The Vanishing Point

by Val McDermid

  When she emerged, she felt almost normal. Nick had set out a selection of food and she made herself a ciabatta sandwich with hummus, corn salad and sun-dried tomatoes. Armed with food and coffee, they sat on opposite sides of the breakfast bar. There wasn’t anywhere else to eat in the flat; the living room, with its stunning view over Paddington Basin and west London, was only comfortable if you were a guitar. Or a guitarist.

  ‘What’s happening now? Are you still working with the FBI?’

  Nick blew out a stream of coffee-scented air. ‘In theory, yes. But they’re not very impressed with the standard of our intel.’ His smile was wry.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘No, but we’re far enough away to be a useful scapegoat. They’re not sharing much with us except outcomes. So, all the tips to the hotline that don’t pan out – they tell us about those. Active leads, nada.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t have any active leads. Without communication from the kidnappers, they wouldn’t have much to go on.’ Her own words struck cold in her heart. She pushed her sandwich away, no longer hungry.

  ‘I did get a message from Vivian, asking if we could check our databases for the name he flew under. He used the alias William Jacobs, but they don’t have any record of the ID he used to travel. The name doesn’t ring any bells with them or with us. Which means it’s another dead end.’ Nick took a bite of a bagel with peanut butter and cream cheese and chewed so hard she could see the muscles in his jaw working.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Technically, there’s nothing any of us over here can do, unless we’re asked directly for international cooperation.’

  ‘Even though Jimmy’s a British citizen?’ With Nick, Stephanie didn’t have to hold back on letting her indignation show.

  ‘It’s a difficult one. We can offer support, which we have done, but unless they ask us, we can’t interfere in somebody else’s jurisdiction.’

  ‘If it was your case, what would you do?’

  Nick pushed his hair back from his forehead and thought for a moment. ‘I’d go back to the crime itself and strip away all the externals and ask myself what actually happened.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Leave aside all the emotional stuff that a child abduction generates. Disregard everything except the offence itself.’

  ‘I’m still not sure I understand.’

  Nick looked over her head while he figured out how to explain himself. She remembered that one of the things she really liked about him was that he didn’t use his intelligence to browbeat her or make her feel stupid. He wanted to share. Not to dominate. ‘Maybe it’s best if I talk you through the process. What happened here? A child was kidnapped. Was this a spur-of- the-moment crime, an opportunist act?’

  ‘No, obviously not.’ Stephanie resigned herself to the role of doltish sidekick.

  ‘Was it planned, but random? In other words, did the kidnapper know what he planned to do, but not specifically who he was going to target?’

  Stephanie frowned. ‘That’s a more difficult one to answer.’

  ‘But I think we can get to an answer. The middle of the day is far from the busiest time at a major airport. There are fewer travellers, so there’s more chance of our fake TSA guy being spotted by the real thing. Of those fewer travellers, I don’t imagine too many of them are adults travelling with young children. Which means relatively few targets. When you factor in the percentage of those adults likely to set off the metal detector, the number shrinks further. If you were going for a random kid, there are far better choices he could have made. Plus, he flew in from Atlanta. Which, as I understand it, is almost as busy an airport as O’Hare. Why travel to achieve something you could do just as well at the place you started from?’ He chinked his cup against hers, pleased with his demonstration of logic.

  ‘It wasn’t random.’

  ‘And if it wasn’t random, it was specifically targeted at capturing Jimmy or causing you pain. Which we will come back to in a moment. Before that, I need to figure out who knew your travel plans.’

  Stephanie looked startled. ‘Nobody knew the details. I mean, there were people who knew I was going on holiday, and the dates. But not things like times and flight numbers.’

  ‘OK. So who knew you were going away?’

  ‘Maggie, of course. My lawyer, because I had to have the right paperwork for the court to allow me to take Jimmy out of the country. My pub quiz team, my book club.’

  ‘And me,’ Nick reminded her.

  ‘Oh yeah. Obviously, you are in the pay of this gang of international kidnappers.’ Stephanie giggled. ‘It’s all been part of your evil plot, getting me into your bed.’

