by Mark McKay
There were murmurs of dismay in London. People shifted in their seats. Halloran swore into the phone. There was the sound of more shots from outside, then nothing. Camera Two was out front now, tending to a team member who was down, clutching his leg. Sylvie, who had emerged wearing a tracksuit bottom and nothing else, was nowhere to be seen.
The Special Branch audience was silent.
‘She won’t get far looking like that,’ whispered Simms.
Nick wanted to believe him.
Chapter 18
They held Le Roux in Copenhagen for 24 hours before releasing him into Bonnaire’s custody. Sylvie had vanished, the theory was that she must have had an emergency vehicle stashed away somewhere. The Danes were confident of intercepting her, should she try to leave the country.
Le Roux was put on a plane bound for Paris. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Bonnaire had agreed to hand him over to Special Branch when he’d had first bite, which shouldn’t take too long. After all, Le Roux hadn’t committed a crime on French soil, his only domestic crime was that of being a French citizen who’d committed multiple crimes elsewhere. Bonnaire would nonetheless be keen to know what specifically French related atrocities he might have in mind for the future.
Halloran wouldn’t wait. He contacted Bonnaire once the plane touched down in Paris and told him that Special Branch wanted immediate access. Getting to the bottom of a terrorist operation in England trumped anything the French might have pending. He was coming to Paris and expected full co-operation from the Police Judiciaire. He got his way and took the Eurostar to Paris the following morning, accompanied by someone from MI5.
In the meantime, Nick saw no further reason for keeping the whereabouts of the two golden lions in Japan a secret. He gave Inspector Shah all the details he’d need to start the diplomatic ball rolling. A representative of the Indian government would soon be contacting his Japanese counterpart to demand the return of India’s national treasure, while identifying the billionaire currently in possession of it. Yamada’s lawyers were about to earn their money.
It would have been preferable to keep Le Roux’s arrest out of the press until they knew more about his set up in England, but the incident in Copenhagen hadn’t gone unnoticed. While the identity of the man arrested and the reason for his arrest were as yet unconfirmed, the national press had reported the midnight raid. If Le Roux’s associates read the papers, they’d soon reach the right conclusions.
Nick had considered accompanying Halloran to Paris, but decided against it. For him, this investigation had started with the murder of Simon Wood. He was quite sure Le Roux was the man responsible, even if it was Sylvie who had pulled the trigger. She would be brought to justice in due course and ‘accessory to murder’ had already been added to Le Roux’s charge sheet. Sylvie was the only loose end, but when she was found the case would be closed, barring some technicality. There wasn’t any more he could do on that score.
There was still the small matter of checking out the staff at the two banks. It was naive to think Le Roux would just roll over and reveal how the bombs had been planted and the flash crash executed. Nick had no doubt that eventually they’d extract that information, but that was no reason to procrastinate. The team had checked the backgrounds of the traders interviewed so far, but now Jamie had a new angle on the flash crash.
‘I think you’d have to plug your computer directly into the server that this high speed cable was attached to,’ he said. ‘We should look for a system administrator or a member of the network support team.’
That narrowed it down to around 25 people, across both banks. The next day, Nick took Jamie with him and they worked their way through the list. No one claimed to have noticed anything unusual on the day in question until they interviewed a young woman named Samantha, a database administrator.
‘The marketing database went down that morning,’ she said. ‘I thought the server it’s on must have gone down too, because nothing I did was working. I went into the server room to check. The only other person in there was this tech support guy, named Martin. He said he was replacing a circuit board.’
‘Was that unusual?’ Nick asked.
‘Not really.’ Samantha was a blue-eyed, spiky-haired blonde. ‘I rebooted my server and left. Then a few hours later, just after the market went crazy, I realised I’d left my glasses in there. He was still there when I went back to get them.’
‘Does it take that long to change a circuit board?’
‘No, that’s the thing. Should only take 20 minutes or so. But I didn’t think about it, till now. Anyway, he’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was on contract. He’d been here for two weeks, I think. He called in sick a week ago and I don’t think anyone’s heard from him since.’
Nick checked with Human Resources. Yes, Martin Thurlow, employed on a three month rolling contract. He had references, which had checked out. He lived in St Albans, north of London. Nobody in HR had tried to call him, did he want them to try?
‘Just let me have his address and phone number,’ said Nick. ‘I’ll do it.’
Martin Thurlow didn’t answer his phone. Nick asked the local force at St Albans to drive over. They drew a blank, too. Thurlow’s house was a small detached property down a country lane, quite isolated. He wasn’t at home, so they said they’d try again that evening.
It turned out to be a long day, Nick and Jamie finished interviewing around 7pm. Halloran had been in Paris for two days now and Nick had heard nothing on the state of play there. He’d give Halloran another day, then call him for an update. They decided to go to the nearest pub, find a quiet corner, and review their findings. Nick called Lauren. She had only just arrived back at the flat.
‘I could have met you,’ she said. ‘What time will you be home?’
‘No later than 10. We’ll be sick of talking shop by then. Wait up for me.’
‘I’ll try. I’m tired actually, my feet are killing me. Might be in bed by then.’
