He was still laughing as she disconnected the call. It was hard not to smile. Graham was the closest thing she had to a father these days, and he always knew how to put her at ease. The firm wouldn’t be the same with him gone.
She leant against the wooden fence that ran around the veranda, as she nibbled on the croissants and drank her juice. Once she’d finished, she carried the basket and glass through to the dining room.
The hotel owner burst through the door frantically. ‘Thank goodness. There you are. You need to come with me, quickly.’ He hurried back out of the room towards reception. Becky followed him, uncertain what could have troubled him so much. She didn’t have to wait long to find out. As she reached the reception desk, she could see Julia standing just outside of the hotel. She was surrounded by a wall of flashing light.
Becky couldn’t leave her there, and pushed through the doors, to a fresh flurry of flashes. Her name was being shouted, but it was hard to distinguish what was being asked or who was asking it. The press had pushed through the invisible barrier and were now spread throughout the small car park. They were hustling for pictures and the best angles for video. A dozen microphones were being pointed in their direction.
Becky leaned close to Julia and whispered. ‘What’s going on? Why are you out here?’
Julia passed her phone over, and pressed play. ‘Someone posted this on YouTube. It’s all over the internet.’
Becky watched the footage of the two of them in the hypermarket as Noah wandered off and was then led away by the man in the baseball cap.
‘They’re accusing me of neglect,’ Julia continued, before turning back to the cameras and shouting. ‘It wasn’t my fault! I love my son. I just want him back.’
More flashes, more questions, and more accusations followed.
Julia sobbed. ‘I love my son! I only looked away for a moment. None of this is my fault.’
Becky pulled her close and led her back into the hotel, and back up to their room. Durand had said the press conference would be a good idea, to raise awareness, but so far it had proved an unwelcome intrusion. Someone had leaked the security footage, but only time would tell if it would be a help or hindrance.
NINETEEN
He lowers the binoculars, and looks out at the wet and grey horizon. He’s never liked London. He doesn’t understand why so many people flock to the city. London is everything that’s wrong with capitalism: faceless drones march to and from work, ready to sacrifice their fellow man for a seat on the rush-hour tube. Every corner of the city has a sandwich shop or café for those who find it impossible to take their time to appreciate what they’re eating. And where there isn’t a fast-food joint, there’s a franchised grocery store termed ‘Local’, but is anything but.
The rooftop he is stretched out on is damp from last night’s downpour. He wouldn’t be here by choice, but his freewill was stolen a long time ago. He checks his watch. It is nearly time. He raises the binoculars again. The telecommunications van has been parked in the same spot since five o’clock this morning.
Do they really think it’s that easy?
He knows why they’re there, and it certainly isn’t to repair the adjacent junction box. He has counted two faces in the van, but he’s sure there must be a third one in the back. They might as well paint the words ‘Security Services’ on the side of the van.
Their target, a Pakistani by the name Hesbani lives in the high-rise tower at the end of the road the van is parked on. He has been under surveillance for more than two years, but only by the boys from Thames House in the last six months. They know that something is being planned, but they have no idea what.
The men in the telecoms van know Hesbani’s routine, and so does he. To the untrained eye, today will be no different. He watches the flat door open and Hesbani heads along the corridor to the lifts where he waits for the car to arrive and steps out of the tower minutes later. He watches the spook tailing Hesbani, obviously chosen due to his ability to fit in with those from the area. Hesbani is maintaining a steady pace about a hundred or so yards ahead of the agent in the leather jacket. Hesbani turns left at the end of the road, and slightly increases his pace. He crosses the road, and enters the newsagents. The Security Service has tried to put a camera in the newsagents without success, so they have a second agent stationed at the rear of the property, in case Hesbani tries to escape out of the back.
He leaves his vantage point on the roof, and climbs down the ladder, and is relieved to feel solid ground beneath his feet. He walks casually around the side of the building, avoiding the telecoms van, which will be replaced by a gas company van tomorrow. He waits at the bus stop until he sees Hesbani leave the newsagents and make the journey back to the flat. The man in the leather jacket heads in the opposite direction, whilst a new agent picks up the tail.