  ‘Took you long enough to figure that out. But joking apart. Any of those people could have told someone else.’

  ‘But why would you? It’s not likely my pub quiz team are dying to find some dodgy character they can sidle up to and go, “Stephanie Harker’s taking her kid to America a week on Monday,” is it?’

  ‘If you were trying to find an opportunity to kidnap Jimmy, you might well choose to befriend someone in that position. Or you might join the pub quiz with a team of your own.’

  Stephanie sighed. ‘It’s all very far-fetched. And if you wanted Jimmy that badly, why not snatch him here in the UK? I’m sure there must be opportunities in the school playground, or when I’m at the park with him. Why make it so complicated?’

  Nick scratched his chin. ‘That’s an interesting question too. And I don’t have an answer.’

  ‘I might,’ Stephanie said slowly. ‘You don’t really move in the same world I do, so it wouldn’t necessarily occur to you. But most of my clients inhabit a world where they get recognised all the time. In the supermarket. Walking down the street. At the leisure club. If the kidnapper has any kind of public profile, it would make sense to go for Jimmy when he’s out of the UK.’

  Nick grinned. ‘Brilliant! That makes total sense. You’re right, it would have taken me a long time to get that. So let’s keep that in the back of our minds. But just backtracking a moment – how did you organise your travel plans?’

  ‘I booked the flights direct with the airline, I organised the accommodation through an owners’ rental website recommended by Maggie, and the car hire I did on the 24/7 website.’

  ‘Where you gave them details of your incoming flight?’

  ‘Only the one from Chicago.’

  Nick nodded impatiently. ‘But for someone who knows you’re coming from the UK, it’s not hard to work out roughly when you’d be going through security for that onward flight. Have you got an account at 24/7?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve had it for ever. I use it all the time. It’s brilliant for weekend trips. We should do that one of these days.’ She could feel herself blushing. This relationship still felt new enough for it to be novel for her to suggest the kind of activities that went hand in hand with commitment.

  ‘I’d like that. But am I right in thinking pretty much anyone in your circle would know you use them?’

  ‘I suppose. I never gave it much thought.’

  ‘And what’s your password?’

  ‘Dignan97. That was the first ghosting job I did, and the year I did it.’

  ‘And pretty much anyone in your circle could figure that out.’ He bit into his sandwich fiercely.

  A sense of unease made Stephanie uncomfortable. ‘Nobody I know would be involved in this,’ she said.

  ‘You thought Pete might be,’ Nick said through a mouthful of bagel.

  There was a long silence. ‘I don’t make a habit of creating enemies,’ Stephanie said. ‘Apart from Pete, I can’t think of anybody I’ve pissed off in the sort of way that would provoke this kind of response. I mean, when I annoy someone, it’s usually because I’ve said no to a project. And that’s just business,’ she added, upset that Nick could imagine her life as a landscape studded with angry, vengeful people.

  ‘I don’t mean to suggest
that you go around hurting people,’ he said. ‘But there are a lot of fucked-up minds out there. Weirdos who look at the world differently to the rest of us. Who see slights and insults everywhere. It’s not impossible that somebody like that has found their way into the fringes of your life.’

  Stephanie sighed. ‘That’s a horrible thought. I don’t want to start looking at my friends like they’re suspects in a major crime.’

  ‘Nobody does. But somebody did this, Steph. Somebody has taken Jimmy. And I think there’s still every chance we can get him back alive. Here’s another silver lining for you. Because this was targeted and not random, I think it’s very unlikely that Jimmy’s been taken by a paedophile killer. For those people, any kid will do. For whoever took Jimmy, his identity was important.’

  ‘That’s why I wondered about Megan the Stalker. I know you said she’s out of the picture, but there must have been other nutters obsessed with Scarlett that we don’t know about.’

  ‘Which is why I’m interested in people who are relatively new to your circle,’ Nick said. ‘If they saw Jimmy as the continuation of Scarlett, if they saw you as the way to Jimmy, they could have hacked your 24/7 account and found out the details of your trip weeks in advance. Plenty of time to get their ducks in a row.’

