The double doors opened and Amy came through alone, her blonde highlighted ringlets framing her wide face with its caramel complexion and her dark, full lips. Her light green eyes scanned the crowd confidently. She had a small rucksack on her shoulder and was dragging a very large sky blue suitcase, which Mercy didn’t recognise and seemed far too big for a weekend away.
Mercy hung back, waited. As Amy reached the end of the channel, a black man stepped out of the crowd. He was around thirty, short dreadlocks, long black leather coat, white scarf. Not, to Mercy’s practiced eye, a criminal. He kissed Amy once on the cheek and took over the suitcase. He gave her a quick hug around the shoulders and let her go. Mercy held up her mobile phone and took a photo of them. They walked together, chatting. It was like seeing an older brother meeting his sister.
They passed Mercy, who gave them twenty yards and fell in behind them. They headed off towards the short term car park and railway station. A surge of people from the station came between Mercy and Amy just at the moment when Amy peeled away from her partner and went down the escalators to the platforms. The guy continued with the suitcase. Mercy stuck with Amy. She already had a return ticket and went down the escalators to see her daughter sitting in the lighted waiting room.
She loitered on the gloomy platform, watching Amy through the window, intrigued to see her daughter as a person out of her normal sphere. Amy was chatting to a couple in their forties. She was at ease. The couple were laughing. It could have been . . . it should have been Charlie and Mercy, but it wasn’t. That rush of failure swept over her once again. She felt drawn to the window as if to a screen she couldn’t stop watching. She came closer and closer until her face was up to the glass. Her daughter continued, oblivious. She was telling a story, making faces, being entertaining. Then she looked up.
The first thing Mercy saw was fear, then anger.
‘Oh fuuuuck,’ said a voice behind her.
Mercy turned to see Karen approaching the waiting room. There was fear in her face, too. Was this all she inspired? Fear? No, no, there was always anger, too.
‘What . . . what . . . are you doing here, Mrs Danquah?’
‘I thought I’d meet you off the plane.’
The waiting room door slammed shut.
‘That’s typical, that’s fucking typical of you,’ said Amy, throwing her fingers out at her mother. ‘You can’t stop playing cops, can you? You have to play the fucking cop with your own daughter now.’
Mercy was momentarily shattered by the change in her daughter. The instant ferocity. And yet, seconds ago, she’d been so dazzling. Where’s the dazzle? Let’s have the dazzle back, girl.
But it was true what Amy had said. There was nothing she could do about it. Detective Inspector Mercy Danquah reasserted herself in moments. You don’t do thirteen years in the Met and let a seventeen-year-old girl put one over on you.
‘If I’d been “playing cops”, I’d have organised a reception committee for you and your smooth friend and had you both arrested on smuggling charges,’ said Mercy. ‘Then where would you be, Amy Boxer? In fact, I might still do that with my photo evidence.’
She held up her mobile with her shot of the two of them on the screen. Amy stared with wide open eyes.
‘You’d better tell me what was in that suitcase.’
Amy couldn’t speak through her anger at being caught so red-handed. The humiliation raged through her. And all in front of her friend, too.
‘It was just cigarettes, Mrs Danquah,’ said Karen quickly. ‘That’s all it was. Promise. Just cigarettes.’
Isabel was cooking the duck rice that she should have done for her lunch party. D’Cruz took Boxer up to a spare room at the top of the house. He dropped his overnight bag on the bed and asked if there was a central room with a phone jack where he could put the recording equipment.
They went back down to the next level where there was a room with a desk, a chair and a single bed. D’Cruz watched from the door while Boxer plugged the recorder into the mains and phone jack. He asked for Isabel’s mobile number, entered it into the computer within the recorder. He also booted up the laptop and tapped Alyshia’s mobile number into the Pavis tracking software. No signal.
The pressure of D’Cruz’s need to question him filled the room. Boxer carried on with his work. D’Cruz crossed the room, looked down into the dark gardens at the front of the development.
‘What’s it like to kill someone?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ asked Boxer. ‘You thinking of doing it?’
‘I don’t have it in me,’ said D’Cruz.
‘An interesting observation.’
‘When I was in the movies I played gangsters who killed people, but I never knew what it was like.’
‘Didn’t the director introduce you to gangsters who had killed people?’
‘Sure, but I could never ask that question,’ said D’Cruz. ‘The situation was never right. You know, there’s an etiquette.’
‘Are you asking me because of what happened to you on the way here?’
‘No. I’m asking you because I can and you’re intelligent enough to give me a reply.’
‘I can only tell you one thing,’ said Boxer, turning to face D’Cruz. ‘That once you’ve killed someone, whatever the circumstances, it takes you out of the world of men. You are forever apart, because you have done the greatest possible damage one human being can do to another.’
They searched each other’s faces for some time. The lamps buzzed in the room.
‘You surprised me when I first saw you,’ said D’Cruz.
‘I found out when I was a homicide detective,’ said Boxer, smiling ironically, ‘that the most successful murderers were the ones who didn’t go around looking like killers.’
‘I only meant that I thought you’d be bigger,’ said D’Cruz.
