. Demanding the sort of response she really didn’t have. And throwing a spanner into the works of her witness interview. First things first. How could she dress up this scenario to make it look as if she had some kind of a clue what had happened to Jimmy Higgins? She bit her lip and considered how best to say nothing at all.

  We’re pursuing all avenues to trace the movements of Jimmy Higgins and his abductor, who was dressed in a replica TSA uniform and is believed to have left the precincts of the airport. We are also working with Scotland Yard detectives to develop leads on both sides of the Atlantic. Jimmy’s guardian, Stephanie Harker, is giving her full cooperation as we all work to bring Jimmy safely home. Anyone with any information should contact blah blah blah.

  That’s really all we have at present. This is not a straightforward Kidnap for Ransom. As yet, we are not clear what the motive might be, but it does seem likely that the child was taken by someone who has a personal connection. I’ll let you know as and when I have anything substantive to report.

  It looked woefully thin and it wasn’t going to win her any friends in high places, but better that than to promise what she couldn’t deliver. She read it through again and removed the word ‘replica’ because it was pointlessly speculative.

  The second paragraph posed a more thorny question and one she couldn’t really answer except to say her gut instinct was that Stephanie Harker was not a con artist, nor the agent of this crisis. When men claimed gut instinct, it was taken seriously. But still women were condemned to ‘feminine intuition’, as if that were somehow inferior. In Vivian’s experience, the women were on the money more than men, if only because girls were conditioned to listen and pay attention much more than boys were.

  Harker’s concern and fear for the boy seems genuine. Her reaction when he was taken was extreme; nobody volunteers for a second blast of the taser. Also, Harker is not the kind of writer who has ever courted publicity. The nature of her work as a ghost writer is the opposite of seeking publicity. If she was trying to make a big splash to win publicity for a book about inheriting the boy, surely she would be better off making herself look like the good mother? The one who foils the kidnap rather than lets it happen? Furthermore, she has volunteered extensive information including direct contact with a Scotland Yard detective who has personal knowledge of both her and the boy. For all those reasons, I don’t think this is a stunt, nor that she has any part in the abduction.

  Then she sent it, hoping it would pacify her boss. Really, he should be too busy with threats against the President to be unduly concerned with her investigation. Or to question her instincts about Stephanie Harker.

  Vivian retuned her attention to Stephanie, who was visibly tiring now. ‘Your media has got their claws into the story, I’m afraid.’

  Stephanie groaned. ‘Can I have my phone back? There are probably a hundred texts and voicemails on it already. Not just from the press, but from my friends and family. They’ll be scared and worried. I need to talk to people.’

  ‘I appreciate that. And it’s not my intention to keep you from talking to anyone. But first and foremost, for Jimmy’s sake, I need you to keep talking to me. I need to make sure we’ve gone down every possible road that might lead us to the person who took Jimmy this afternoon. Besides, it’s getting late back in the UK. I’m sure people won’t expect you to call tonight. They’ll understand what’s going on.’

  Stephanie looked doubtful. ‘You’ve clearly never met my agent. Not to mention my mother. Please, what harm can it do to let me make a couple of calls? I only want to reassure my mother and my literary agent. Who’s also my best friend. The rest can wait. You can listen in if you want. I’ve no secrets.’

  Vivian pondered. It wasn’t exactly protocol, but nothing about this case fit the usual parameters – no violence, no ransom demands, no obvious motives. And Stephanie was a witness, not a suspect. It was hard to justify keeping her in purdah. And even if she was somehow tangentially involved in the abduction, it didn’t seem likely that her mother or her agent would be involved. Besides, she felt sure Stephanie had more of relevance to tell her. Vivian needed to keep her on side. A couple of phone calls couldn’t hurt. And it was possible the conversations might remind Stephanie of something she’d forgotten. The final argument for allowing the calls was that it would answer her boss’s fears about collusion. If this was a setup to sell books, surely a conversation with her agent would provide a clue? These were not professional criminals, after all.

  Vivian checked out the phone on the desk. Yes, it had speakerphone capability. She gave Stephanie a long, level look. ‘I’m not obliged to facilitate any personal communications you want to make. Not in the middle of an investigation as serious as this. But I’m willing to let you make the two phone calls you asked for. I’m going to put you on speakerphone so I can hear the conversation and if you stray into an area I consider to be inappropriate, then I will intervene. Is that clear?’

  Stephanie looked relieved. ‘You mean, if I call Randy Parton an authoritarian twat, you’ll shut me up?’

  Vivian couldn’t repress a smile. ‘More like, “Here’s what the FBI are doing.” Who do you want to call first?’

  ‘My parents. Now the news is out, my mother will be in a state.’