It was relatively quiet in the pub at Canary Wharf. Since the bombings the bar trade had dropped off, people were going straight home after work. They found a table and swopped impressions of the day. Martin Thurlow was the only person currently worth following up on. The others needed more thorough background checks, which they’d do back at the station. That could wait till tomorrow, and after a couple of beers they decided to call it a night.
Nick got back to the flat around 11pm. It was dark inside and he made his way quietly to the kitchen, where he turned on the lights. Lauren usually said something to him if she was in bed but still awake, when he came home late. The silence told him she must be fast asleep. He drank a glass of water and then went into the bedroom.
He’d sat down on the bed and removed his shoes and socks before he realised she wasn’t there. He got up and pulled back the covers, as if by doing so she might suddenly materialize, but the bed remained stubbornly empty. Perhaps she’d decided to test drive the serene green nursery by sleeping in the second bedroom. He checked but that was also bare, so he turned on the lights everywhere and began searching for something to explain her absence.
When he saw her handbag on the living room table, he felt a stab of unease. Lauren hardly ever left the house without it. He tried her number and a few seconds later a phone began ringing. It was in the bedroom, on the floor on the far side of the bed. He picked it up and stared at it in a daze for a second, before disconnecting the call. The unease was threatening to become full blown panic now and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths before returning to the living room and casting a long look around. Nothing seemed to be disturbed.
Had there been some medical emergency? Had she been taken to hospital? Maybe she’d driven herself there, but no, the car keys were in their usual place on the kitchen worktop.
‘Shit. Call the hospital,’ he muttered. It took him a few minutes to get on line and find the number of the nearest hospital, a few miles away in Orpington. N
o one by the name of Lauren Hunt had been admitted. He was totally nonplussed about what to do next, she had simply vanished. He remembered what Oyama had said about Yamada’s people coming after him. Were they getting to him by harming Lauren?
He could inform the local police, that was something to do to relieve his growing sense of helplessness. He made the call. If she was wandering the streets in a disoriented state at this time of night, a patrol car might spot her. Otherwise he didn’t have a clue where she might be. It was nearing midnight, now. No point in calling her parents or friends till the morning, so he made another round of the flat, looking for anything out of place. Her work suit was in the wardrobe. The front door hadn’t been forced and the entrance door downstairs looked fine. He couldn’t sleep so settled himself on the sofa, to wait. In a minute, or an hour, he might hear her key in the lock and all would be explained. Only problem with that hypothesis was that her keys were still in her handbag.
He was stretched out on the sofa, half conscious, when he heard it. The sound of a motorcycle coming to a halt outside. He glanced at his watch, it was 4.30am. He sleepily wondered who it might be at this hour. None of the neighbours had a motorcycle. Then he heard the sound of something coming through the mailbox flap downstairs, before the bike revved up and pulled away. The engine had a throaty, powerful growl, which grew ever more distant.
He was up as fast as his tired body allowed and over to the window, but there was nothing to see. He went downstairs and collected a heavy manila envelope from the doormat. It had his name on it in large black marker pen letters, no address. He took it into the kitchen and carefully slit open one end of it with a carving knife, then tipped it gently.
Lauren’s watch fell out. That seemed to be it, until he looked inside and withdrew a photograph. A head shot, of David Le Roux. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He turned it over. On the back was a terse message: ‘Her for him. 72 hours. You will be contacted with further details.’ He felt a sudden give in his legs and then he was sitting on the kitchen floor, his heart pounding. This couldn’t be happening, but it was. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He forced himself to wait a couple of hours before calling Halloran, in Paris.
‘DCI Severance, I’m just finishing breakfast. Couldn’t it wait?’ Halloran sounded tetchy.
‘There’s a problem.’ Nick forced himself to remain calm as he relayed last night’s events. There was a long silence at the other end when he’d finished.
‘Halloran? You there?’
‘Yes, sorry. I wasn’t expecting that. What are you going to do?’
‘It’s you that I need to do something. Has Le Roux told you anything?’
‘Well, he admits to being involved in the flash crash. Also stealing archaeological artefacts and selling them, but not to whom. He doesn’t like the fact that he’s being held on a possible terrorism charge simply because a picture of those artefacts turned up on a computer monitor. Denies everything in that respect.’
‘That’s it? Can’t you put some pressure on him? He practically spelled out the word “terrorist” for Rebecca Slade when he had her in India. If that’s the best you can do, then I’ll get on a train this morning and ask him some questions of my own.’
‘Calm down, Severance. We know what we’re doing.’
Nick took a breath. ‘Look, I don’t believe that Sylvie Dajani turned up in Chislehurst last night and kidnapped Lauren, but I do believe there are people in England who would do that if she asked them to. That’s where I’m at in my thinking. I need to know where those people are.’
‘What did this message say again, about them contacting you?’
‘Just sometime in the next 72 hours.’
‘OK. The gloves were coming off today, in any case. I’ll find out where those people are, one way or another. Stay by the phone.’
He couldn’t face going into the station. He phoned Simms and told him the news.
‘Jesus, Nick. What can I do?’
