He laid the file on his desk. Opening it, he began leafing through the case notes. A minute later, he found the one he was after. He called Emery.
‘Mr Keddie.’
‘I’ve just spoken to Zahra Idris.’
‘And?’
‘She said she’s leaving.’
‘Did you tell her we’d look favourably on her co-operation?’
‘She’s not interested. She said she doesn’t trust the police.’
‘Bollocks.’ There was a pause. ‘Did she say where she was heading?’
‘That’s just it. She said she was going to the last place she felt safe. I’ve just looked through my case notes and found a mention of Amsterdam, where she lived before coming to the UK. She described a kind of community. A mix of East African immigrants and Europeans. She didn’t exactly spell it out, but it was clear some of them worked in the sex trade. She said they looked out for each other – and that she felt safe. Believe me, she’s never used that word to describe the places she’s been since.’
There was a loud exhalation. ‘It’s not enough.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s say she does manage to get to Amsterdam without a passport. The only thing we can do is get a photo and description alert out to Strasbourg, who’ll hand it over to the Dutch Bill. But, like I said, it won’t be enough.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Every year, people with National Insurance numbers, passports, bank accounts, Facebook profiles, jobs, friends and family disappear in the UK and all over Europe. Tracing them is hard enough. Zahra Idris is an immigrant, living below the radar. The only way they’re going to find her is if she turns up for another reason.’
‘So we just let her disappear.’
‘No, Mr Keddie. We continue to look for her. Right now, my colleagues are making enquiries within the capital’s Eritrean community. We are also analysing everything we found at your house. Hoping that your intruder has slipped up, left some trace of DNA. There are numerous lines of enquiry. In the meantime, I strongly urge you to book into that hotel.’
Sam hung up, too irritated to continue the conversation.
It was then that his eyes drifted to the desk.
Numb with shock the previous evening after discovering Eleanor, he hadn’t noticed it. But now he could see a conspicuous gap next to a pile of paperwork. His laptop was missing.
It had been a gift from Eleanor, who couldn’t believe that Sam still wrote up his case notes by hand. But her attempt to change his behaviour had failed. He preferred the way his thoughts emerged and solidified while putting pen to paper. The laptop was only used intermittently – for research or the odd email. And now, like Eleanor, it was gone.
He paused, surprised more by his reaction, than what he’d discovered. The missing laptop should have compounded a sense of violation, rekindled his fear. But the truth was, he didn’t feel violated or frightened. He felt furious. There was a monster on the loose yet the police refused to act on his lead.
He couldn’t sit in a hotel room waiting. He had to do something.
An image halted him in his tracks. Eleanor. He couldn’t walk away, abandon her. But then he heard her voice. Thought of her resolve. That well of strength she seemed to draw on whenever she was tested. She would understand how important it was to do something. Besides, he would check in regularly. And be back soon.
Sam knew what he had to do. He would add one last item to the bag he’d been packing upstairs. Book into the hotel, as expected. Call his clients to cancel their appointments.
Then he’d leave and start searching for Zahra himself.
Emery’s words about crossing the Channel without a passport rang in his ears. But Zahra had already escaped her own country, crossed the Sahara, Mediterranean, Europe and the Channel. Given what she’d achieved, would getting back across be so difficult?
The nearest ferry port for the Netherlands was, if he remembered right, Harwich. And it was entering the UK, not leaving it, that seemed the goal for most illegal immigrants, so would that route be as heavily scrutinised as, say, Calais to Dover? He had no idea. One thing was certain, it would not be simple. But whatever challenges she faced, Zahra was fuelled by fear and a fierce determination – and they’d not let her down yet.
Chapter 17
The Cotswolds
Sir Harry Tapper’s house in the country was a twelve-bedroom rectory set on the crown of a gentle hill amid forty acres. Behind the house, arranged around a manicured vegetable and herb garden, was a set of converted stables which housed a huge games room, indoor pool and gym, and four more bedrooms, each with lavish en-suite bathrooms.