Boxer grunted a laugh.
‘I used to be bigger,’ he said. ‘I got sick travelling in a remote part of Mongolia after I left homicide. A group of tourists picked me up just in time. I lost a lot of weight and never put it all back on.’
‘What was wrong?’
‘They never found out,’ said Boxer. ‘Do you ever answer questions, Frank?’
‘Not often with the complete truth, I have to admit,’ said D’Cruz. ‘It’s part of my job to keep people guessing.’
‘I’m glad you told me that,’ said Boxer.
‘I won’t lie to you,’ said D’Cruz. ‘Not to the man who’s going to bring back my daughter.’
‘This box here will record all calls to Isabel’s mobile in the house,’ said Boxer, and he handed D’Cruz an attachment. ‘If she goes out and takes a call from the kidnapper, she should hold that to the phone.’
Boxer tested Isabel’s phone to make sure her calls were being recorded.
‘I asked you to think about something while I was out,’ said Boxer. ‘You got anything to tell me yet?’
‘It’s dog eat dog out there,’ said D’Cruz, tapping the window. ‘In Bombay, I mean.’
‘Personal animosity,’ said Boxer. ‘Not business. Someone who would want to take revenge for something you’ve done, or been perceived to have done. Think visceral. This is someone attacking your family. They’ve taken your child.’
D’Cruz shook his head, pursed his lips.
‘Women?’ said Boxer.
‘Women?’
‘I imagine you get a lot of attention from women, Frank.’
‘You think this is the work of a woman?’
‘No, but women can inspire men to extreme behaviour,’ said Boxer. ‘Where do the big human emotions come from? What makes men behave irrationally? Jealousy. Betrayal. Humiliation. If Jordan is serious about not wanting money—’
‘It will come down to money in the end,’ said D’Cruz. ‘You’ll see.’
‘I’m not so sure, which is why I want you to think and, more important, tell.’
D’Cruz blinked at the possibility of his enormous capacity to pay becoming
an insignificant factor. The fear spread out from the whites of his eyes and he turned to face his insubstantial reflection in the window.
7
7.45 P.M., SUNDAY 11TH MARCH 2012
location unknown
‘Tell me about Hackney. Tell me about London Fields,’ said the voice. ‘You could live anywhere in London. Notting Hill, Chelsea . . . no, maybe they’re a bit too grown up for you. What is it about Dalston, Broadway Market? Why’d you want to live there, Alyshia?’
‘What do I get for answering this question?’ she asked.
‘This isn’t a question. This is a conversation. This is us getting to know each other.’
‘You gave me the rules. I’m just playing by them. I answer questions. You give me rewards. Nothing comes for free, you said.’
‘You’re a hard little nut, Alyshia,’ said the voice, without conceding it. ‘Tell me what you want.’
She wanted to see very badly. She couldn’t bear the disorientation of the constant dark. Seeing would give her a sense of power. It would give her possibilities.
‘I want a shower,’ she said.
‘No, a shower is a very expensive item. You need a lot of air miles before you get a shower,’ said the voice. ‘I tell you what. I’ll let you take the sleeping mask off if you talk to me nicely.’
‘I live in Hackney because I want to be an ordinary person. I want to make friends with people who like me for who I am. You probably don’t know what it’s like to be born into wealth.’
‘It must be terribly, terribly hard,’ said the voice, mocking. ‘Probably harder than it is to live in a Mumbai slum with no electricity, no clean water, shit running down the street and rats who don’t knock at the door.’
‘I wouldn’t know. All I know is what it’s like to arrive in a perfectly insulated life. To never have the opportunity to learn from experience, because there’s none available.’
‘So how did you turn out so nice,’ said the voice, aggressive. ‘Where did you get this special insight from?’
‘My mother.’
‘Another very comfortable person from a privileged background. I suppose she made you sit on chairs without cushions?’
‘She let me see over the walls.’
‘Oh, very nice, Alyshia. The prison walls of wealth. Yes, we know how high and thick they are,’ said the voice. ‘You’re not being very persuasive. I’m finding it hard to feel sorry for you.’
‘I don’t remember asking you to feel sorry for me,’ said Alyshia. ‘You asked me why I live in Dalston. I’m telling you it releases me from my family background. When I’m there, I’m not a billionaire’s daughter. It’s a huge relief. I get the same treatment as everybody else. I’m liked, or loathed, for being who I am.’
‘That’s such bullshit,’ said the voice. ‘If you said you lived in Dalston because it’s close to where Duane and Curtis live, I’d be more likely to believe you.’
‘That’s not where I met them.’
‘No, that’s true. You met in the Vibe Bar on Brick Lane.’
‘You’re changing the subject now,’ she said, rattled by the extent to which he’d penetrated her life. ‘If we’re finished with “Why do you live in Dalston?”, you should let me take off the sleeping mask.’
‘I should, but I won’t, because we haven’t.’
‘So your rules are arbitrary.’
