by Val McDermid
It would have been good if Stephanie had been there with him. He could have explained to her why small choices made big differences to a recording. But she wasn’t here. It wasn’t acceptable.
He took another beer from the fridge and went to check on the boy again. This time, he was asleep, sprawled across the bed, his thumb in his mouth and his hair matted with sweat. Pete didn’t like the invasion of his space, but it wouldn’t be for long. Then he could concentrate on working things out with Stephanie, restoring his world to its proper state.
That was the important thing, not this little bastard with his soft snoring and his twitching feet. Things had been out of kilter for long enough. Now it was time to restore equilibrium. Pete yawned as he made his way down to the master bedroom on the next floor. An early night wouldn’t be such a bad idea. He’d been short on sleep lately and the band were expecting a full shift out of him tomorrow. He took another swig of beer and sat on the side of the bed, pulling off his boots and letting himself fall back on the bed.
Soon he’d be back in England with Stephanie at his side. Soon.
51
By the time they joined the local FBI agents in the Corktown motel they were using as a centre of operations, Stephanie had lost count of how many hours she’d been awake. There had been a couple of times during the drive when she’d felt herself drifting away into surreal dreams, but every time she’d jerked awake before proper sleep took hold. It was as if her brain couldn’t allow her to switch off, not while the possibility of finding Jimmy was so alive. But her body knew how tired she was. Her left leg ached with a low intensity that made her grit her teeth.
Vivian McKuras had been on and off the phone all journey. Stephanie had strained to hear her end of the conversations, but Vivian had been huddled round her phone and there was too much road noise from the SUV for her to be able to make out more than the occasional word.
The road signs showed names she recognised without really knowing why. Kalamazoo, Lansing, Ann Arbor. Soon after they’d passed Ann Arbor, Vivian leaned over to talk to her. Even in the dimness of the dashboard light, Stephanie could see she was looking pleased. ‘I’ve got some very promising information from the team on the ground,’ she said.
‘Have they found Jimmy?’ Stephanie felt shaky and gripped the seat in front of her.
‘They’ve located the address Pete Matthews is renting. It’s a row house—’
‘What’s a row house?’
‘It’s where the house is joined to the ones on either side. I thought you had them all over the UK?’
‘We do, but we call them terraced houses. Not row houses.’
Vivian nodded. ‘It’s that old chestnut about being separated by a common language. Sorry. OK. So Matthews is living in this row house. He wasn’t in work today. The band he’s recording is taking a day off. We spoke to neighbours and engaged their cooperation. Thanks to thermal imaging and highly sensitive microphones, we’ve established that there are two people in the house. One on the first floor and the other in the attic room. Now, I don’t want to get your hopes up too high but one of the neighbours reported that she thought she heard a child crying earlier this evening. Around eight o’clock.’
Stephanie cried out. ‘Jimmy.’
‘We’ve no way of knowing for sure if it’s Jimmy. But the neighbour says this is the first time they’ve heard a child in the house. It’s . . . I’d have to say it’s a helluva coincidence.’
‘Why would there be a child there if it’s not Jimmy? He had plenty of time to get back here by eight, right?’ Stephanie was almost shouting in her excitement.
‘He would have had time, yes. But I have to caution you, Stephanie. We have no way of knowing whether this child is Jimmy till we enter the house and retrieve him. And now I have to ask you a very important question. Do you know whether Pete Matthews is likely to have access to weapons?’
Stephanie felt the shock of the question as a physical tightening of her chest. ‘Why would you think that? He’s never shown any interest in guns or knives or anything like that. He doesn’t even like action movies.’
‘We have to ask. We’ll be sending a team into that house and we need to be prepared for all eventualities. Are you sure he doesn’t carry a weapon when he’s travelling? Remember, this is a country where guns are not difficult to come by if you don’t mind flouting the law.’
Stephanie shook her head vigorously. ‘No way. It would never cross his mind. I don’t know how to make you understand this, but although he threatened me and really fright ened me, he’s not the kind of man who responds violently. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never picked a fight in a pub, or got into a brawl or anything. He despises violent men. He’s a bully, not a fighter.’
Vivian patted her arm. ‘That’s good to know, and I can pass that on to our people.’
‘What’s going to happen now?’
‘We’ve got people staking out the house. We’re going to meet with the leader of the team who will be mounting the rescue so he can reassure you as to Jimmy’s safety. Then it’s a waiting game, I’m afraid. Don will stay with you and I will go with the team. It’s going to be OK, Stephanie.’ That was hard to believe, but Stephanie clung to the words.
The motel was quiet. The night porter seemed bored, as if major FBI operations happened on his shift every other night. He directed them to a small meeting room down the hall, where two men were waiting. Stephanie felt like she’d fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in the Die Hard franchise. Both men were tall and broad, dressed in black fatigues and body armour and utility belts that would have put Batman to shame. Both had square jaws and steady eyes. The only thing that distinguished them was the top half of their heads. One had an auburn buzz cut, the other a scalp so closely shaved it was impossible to estimate his hair colour. Two helmets lay discarded on the conference table. The introductions passed Stephanie in a blur. All she cared about now was getting Jimmy back. She could almost feel him in her arms.