Inside the rectory, the rooms were dressed with expensive furnishings sourced at huge expense by Yvonne’s Notting Hill interior designer. A dull palette of grey wall colours was offset by brighter autumnal hues – Persian rugs, African drapes and kilims, silk lampshades, abstract art.
It was fair to say that none of it spoke to Tapper; none of it seemed a representation of what had led him to this point. There were no paintings of rural Essex or the marketplace in Romford. No studies of life in Ipswich Young Offenders.
But of course the point of this house was to eradicate that life and present a glossy picture of today. Sir Harry and Lady Yvonne Tapper – friends of the great and the good.
Tonight in the games room, in between rounds of pool and darts, the 200 or so friends glugging Bollinger and eating canapés included, among others, a member of the Cabinet, two junior Ministers, an acerbic right-wing broadcaster, a supermodel, a retired Indian fast bowler, a Turner Prize-winning artist, one Hollywood B-lister and a scattering of the local landed gentry.
‘Friends’ was how a newspaper might have described the gathering. But in truth the Tappers’ annual Valentine’s Day party, when high-end food and drink were wittily paired with more down-to-earth games, was an ordeal for Tapper. A time when he charmed and gurned for those gathered, but every moment was a mini hell of maintaining front – the façade of an incredibly wealthy man, a man with a dark past which no one ever mentioned.
Tonight such concerns were the least of his problems. All day he’d been desperate to contact Wallace – a part of him terrified by what he’d discover when they spoke – but a dense schedule of meetings and then preparations for the party had eaten up every minute and ensured he was never alone.
Finally, at 9pm, an opportunity presented itself. He escaped into the kitchen – thanked the chef they’d engaged at huge expense from the local, much-feted gastropub – and stepped through a heavy door outside.
It was bitterly cold, a refreshing change from the warm, perfumed air of the games room. Above him, the night sky presented itself like a vast black cloth glittering with diamonds. A full moon cast defined shadows across the snow-covered fields that dropped away below him.
Tapper’s mobile began vibrating on the hour.
‘Pat.’
Wallace recounted what had happened. As the story slowly unravelled, Tapper began to feel breathless, as if he’d climbed a mountain and the air at the summit were thin.
‘Christ,’ muttered Tapper, when Wallace had finished. As soon as he’d heard about Fitzgerald on the news, he guessed something had happened and the thought had chewed away at his insides all day. But confirmation was something else. He’d set in motion a process that had left a man dead and a woman unconscious.
Wallace’s weakness for violence cast a long shadow over the account. But by sending the man into Keddie’s house, there was always a chance he’d encounter someone. And Fitzgerald had been talking to Idris, hearing the truth directly from the horse’s mouth. At least now the solicitor would not be repeating what he knew.
His pulse accelerated with the realisation that he was already finding ways of rationalising what had happened.
‘I took precautions,’ Wallace said, as if anticipating Tapper’s next thought. ‘I wore gloves at the house, and a hoodie on both occasions. Doubt there were a
ny witnesses to the solicitor’s death. As for Keddie’s girlfriend, she only saw me fleetingly.’
But Tapper could see countless ways in which this might blossom. Some overlooked detail, some trace of Wallace at the crime scenes – a microscopic particle of DNA. Was Wallace’s DNA still held? Course it was, he realised, dread slicing like a blade across his stomach. DNA in adult convictions was never bloody destroyed. And what if the girlfriend was able to describe Wallace when she awoke?
If the police homed in on Wallace, his old cellmate was hardly likely to simply fall on his sword, take one for the team. If it came to that, he’d pay Wallace off royally, help him disappear. Even as the idea came to him, he ridiculed his thinking. What did he know about helping someone disappear?
Bile rose up from Tapper’s stomach as each loaded complication surfaced in his mind. He swallowed hard, remembering another strand to this business.
‘Had a chance to look at their computers?’ he asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘They’ll be password protected.’
‘I’ve got a bit of knowledge in that department. From my burgling days. Cracking them is not as hard as you’d imagine. People are very unimaginative when it comes to passwords.’