‘Nothing. I’ll let you know if that changes. Can you help Jamie today? He’s got a list of people for in depth background checks.’
‘OK. Sure you wouldn’t rather be here? Might help take your mind off it.’
‘Not really. Did the St Albans force give you an update on Thurlow?’
‘Yes, they called around again, no joy.’
‘See if he’s got a vehicle registered in his name. We might track him down that way.’
‘Will do.’
Nick couldn’t sit still. He drove out to a secluded spot in Lauren’s VW Golf and spent a few hours walking the Kent countryside. There was nothing he could do to change the situation and he hated being helpless. He could only move and think and wait, and it was driving him mad.
When he got back to the flat he found another manila envelope waiting for him. This time there was a photo of Lauren, printed on A4. She was sitting at a kitchen table somewhere, he could see a fridge behind her and part of a cork board on the wall. The quality wasn’t good, but it was good enough to see that she’d been drugged with something. Her normally animated face was sleepy and the eyes looked dull and distant. They’d put a lock of blonde hair in the envelope too, along with their only demand. Today was Friday. On Sunday evening, Le Roux was to be put on a flight to Baghdad. On confirmation of his safe arrival, Lauren would be released. There was no mention of what would happen if he didn’t arrive.
There was no time to lose. He tried Halloran’s number but he wasn’t answering, so he left a message stressing the urgency of the situation. Then he remembered he was supposed to be training with Oyama on Sunday. He’d better call and cancel.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Oyama when he picked up, before Nick had even spoken.
‘How do you know something’s wrong?’
‘I felt it, when the phone rang. What is it?’
‘Lauren was taken.’ He hadn’t meant to say anything to Oyama, but apart from anything else, Lauren was one of his students. He found himself repeating the story of the last 24 hours before he was even aware of it.
Oyama seemed unperturbed by this sudden outpour. He began asking questions. ‘This is the man who sold Yamada the lions? Tell me everything you can about him, please. Yoshi Mashida will be able to help.’
‘In two days?’ He told Oyama anyway, then the sensei had an update of his own. Apparently, Takashi Yamada had been charged with buying stolen works of art. The works in question had been removed by police and Yamada was under house arrest, charges pending.
‘We thought once you revealed the whereabouts of the lions, this would mean the matter was finished’, said Oyama. ‘I see there is more to it.’
By the time Nick had finished Oyama knew as much as he did about both Sylvie Dajani and David Le Roux. He knew that Mashida had access to resources, but finding Lauren in two days from a standing start must surely be beyond him. He said as much to Oyama.
‘Difficult, certainly. He will find out eventually, of course.’ Oyama had limitless faith in his friend’s abilities, it would seem.
‘I won’t be training with you on Sunday, that’s actually what I called to tell you.’
‘Yes, I understand. If we can’t find Lauren quickly, will you put this Le Roux on the plane to Baghdad?’
‘I see no other option. I just have to convince my colleagues in Paris.’
Halloran didn’t get back to him until late that evening. By then Nick had drunk half a bottle of whisky in an effort to anaesthetise his growing sense of desperation. It hadn’t worked, he still felt stone cold sober and no less anxious. Halloran told him they’d had no success with Le Roux regarding any associates he might have in the United Kingdom. They’d been using sleep deprivation and round the clock interrogation, but the man was stubborn.
‘Put him on Sunday’s plane, then,’ said Nick.
‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid. We don’t trade with terrorists, DCI Severance. You know that.’
It was the answer Nick had
been expecting. He knew there was no conceivable argument he could produce to change Halloran’s mind, so he didn’t prolong the conversation. He encouraged Halloran to keep on at Le Roux and then hung up. Now he knew that unless something changed, and quickly, Lauren was going to die.
Chapter 19
He spent another sleepless night on the sofa. Lauren’s photo had been circulated to police nationwide and it had also appeared on television, via the 10pm news. They hadn’t described her as a kidnap victim, just a missing person. There was a telephone number to call if she was spotted by anyone.
They might get lucky and he knew if there was a lead he’d be told straight away, but his own phone had remained stubbornly silent. He’d spent prolonged periods cradling it and staring at the screen, willing it to ring.
Just before sunrise, he decided he had to do something. His appetite was non-existent, but he managed a coffee and then had a shower. Then he headed for the car. There was no traffic and he was soon on the motorway, going north. An hour and a half later, he took the St Albans exit. He didn’t know if the local police had located Martin Thurlow yet. If so, nobody had bothered to tell him about it. This journey was about following up on the only possible connection to Le Roux in the UK that they had, however tenuous, and it was infinitely preferable to doing nothing at home.
It was a little after 6am when he turned into the country lane leading to Thurlow’s place. One side of the road was farm land and the few houses on the other side were spaced a considerable distance from each other. Certainly a private place to live. Thurlow’s house was the last one before the road took a sharp left turn into a narrower lane, bordered by fields. There was enough space just to pull off the road and park in front of a wooden farm gate. The property was surrounded by a high hedge, and he couldn’t see the house until he opened the gate. It was set well back from the road, through a grove of apple trees.