  Stephanie got up and refilled her coffee. ‘I hate the very idea of this. That you think someone has wormed their way into our lives just to steal Jimmy away . . . it’s vile, Nick.’

  He couldn’t meet her eyes when she sat down again. She imagined he knew too much about what human beings were capable of, that this plugged into all his worst nightmares. ‘It is vile. Who else besides you would know of anyone who had an unhealthy interest in Scarlett or Jimmy?’

  ‘Marina would be the obvious one. She looked after Jimmy from the start. Scarlett relied on her for everything practical. She was effectively the housekeeper.’ Stephanie absently picked up her sandwich and took a bite. ‘And Leanne, I suppose.’

  Nick frowned. ‘Remind me about Leanne. I don’t think I ever heard the full story.’

  So Stephanie told him. The body double, the loose lips, the exile to Spain, the final argument over Jimmy and the refusal to embrace hypocrisy to come to the funeral. Nick listened attentively. Then he spoke in careful, measured tones. ‘You’re telling me she thought she should have custody of Jimmy?’

  ‘I don’t think she meant it,’ Stephanie said. ‘In that respect, she was like Chrissie and Jade. She saw it as a way to get her hands on Scarlett’s money. She already had the house and the business, but she wanted more. She loved her life in Spain, and having a kid would have seriously cramped her style. Both work and play.’

  ‘All the same, we should check her out. Have you got contact details?’

  Stephanie nodded. ‘I haven’t spoken to her since she stormed back to Spain, but I don’t expect she’s moved. She had the perfect set-up there.’

  Nick looked slightly worried. ‘You didn’t call her when Scarlett died? You didn’t ask her to come to the funeral?’

  ‘It was Simon who spoke to her. I meant to give her a ring, but everything was too chaotic, I never got round to it. I had a Christmas card from her, though. She said she was having a good time and that we should come and visit.’

  Nick nodded slowly. ‘You know what, Steph? I think you and me could really use a weekend break in Spain.’

  She could see the way his mind was working and, though it made her uncomfortable, she couldn’t blame him. Once he met Leanne for himself, he’d see that organising a subtle and complex abduction simply wasn’t her style.

  Of course he would.

  2

  Stepping out of Malaga airport was like walking into a blast furnace. The dry heat almost took Stephanie’s breath away. By the time they got the air conditioning cranked up on the hire car, her dress was sticking to her back and she could see a trickle of sweat running down Nick’s hairline. She wondered whether it was racist to consider that his looks were better suited to Mediterranean sunshine than grey English weather. Whatever. She thought he definitely looked more glamorous in his white linen shirt and cargo shorts, sunglasses pushed back on the top of his head. Whereas she probably just looked hot and bothered.

  Thanks to Google maps, they’d easily planned their route to Leanne’s house in the foothills behind the coastal strip. Nick had reckoned it would take about half an hour. Stephanie, who had spent a while in Spain interviewing a golfer, a retired soap star and a comedian, thought it would probably be nearer an hour, given the Spanish roads and the tourist drivers. At least it would be pretty once they’d cleared the airport and its immediate surroundings.

  The villa Scarlett had bought for Leanne was on a quiet side road in a small township which had clearly grown around an elderly village. A couple of streets of old buildings had been ambushed by brilliant white houses with terracotta roofs. The turquoise glint of swimming pools caught Stephanie’s eye as they neared their destination. It looked like a prosperous settlement, somnolent in the late morning heat.

  The gates of Leanne’s house were open, which didn’t surprise Stephanie. After all, Leanne was running a business from here, albeit there was no sign at the gates to indicate that. Maybe she was trying to avoid the local taxman, working word-of-mouth and cash in hand. They pulled in next to a silver Mercedes A-class. They’d agreed not to phone ahead and put Leanne on her guard, so it was a relief to see signs of life. ‘Must be money in this manicure business,’ Nick said.