Tapper took a deep lungful of the wintry air – so cold, it almost hurt.
‘And what about the police?’
‘From what I hear, they’re looking for Idris in connection with Fitzgerald’s death.’
Tapper’s skin prickled. What if they found her? What if she talked?
‘And the shrink? His laptop’s been nicked and his girlfriend’s taken a beating. He’s going to want answers.’
‘I’m keeping tabs on him. He’s staying up the road from his place at a hotel.’
‘Ring me if there’s any news.’
Tapper hung up. He stared at the landscape before him, processing Wallace’s update. His former cellmate had gone from ex-con forging a new life to murderer in a matter of days. But there’d been no fear in the man’s voice. Which was a comfort. At least Wallace wasn’t panicking. And while Tapper’s heart hammered away in his rib cage, he knew that what Wallace had done paled when compared with what had happened last summer. And the fact was, the two of them were locked into a course of action that could not be derailed, now more than ever. They had to finish the job. If that was bloody possible.
He heard a cough behind him. He stiffened, aware that whoever was there would have heard the whole conversation.
‘Who was that on the phone?
Tapper exhaled.
‘Best you don’t know.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ The man paused. ‘And how are things?’
‘“Things”?’
‘Don’t be so bloody coy, Harry. The death of a solicitor wouldn’t happen to be anything to do with you, would it?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Probably not. But at least reassure me that there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘There’s everything to fucking worry about,’ he hissed, turning to meet the other man’s gaze head on. ‘Our woman is somewhere out there and it’s very unlikely that we’ll ever trace her. She also has an ally, who has every reason to feel pissed off and not a little curious.’
The man’s face visibly paled, as if reflecting the moon’s chalky features. Tapper was almost enjoying this.
‘But looking on the bright side, it’s very cold and she is now all too aware of the threat she faces if she causes any trouble.’
The man took a step back.
‘Christ,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘You did kill the solicitor.’
‘I told you I would act,’ Tapper whispered. ‘You understood. Besides, you’re hardly Mother Teresa.’
Just then the door flung open and Phoebe Eastman, a supermodel whose face had graced the covers of Vogue, Elle and Red, stumbled out, tipsy and pouting.
‘There you are, Harry.’ She looked at the two men. ‘Why the long face, boys?’
The model’s timing was perfect. Tapper was raging and could have punched the other man in the face.
‘Fancy a game of darts, Harry? Romford v Leyton. I’ll fucking cane ya.’
‘Why not?’ Tapper desperately needed a distraction and Phoebe was one of the few guests in attendance that he actually liked. Despite her porcelain skin, pampered hair and haute couture clothes, she was still a foul-mouthed Eastender.
As he and Phoebe walked into the kitchen, he shot the other man a withering, silencing look. The conversation was over. Wallace had his orders. This thing was in motion and they had no choice but to pursue it to the bitter end.
Chapter 18
Stamford Hill, north London
Wallace sat in a battered red Corsa just up the road from the hotel.
He had been driving past Keddie’s house that morning, hoping to spot the elusive shrink, when he saw a police car parked outside. He’d seen the vans in the street in the early hours, the tape stretched across the gate as the snow slowly fell.
Wallace drove by slowly. As he did, he saw Keddie emerge from the front door clutching an overnight bag, accompanied by a policeman. Neither of them looked up at the passing red car.
He parked outside a corner shop. In his rear-view mirror, he saw Keddie get into the police car, and the vehicle accelerate away. Wallace waited till it had gained a little distance, then began to follow. The car ended up at the hotel, which Keddie entered with his bag.
Wallace spent the rest of the day drifting from café to pub to his car, anywhere he could keep tabs on the hotel entrance.
There was only so long he could maintain this kind of scrutiny. And of course there was just him. He’d visited the toilet a handful of times. Moved his car. So he couldn’t be sure that the shrink was even still in the building.