  ‘You’ll need to hit nine for an outside line.’ Vivian pushed the phone towards her and watched her key in the number. They both listened as the phone rang out. Once, twice, then the tinny emptiness of a transatlantic speakerphone line. ‘Hello?’ It was the voice of an older woman – hesitant, light, insubstantial.

  ‘Hi, Mum. It’s Stephanie.’

  ‘Thank God! Robert, it’s Stephanie. We’ve been so worried, we saw on the ten o’clock news that Jimmy’s been kidnapped. We couldn’t believe it. You don’t expect things like that to happ
en to people you know.’ She sounded affronted, as if the abduction were a personal insult.

  ‘It’s all been a bit of a shock,’ Stephanie said.

  ‘Well, it’s been a shock for us too. You must be in a terrible state. How did it happen? You take your eyes off them for a moment . . .’

  ‘I was in a cubicle waiting to be patted down. I set the metal detector off. My leg, you know? And a man walked off with him.’

  ‘Well, I never. That’s America for you. You wouldn’t have something like that happening over here, would you?’

  Stephanie made an apologetic face at Vivian, who smiled and shrugged. ‘It could have happened anywhere, Mum.’

  ‘And what about you, you poor thing? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m helping the FBI put together a picture of our life.’

  ‘The FBI? Oh, Robert, she’s with the FBI. I never thought a child of mine would end up in the hands of the FBI. Oh, Stephanie, you must be worried sick. I hope they’re treating you properly. You hear all sorts—’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mum. I’m fine. It’s Jimmy you should be worrying about.’

  The sound of a dismissive sniff travelled the best part of four thousand miles. ‘I knew it would be nothing but trouble, you taking on that boy.’

  Stephanie pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. This was the last thing she needed. ‘Let’s not go over this again. The point is that somebody has abducted Jimmy and yes, I am worried sick about him. He’s only five, Mum. Try and remember what that’s like. I’ve got to go now. I just wanted to let you know there’s no reason to worry about me. I’ll call you when I’ve any news.’

  Without waiting to hear any more, Stephanie pressed the button to disconnect the call. She exhaled heavily, staring at the table. ‘My mother thinks I should have handed Jimmy over to social services,’ she said, her voice heavy and dull. ‘She’s led a pretty narrow life.’

  Vivian often wished her own mother’s life had been a little narrower. She’d been a major in Army Intelligence and made no secret of the fact that she thought the FBI was a poor second to her own world. Maybe if her mother had been like Mrs Harker, Vivian wouldn’t have felt quite the same urge constantly to prove herself. ‘Mothers,’ she said. ‘We’re never the daughters they hoped for.’

  Stephanie lifted her head in surprise and gave Vivian a tiny nod of acknowledgement. ‘My agent?’

  Vivian extended a hand. ‘Be my guest.’

  This time, there was no hesitancy in the voice that answered. ‘Maggie Silver,’ came the confident greeting.

  ‘Maggie,’ Stephanie said. ‘I thought I’d better give you a call.’

  ‘Darling,’ Maggie drawled, her excitement obvious. ‘I’m so pleased to hear your dear voice. I left a voicemail when I heard the news. I couldn’t believe it. How absolutely awful for you. And that poor, dear boy. It’s all over Twitter, you know. Not to mention the rolling news. Do tell me they’ve found him safe and well.’

  ‘I wish I could. But there’s no trace of him yet.’ Stephanie looked as if she might burst into tears. ‘It’s really scary, Maggie. One minute he was there, the next he was gone.’

  ‘I simply don’t understand how this could happen. Was no one paying attention to Jimmy while you were off being searched?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘How simply frightful. But there’s no point in blame, not now. The important thing is getting Jimmy back safely. Do they want money? Or is it one of these mad political groups looking for publicity?’

  ‘We don’t know. We’ve heard nothing. I’m talking to the FBI, telling them everything I can about Jimmy’s history. And mine.’

  ‘You’ll be there all night, then, darling.’ Maggie said tartly. ‘I hope you’ve got a nice dishy profiler like William Petersen in Manhunter.’ The women’s eyes met and they both smiled. ‘Now, look, the papers are going to be all over this.’ Maggie’s tone turned businesslike. ‘I’m going to need copy from you whenever you can sit down and collect yourself. It’s too late for tomorrow’s papers, but I’m sure I can get you a nice show in the Mail or the Mirror. How soon can you let me have an “I” piece?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It’s the last thing on my mind, to be honest.’

  ‘Sweetie, it’ll be good for you to order your thoughts rather than sitting brooding. Trust me, Maggie knows best. Call me in the morning, we’ll take it from there. And look after yourself, darling. Get some sleep, OK?’