He waits five minutes and then puts his phone to his ear, as if he is taking a call. He walks from the bus stop towards the newsagents, keeping his eyes open, looking for a tail of his own. He walks past the newsagents and heads into the library next door.
The woman behind the desk welcomes him and asks if there is anything in particular he would like to see. He tells her he is here to look at council planning applications. She tells him they are all stored digitally on a computer terminal, and asks him to follow her, which he does. She takes him to a set of stairs, which lead to the basement. She tells him to head to the bottom and then take the second door on the right. He checks she means right and not left, and she nods.
He descends to the bottom. The second door on the right is locked. He knocks six times as he was advised to do. There is silence for exactly four minutes, before the door is unlocked, and he is allowed to enter. The thin man who has opened the door is Nigerian and demands to see his identification. He pulls out the five thousand Rupee note he was given and lays it flat on the computer desk. It isn’t even worth forty pounds, but in here the message scrawled on it is priceless. The Nigerian examines the note, before handing it back. He smiles and then ushers him back against the wall. The Nigerian moves to the corner of the room and lifts the edge of the carpet, revealing a hidden trapdoor. He stamps his foot on the trapdoor three times and it begins to open. This cell must be the most paranoid in London, but that is what makes them so effective.
Hesbani crawls through the trapdoor and offers his hand. ‘You have travelled a long way, my friend. How are you acclimatising to the British weather?’
The figure shakes the hand. ‘You forget I was born here originally. I can put up with the rain.’
‘I will never get used to it. I would swap this drizzle for Islamabad any day. Would you like some tea?’
He nods. ‘Your body double looks just like you. Where did you find him?’
‘You’d be surprised what willing men are prepared to do for our cause. There was no shortage of volunteers. The plastic surgery wasn’t cheap, but it is worth it for the freedom it buys.’
He surveys the room. ‘Not exactly what I’d call freedom.’
‘I am off the grid: nobody knows I am here. As far as the world and my wife are concerned, I am back at my flat reading the newspaper. Here I am a King. Through the internet I have access to the whole world.’
‘I’m amazed the Security Services haven’t figured out there is a small tunnel running from the newsagents next door.’
Hesbani smiles. ‘The British are too polite for their own good. They know I know they are tailing me, but they still try to make it less obvious. If they walked into the newsagents with me, I wouldn’t be able to disappear to the stockroom and the tunnel. They wouldn’t see my double enter the shop in my place. It only takes ten seconds for the switch to be made, but even when they do think to send in an agent to watch me buy the newspaper, he is at least fifteen seconds behind. I find it all rather amusing.’
‘And when will you switch back?’
‘Tonight, when he returns for more cigarettes. We limit the switches to one day a week, unless there is reas
on to meet someone special, as in your case, my friend.’
He finishes his tea. ‘We should get down to business. Where is the package now?’
TWENTY
Becky furrowed her brow. She re-read the text message Antoine had sent: I need to see you NOW! Just you. Meet me in reception.
Julia had been glued to the hotel room’s small television since they’d returned from Julia’s angry confrontation with the horde of reporters on the doorstep. SKY News were providing updates on the story every thirty minutes, and even though there was no new information filtering through, it meant the story would stay fresh in everyone’s minds. It was scant consolation.
Becky excused herself, saying she was going to call Caleb, grabbed her handbag and headed down to the lobby. Antoine and his out-of-control eyebrows looked frantic as she approached.
‘Antoine, what is it? What’s wrong?’
He smiled momentarily, before grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the front doors.
‘Wait, where are we going? What’s this all about?’
‘Please, I will tell you in the car. You must come with me.’
She stopped protesting and allowed him to pull her through the doors, away from the flashing cameras, to the Clio. He started the engine immediately and pulled out of the hotel, before turning to speak. She could now see his forehead was dripping with sweat.