It was 10.30pm. A cab drew up outside the hotel. Wallace, slumped in the driver’s seat, watched the entrance with weary eyes. Seconds later, Keddie emerged and jumped in the car. Wallace sat up straight, drowsiness banished in an instant. Where the fuck was Keddie going?
Wallace started the engine and followed. The cab did a U turn and then hung a right on to the A10, heading north. Wallace put his foot down, keeping a respectable distance.
An hour later, he was on the M11 heading towards Cambridge, the cab a few cars ahead. The banks either side of the motorway were thick with snow.
When the taxi indicated it was exiting, Wallace, who’d been nursing a theory ever since he’d joined the motorway, became certain.
Ten minutes later, Keddie was dropped outside the terminal building at Stansted Airport. Wallace broke into another sweat. He’d had this problem ever since he was a kid but it had become much worse since Iraq. He tried to keep a lid on it with after-shave but in moments like this – when a rapid decision was required under stress – the odour began to get the upper hand.
Wallace watched Keddie enter the building and followed the road to the nearest car park. It was ten minutes before he’d found a space, paid, and was jogging back to the terminal.
Inside, he paused to take in the scene around him. Every seat was taken and people were lying on the floor, heads propped against luggage, while long queues snaked out from check-in and various information desks. The snow, Wallace concluded, had brought the airport to a standstill. Perhaps Keddie wouldn’t be going anywhere after all.
An argument broke out to his right. Wallace turned to see a group of people surrounding a kiosk that belonged to a budget airline. He could hear a man’s voice from within the throng. It was strained, angry: ‘There’s no bloody information. I don’t know whether to stay or head home.’ Then Wallace heard a woman’s voice, calmer, conciliatory: ‘As soon as we know anything sir, we will let you know. But the weather has made everything unpredictable.’
Wallace continued to scan the room, more slowly now. A ‘bing-bong’ sound heralded an announcement. A female voice intoned: ‘Ryanair regret to announce the cancellation of Flight FR4135 to Milan.’ The r
est of the announcement was drowned out in groans and jeers erupting from a far corner of the terminal building.
It was then that Wallace caught a glimpse of Keddie. He was in a short queue by the desk of another airline. Was he buying a ticket?
Wallace found a vending machine and bought himself a can of Coke. He then perched on the edge of a shallow wall bordering a bed of plants. It was narrow and, with his weight pressing down, uncomfortable. He stood, rubbing his buttocks. He was tired, hungry. What the fuck was the shrink up to?
Wallace watched as Keddie handed over his credit card. Minutes later, he was given a piece of paper. Then he was on the move again, walking with purpose across the hall in Wallace’s direction.
Wallace froze, then as quickly calmed down. There was no reason why the shrink would recognise him. Besides, Keddie had veered off and was now joining another queue, this one about twenty people deep, for a check-in desk. Wallace’s eyes followed the queue to its head, noted the flight number at the desk then looked up to the departures board.
At least ten flights had been cancelled and most of the others delayed. Keddie’s flight was among the latter ones. Wallace felt a fresh dampening of sweat at his armpits. The shrink’s flight was scheduled to leave in two hours.
Tapper had asked him to keep an eye on Keddie. Which meant only one thing.
It would take about three-quarters of an hour to get home and pack a bag. He’d make it. But only if he shifted it.
Chapter 19
Amsterdam
The plane touched down just after 4am with a slight skid, prompting a collective gasp from the passengers.
It was a miracle that they’d even taken off. While countless other flights had been cancelled due to the weather, the Amsterdam plane had remained stubbornly delayed. Waiting in the airport, Sam called Susan, Eleanor’s aunt, who told him there was no change in Eleanor’s condition. He explained that he’d be away for a short while but got the impression that Susan was too preoccupied to really take in what he was saying. He dozed fitfully, unable to close his eyes and not see Eleanor or Fitzgerald. Eventually they were called to the departure gate. He watched through a window as ice was blasted from the body of the plane and a path was dug through the snow from the terminal to the steps.
Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2) Page 6