‘The rules only apply to you and I apply them. I decide when you’ve given me a strong enough reply. In this case, you haven’t given me the real reason why you want to live in Dalston while your mother lives in a fancy development on Aubrey Walk. Such a relief to get away from that tiresome guy in Edwardes Square. Christ, he fancied your mum something rotten. She wasn’t having any of it. I doubt she’s had any since Chico, has she?’
‘You’re disgusting,’ she started, but there was something else that really shocked her. ‘How do you know that name? My mother’s name for my father?’
‘It’s such a pity your mum couldn’t put up with that over-inquisitive cock of Frank’s, otherwise they’d still be together. I mean Sharmila is incredible, don’t get me wrong, given the choice, but, you know, she’s a bit “No Billionaire Should Be Without One”, isn’t she? Don’t you think? Alyshia? You’re not talking to me.’
‘You’ve done your homework. It’s impressive.’
‘Yes, but there’s only so much you can learn from careful observation and working around your subjects. There comes a time when you have to communicate. You know, get inside. So cut the poor little rich girl crap and tell me the real reason why you moved to Dalston, which, let’s face it, is not known for its brilliant transport links?’
‘I wanted to live in a place where I knew my mother would never go.’
‘But why’s that?’ asked the voice in mock surprise. ‘You love your mother. She’s the one who let you see over the bullshit walls of wealth. If anybody should be able to handle the reality of her daughter’s life, it should be Isabel Marks, shouldn’t it?’
‘She sees things in a certain way.’
‘Things? What are these things?’ asked the voice, digging down deep into the mocking well.
‘She tries to influence me.’
‘Keep going, Alyshia. We’re nearly there.’
‘She tries to matchmake. She’s not so different to an Indian mama. She’s always introducing me to nice guys,’ said Alyshia with some vehemence. ‘Today. What day is it? Sunday? Well, Sunday, I bet you she was going to introduce me to another of her so-called “cool guys”. They’re all writers or TV people, actors or wannabe directors, but none of them, not one of them, feels like a real person with a real life. They’re all the same; they’ve been manufactured by some system. I reckon with a bit of research, you’d probably find they’re all within two people of knowing each other.’
‘She just wants what’s best for her only daughter,’ said the voice. ‘You can remove the sleeping mask now.’
They were sitting around the plain wooden table in the kitchen, eating the duck rice.
‘How will this . . . this event,’ said Isabel. ‘I can’t say the word. I can’t bring myself to say it. Kidnap. There. It sounds so old-fashioned, like highwaymen or press-ganging. How do you think this kidnap will unfold?’
‘The calls you’ve had so far don’t say “express or credit card kidnapping” to me. They’re not looking for a quick cash return for minimal investment. If they were, we’d already be negotiating the money, its delivery, the release and pick-up terms. It would all be over within forty-eight hours.’
‘That would be the case for, say, twenty thousand pounds,’ said D’Cruz. ‘But what if it was for more serious money? I can get twenty thousand in seconds. For millions, I need time. So don’t write off the money demand yet.’
‘Frank is right. For a larger sum, they will have prepared themselves for a longer game,’ said Boxer. ‘Express kidnappers don’t get complicated. They just keep their victim drugged in the back of a van until they get their money. To hold someone for any length of time takes investment and research. You need to investigate your victim, find a safe house, organise transport, hire people, buy equipment, arrange supplies. The kidnappers we are dealing with have shown their considerable reach. They knew when Frank left Mumbai and arrived in London. They’re calm. They come to you with convincing proof of capture.’
‘So how long would this sort of kidnap normally last?’ asked Isabel.
‘Between a week and two months, although, depending on their resources, it could go on indefinitely.’
‘They did mention a figure,’ said Isabel, desperate now. ‘When Jordan was talking theoretically about the “good old Asian haggling”, he said he would start at fifty million and we would come back at twenty thousand and eventually agree at half a million. So what league does that put him in?’
‘Except that he said it wasn’t going to be like that,’ said Boxer. ‘Now they’ve spoken to both of you and given you proof of capture, they’ll make you
sweat for at least a day or two before they come back with any sort of demand. If they’re really looking for a large financial return, it’s also possible that they will try to scare and/or upset you during this time as part of the sweating process. The fact that they’ve said all “discussions” – that was the word they used, wasn’t it, Frank?’
‘Yes, “discussions”.’
‘Not “negotiations”. All discussions will be conducted through Isabel, who’s already experienced a very ugly threat to undermine her equilibrium, means that we should not assume a quick resolution. I also think that they would expect Frank, with all his resources, to bring in some expertise. So they’ll be expecting a consultant to be guiding Isabel.’
‘You mean you won’t be talking to them?’ said D’Cruz.
‘They don’t want to talk to me. They have no leverage over me. They don’t even want to talk to you. That’s why Jordan said he only wants to talk to Isabel, because they can bring emotional pressure to bear more easily on her,’ said Boxer. ‘The way we normally handle this is to have what is known in the business as a Crisis Management Committee, which is a fancy term for a team consisting of family members, loyal friends or possibly a lawyer. The next time Jordan calls, our chosen negotiator will tell him that Isabel’s incapacitated due to emotional stress and he’ll have to talk to x, y or z. This distances him from—’
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