  ‘I’ll try. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

  And that was that. There was no doubt that Maggie Silver saw Jimmy Higgins’ disappearance as a potential source of income. But it seemed as much of a shock to her as it had to Stephanie herself.

  As if Stephanie were reading her mind, she said, ‘So now you’ve experienced the lovely Maggie. You have to admit, if I was planning this as a publicity stunt, she’s the agent you’d want to have in your corner. Let me set your mind at rest. I won’t be writing anything for the Daily Mail tomorrow. Or any other day, if it’s up to me. All I want is to have Jimmy back in my arms. Besides that, everything else pales into insignificance.’

  Vivian nodded, believing her. ‘Sure. Now, can we get back to Pete Matthews? I need to ask you: Do you think he’s capable of nursing his grudge against you for all these years? Do you think he would abduct Jimmy simply to get back at you?’

  Stephanie frowned. ‘That’s too much of a straight line. If Pete did this, his motive would be different. Somehow, he’d have convinced himself that this was the way not to get back at me but to get me back.’

  28

  Talking to my female friends about Pete, it was sometimes hard to get through to them how scary he’d become. When I talked about his constant messages and emails, the flowers he sent to Maggie’s office for me, the way he’d followed me in the street, one or two of them were incredulous. ‘And you keep knocking him back?’ one said. ‘I’d love to have a man that devoted to me.’

  Because he never openly menaced me, it wasn’t easy to explain how threatening I found his behaviour. Scarlett totally got it, though. Because of her own experiences with the media, she understood my terror of being turned into what Leanne had jokingly called a ‘prisoner of love’. It made her shudder with horror, and it was one of the many reasons why living at the hacienda was a very easy option.

  But I couldn’t stay there for ever. After a lot of thought, I’d decided to move to Brighton. I’d always liked the seaside, in spite of dispiriting childhood holidays in the teeth of easterly gales at Cleethorpes and Skegness. Parts of Brighton reminded me of the bits of Lincoln I’d liked – the narrow twisting streets of the Lanes, the less grand terraced streets, the green spaces at the heart of the town. There was a cultural life and easy access to London. But perhaps most importantly of all, I’d never mentioned Brighton to Pete. Not even casually, in passing. I’d never said, ‘I fancy a day out in Brighton,’ or ‘One of my favourite authors is doing the Brighton Festival, let’s go down and make a weekend of it.’ There was no reason on earth why he should come looking for me there.

  I eventually found a sweet little Victorian terraced house ten minutes from the sea. There were local shops, a couple of bustling pubs where easy acquaintance seemed to be on offer, a neat little park where I could take the air when I needed to have a pause for thought. The house was tall and narrow, with a converted attic that served me well as an office. The master bedroom revealed a sliver of sea between the houses opposite, and the previous owners had installed a generous conservatory that caught the morning sun. It was perfect, tucked away in a quiet street with parking for residents only. I felt safe.

  I didn’t see much of Scarlett while I was settling into the new house. I was painting walls and choosing curtain fabric, having sofas reupholstered and scouring the Lanes for bits and pieces to replace items that Pete had broken during his malicious spree. She came down a couple of times with Jimmy, who loved the beach. He could sit for ages sifting th
rough the chunky pebbles, picking his favourites and building little piles around his chubby legs. But there was too much going on in her other life for Scarlett to have much free time.

  Her reinvention was coming along apace. Her show focusing on reality TV stars had developed a cult following. It had become a favourite with the student audience, who apparently enjoyed it in a post-modern ironic way. It had also won an audience among the older viewers, the staple of daytime TV. Between the two groups, the show had earned significant ratings. Advertisers loved it and the punters loved Scarlett. Now she was in talks to front a late-night chat show on a popular digital channel. Every now and again I’d stumble on a piece in one of the broadsheets exploring her apparently inexorable rise with a slightly bemused air. But she hadn’t let go of her core fan base. There were still the features in Yes! magazine and the occasional Leanne appearance in the gossip columns. Scarlett even guest-presented a celebrity special of the reality makeover show Ladette to Lady. She was well on the way to becoming a cultural icon.

  There was a downside to her success, however. I had a rare opportunity to see it at first hand when she persuaded me to come to a book signing in an Oxford Street department store. Of course, the person who’d actually written Jimmy’s Testament wouldn’t be the one doing the signing, but that was fine with me. I’ve never had a hankering for the limelight.

  We were smuggled in via the delivery entrance to avoid the crowds I’d clocked as we’d crossed Oxford Street in the Mercedes with the tinted windows. The queue stretched out of the brass-bound double doors and round the corner. ‘Good turnout,’ I said as we swept past.