  The heat was less oppressive now they were on higher ground, but Stephanie still felt it was better suited to lying on a sunbed than playing at private investigations. Then she thought of Jimmy, ripped out of his old life and facing who knew what terrors, and mentally scolded herself. Whatever the rigours of a hot day in Spain, they faded into insignificance beside the catalogue of loss Jimmy had known. She had an unbidden flash of memory – the delight on his face when, zipped into his first wet suit, he’d swum in the sea off Brighton. He’d splashed through the gentle swell then thrown himself into her arms, giggling in delight. All she wanted was a collection of moments like that. For both of them.

  Spurred on by the thought, she paid proper attention to what she was looking at. The house was cared for, the stucco clean and fresh, the gravel raked and the terracotta pots well stocked with geraniums. Bougainvillea was trained up trellises on either side of the mock-medieval nailed wooden door. ‘Looks like she’s got good help,’ Stephanie said. ‘I can’t see Leanne keeping all this in order.’

  Nick pressed the doorbell and they waited. He was reaching out to push it again when they heard the shuffle of sandals on tile. The door opened to reveal a short, squat man with skin tanned lizard brown. He wore nothing but riotously patterned shorts and flip flops. Where there should have been a six-pack was a taut firkin. A shock of thick white hair protected his head from the sun that had turned the rest of him mahogany. He looked mildly surprised to see them.

  Not as surprised as Stephanie and Nick were to see him. ‘We’re looking for Leanne,’ Stephanie said. ‘This is the right house, isn’t it?’

  The man scratched his head. ‘Right house, wrong year. We bought the house after she moved out and we’ve been here, what . . . nine months?’ His accent was Liverpudlian with the edges scuffed off.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr . . . ?’ Nick pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

  ‘Sullivan. Johnny Sullivan. And you are?’

  Nick showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides, Met Police. And this is Stephanie Harker.’

  ‘I’m not with the police,’ Stephanie said. ‘I’m an old friend of Leanne.’

  ‘Well, like I said, she’s not been here for a long time now. We bought the house, all above board. Never met her, like. It was done through the lawyers.’

  ‘Can we come in, Mr Sullivan? I’d like to ask a couple of questions.’

  Sullivan drew his eyebrows down in a considering frown. ‘I don’t see why not. I’ve got nothing to h
ide.’

  They followed him down a cool hallway and into a big kitchen that looked out over a small kidney-shaped pool. Beyond it was a small building. Sullivan cocked his head towards it. ‘She used to run a nail-bar business out there. According to the wife, she was well thought of among the expat women. Did a good job and she wasn’t dear. She was cousins with that Scarlett lass, the one off Goldfish Bowl that died of cancer. But you’d know that, with her being your mate, like.’ He gestured at the patio with his thumb. ‘In or out?’

  ‘In will be fine, Mr Sullivan.’ Nick stood with his hand pointedly on the back of a chair.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Sullivan said. ‘You want a glass of water? Or a beer? I’ve got the local brew, it’s not bad.’

  They accepted a glass of water each and began the business of extracting information from Johnny Sullivan. He was forthcoming to a fault, apparently holding nothing back. A year ago, he and his wife had been renting an apartment in the village, looking for somewhere to buy. Leanne had taken off one day without warning, causing some annoyance to her customers, who had all forgiven her when they heard her celebrity cousin had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Nobody could argue with that as a reason for cancelling a pedicure.

  What had been more surprising was that Leanne hadn’t come back. Someone had obviously been to the villa to pack up her clothes and personal effects, but they’d been in and out without anybody seeing them. ‘People assumed she’d decided to stop in the UK.’ He shrugged. ‘Some folk get homesick, like. They miss the food and the weather.’

  A few weeks after her departure, the villa had been quietly put on the market. Johnny and his wife heard about it through the network of property lawyers. ‘I won’t lie to you, we pounced on it. The price was fair and it was exactly what we were looking for.’

  ‘You bought it from Leanne herself?’ Nick asked. Stephanie was fascinated to watch him in action. He asked things that wouldn’t have immediately occurred to her, but she could see how important the questions were. They were both expert interrogators, but because they started with different goals, they took very different routes.