The agents began to discuss the operation, but she wasn’t following the conversation. After a few minutes, she interrupted. ‘Can I come to the house? I promise I won’t get in the way. But I want Jimmy to feel safe as soon as possible. I should be there when you bring him out.’
‘That’s out of the question, ma’am,’ Auburn said.
She had a sudden inspiration. ‘You’ll need me if you get into a hostage situation,’ she said craftily. ‘It would save time to have me there.’
Vivian gave a wry smile. ‘She has a point. I say we take her.’
The men in black put their heads together. Neither looked happy but they finally agreed. Stephanie could remain in one of the command vehicles.
Feeling pleased with herself, she trailed in their wake back to the car park. They drove for less than half a mile and parked behind a large nondescript van. The two men in black peeled off and melted into the night while Vivian knocked on the van door. She showed her ID and they both climbed inside. Two men and a woman were hunched over a battery of screens and comms equipment, headsets jammed close. Vivian explained who Stephanie was and the woman grunted a welcome, gesturing towards a jump seat in the far corner with her thumb. ‘Sit down there. You’re here on sufferance, so don’t get in the way.’ Stephanie did as she was told. The screens told the sort of story that could be read by anyone who’d seen enough TV cop shows. The long view of a street of attractive brick-built terraced houses illuminated by street lighting. The front and back views of one house in particular. The multi-coloured thermal image of a house with two indistinct shapes inside. A screen that showed a constantly shifting series of scenes of men preparing their protection and weaponry, pulling on gas masks and goggles, all clearly streamed from a helmet cam. Presumably all the men were equipped with similar cameras.
The woman said, ‘Stand by,’ and the kaleidoscope of the assault team clarified itself into a view of the front stoop. Brusquely, she said, ‘Go, go, go.’
And then it was like a m
ovie, only without the soundtrack. Front and back door smashed open, a flash-bang stun grenade rolled down the hall. The men poured in from front and back. Stephanie imagined the noise and the smoke and the smell and the shock of it all. Jimmy would be terrified. But so would Pete. And that thought did make her smile.
Their booted feet pounded up the stairs and into a bedroom. Through a haze of smoke, she saw Pete clutching the covers to his chest, scrambling back against the wall, his mouth opening and closing in silent yells. She watched spellbound as three of them dragged him naked from the bed and threw him to the floor, guns pointed at his head. They cuffed him and yanked him back to his feet.
The image changed and now they were climbing another flight of stairs. A bundle of bedclothes huddled in a corner of the room. One man stepped forward and lifted it bodily into his arms. All Stephanie could see was the top of a shaggy head of dark hair and a child’s arm reaching out to cling on to the FBI agent’s neck. But that was enough.
Before anyone could stop her, she had wrenched open the van door and was running down the street, oblivious to anything except the house she had seen on the screens. She ran, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth wide in a glorious smile. As she grew near, the officer carrying the child emerged from the doorway and descended to street level.
Stephanie hurled herself at the man, pulling the blankets back from the child’s head. Big brown eyes wide with fear and bewilderment gazed into hers. But instead of throwing her arms round him, Stephanie recoiled, her face a mask of horror.
Whoever the boy was, he wasn’t Jimmy.
PART 3
pursuit
1
Heathrow Airport, London, three days later
Stephanie hauled her two suitcases off the luggage carousel and dragged herself towards the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel. She was about to enter when a man in a suit stepped in front of her. ‘Miss Harker? Miss Stephanie Harker?’
Not again. Not now. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ she said, almost too worn down to speak.
‘If you’d like to come this way?’ He gestured back towards the baggage hall.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m with the immigration service. If you’d follow me?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ It wasn’t a challenge, merely a token and he knew it. Stephanie turned and followed him through a door into another airport back corridor. It was an environment that made her feel like throwing up. All those hours with Vivian McKuras, and for what? Embarrassment all round and a triumphant Pete Matthews crowing about the figure he was going to sue the FBI for.
The man opened a door and stepped back, indicating that she should enter. And for the first time in days, Stephanie’s spirits lifted a fraction. For it wasn’t a stranger sitting at the table in the interview room. It was Nick Nicolaides, and when she walked in, he sprang to his feet and pulled her into a tight embrace, his hand stroking her back in a timeless gesture of comfort. He leaned his head on top of hers and said, ‘I’m sorry, love. Sorry for your pain, sorry for Jimmy, sorry you had to go through it all by yourself.’
Stephanie closed her eyes and drank in the very particular smell of him. Even fresh from the shower, Nick smelled like himself. It was comfort beyond measure. For three days, she’d had nothing to anchor her to her life, only a deepening sense of misery faultlined with crisis and disaster. ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled.
They stood wrapped around each other, not speaking, for as long as it took. Then Stephanie gently tapped on his shoulder and they moved a little apart, holding hands as if they couldn’t quite let go of each other. ‘Thanks for coming to meet me,’ she said.
‘I told my boss you needed a police escort, and he agreed with me.’
She gave a dry laugh that had no mirth in it. ‘Good line.’
Nick stretched his face in a grimace. ‘It’s not just a line, Steph. There’s a media mob out there with your name on it. No reason why you would know, but Jimmy’s abduction has been the only show in town for the last three news cycles. And everybody wants your story on how it happened. So I’m here to take you out the back way.’
She groaned and leaned her head against his chest again. ‘I suppose that means I can’t go home either?’
‘Not unless you want to be doorstepped from dawn till dusk.’ He half-turned his head as if he didn’t want to meet her eyes. ‘You could stay at my flat. You’d be very welcome. And if you wanted to be alone, I could bunk down with a mate.’
This time there was warmth in her smile. Nick’s bachelor flat was far from ideal for two, but that was the least of her worries. ‘There’s nowhere I’d rather be. And I don’t want to be alone, thanks all the same. I’ve had enough of feeling isolated these last three days to last me a lifetime.’
‘Sorted, then. Come on, time to get moving. We can talk in the car.’
Ten minutes later, they were heading for London without any discernible tail. ‘I bet it’s been like a rat’s nest over there, everybody looking for somebody else to bite,’ Nick said.
‘I think part of the problem is that there isn’t anybody to bite. It was nobody’s fault, not really. Just a bizarre coincidence.’ So bizarre it had taken hours to sort out. Hours of Pete screaming that he wasn’t a paedophile, that the kid was not his son, that he was just a fucking babysitter. Even though he was at the other end of the hallway in the FBI Detroit office, she could hear him bellowing like a baited bull.
The story, when it emerged finally, was stupidly straightforward. While he’d been in Detroit, Pete had taken up with Maribel, the day receptionist at South Detroit Sounds. When they spent the night together it was usually at her place because it was easier for her than finding overnight care for her six-year-old son Luis. But her mother up in Traverse City had been rushed into hospital with a suspected stroke and Maribel had turned to Pete for help. She hadn’t given him the chance to say no, simply handed him the kid and the keys. Pete had decided to go back to his own place, which had a better TV and music system and where he could bed Luis down in the spare room. Hence the report of a crying child and the two bodies on the thermal image screen.
The following day had consisted of an endless rehash of what had gone wrong. And of course the media got hold of the abortive raid and ran it as the day’s bleakly comic item. In the midst of it all, Stephanie kept telling anyone who would listen that they needed to redouble their efforts to find Jimmy. When Vivian managed to escape the inquest, she assured Stephanie that efforts were continuing but that they had no leads.
‘We now know the kidnapper flew to O’Hare from Atlanta. But that’s another major hub airport. He could have come from anywhere. And if he doesn’t try to take the kid out of the US, they can just disappear.’ Vivian looked harried and haunted. Probably by the ghost of her career, Stephanie thought.
They’d sat down to look at the CCTV footage that had been isolated of the bearded man who had become the fake TSA officer. Stephanie had no idea who he might be. ‘He could be anybody behind that beard,’ she complained.
‘What about the way he walks? It looks like he has a limp to me.’
Stephanie shook her head. She’d spent months in physiotherapy after her accident, trying to walk properly again. She knew the difference between real and fake when it came to leg injury. ‘He’s putting that on to hide his own gait. It’s not consistent. See, there? Look, he dodges out of the way of that little girl running down the concourse and he forgets himself. He recovers almost immediately, but I think he’s only pretending to have a limp.’
And that was how they’d left it. No further forward, waiting to see if any of the calls to the Amber Alert hotline panned out. They hadn’t wanted her to leave the US, but Vivian told her how Nick had fought Steph’s corner with her boss. The bottom line he kept returning to was that Stephanie was a victim first and foremost. That she was a respectable citizen who would happily return to a US court to testify in any future trial. When the chips were down, they had no reason to hold her, and unless they we
re going to send her to Guantanamo Bay, they’d better put her on a plane home. There had been impish pleasure in Vivian’s eyes when she mentioned Nick playing the Guantanamo card. Stephanie formed the distinct impression Vivian wasn’t in love with the concept of legally questionable detention.
So here she was, feeling curiously bereft in spite of the fact that she’d only had Jimmy in her care for nine months. Not even long enough to complete the adoption process. Her next interview with the social worker would be interesting. ‘Sorry, I seem to have mislaid the kid . . . ’
‘There is one silver lining,’ Stephanie said.
‘Really? I’m impressed that even an optimist like you can find anything good in this mess,’ Nick said.
‘I think Pete’s finally decided chasing me is more trouble than it’s worth.’
Even in profile he looked sceptical. ‘I hope you can still say that in six months’ time.’
Nick had filled his fridge with fruit, salads, cheese and cold meat. The bread bin was stacked with ciabatta rolls, bagels and croissants. And Stephanie knew there would be as much good coffee as she could possibly want. Food and drink were, apart from guitars and gigs, his only extravagances. But what she wanted more than brunch was a long hot shower. The FBI had installed her in a safe house that Stephanie reckoned was as much about keeping her under surveillance as protection. It wasn’t conducive to anything other than quick showers hunched over like a self-conscious teenager after school swimming class.