‘Antoine, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘I was called by my brother Étienne. You remember him? He is part of Durand’s team.’
‘Of course I remember.’
‘He said they arrested a known…uh, sex criminal? Is that the expression?’
‘You mean like a prostitute? A sex worker?’
‘Non, a man who has sex with children.’
‘A paedophile? A sex offender?’
‘Oui, oui, a sex offender. That is it. They questioned him this morning about Noah and -’
‘Did he take him?’
‘Non, non, but he told them about a place where maybe the boy is being held. The offender told them about a hotel near Boulogne-sur-Mer, where they hold people before transporting them abroad. There is an airfield nearby where they fly sex workers to the Middle East, and Eastern Europe.’
‘And he thinks Noah is there?’
‘This is what my brother said. Durand is going to raid the building and arrest the people inside. Étienne told Durand he should inform you and your friend about the raid, but Durand wants the credit for himself, and said you were not to be told. My brother told me, so that I could tell you.’
‘Wait, so that’s where we’re heading now?’
‘Oui, it is about half an hour from here. We should arrive as they are about to enter the building. I thought that if the boy is inside, he will be scared and want to see a familiar face straight away.’
‘We should have brought Julia. If she finds out she could have found him now, she’ll be distraught.’
‘I understand, but also, there is a chance that the boy will not be there. I did not want to get her hopes up for no reason. If the boy is there, you can take him back to her. If he is not, she will not be as upset. Tu comprends? You understand?’
She couldn’t disagree with his logic, but she wondered how much trouble Antoine and his brother might get into for telling her about the planned raid. It was frustrating to learn that Durand had not advised them that he might know where Noah is. It was probably as Antoine had said: he didn’t want to get their hopes up unnecessarily, but even so, they had a right to know.
She looked at Antoine’s focused face as he drove them south along the A16 autoroute. They had been certain that Noah had been transported thirty minutes east of Calais to Dunkirk. Yet it was equally plausible that Noah had been moved to an alternative vehicle immediately after the van had pulled out of the Cité Europe car park. That would have meant he was already in Boulogne when the van was seen arriving at Dunkirk. It was just coming up to eleven o’clock. It was nearly forty-eight hours since he’d been led from the hypermarket; even if he had been taken to Boulogne, there was no guarantee he would still be there now. She was a perfect balance of excitement and terror.
They left the autoroute at junction thirty-two, and followed the green signs to Boulogne-sur-Mer. Becky could remember visiting the city as part of a secondary school trip. The city sits on the cusp of the English Channel and is one of France’s largest fishing ports. The morning’s rain had passed, and the sun was shining high in the sky above them. The gauge on the dashboard said it was twenty-four degrees outside. She could remember the school teacher dragging them around each museum in the city and then forcing them to eat herring at lunchtime. Becky, like most of her classmates, had left the herring and eaten the chips. She smiled at the memory, before recalling the more sinister reason for her return.
Antoine passed her a small roadmap. ‘We are looking for this road.’ He pointed a finger at a black ink blob on the page. ‘Can you direct me?’
She scanned the page and quickly identified where they were, and directed him the remaining five minutes of their journey. They arrived in the Saint-Pierre area of the city, where the city’s fishermen had resided prior to its bombing in World War Two. The area had been rebuilt, and was now residential.
Becky’s heart was racing as Antoine pulled up at the side of the road. About a hundred yards ahead of them, across a large green field, they could see a dozen police vehicles gathered near a large detached building, which resembled a hotel.
Antoine killed the engine. ‘We should probably wait here until they have stormed the building.’
Becky unfastened her seatbelt. ‘I’m sorry, Antoine, but I can’t just sit here. I need to know what’s happening. You can wait here, but I’m going up there.’
She was out of the car before he could argue. She stomped across the road to the field, and didn’t reduce her pace until she saw an agent in blue approaching her. He shouted to her in French.
She smiled at him. ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’
He shook his head.
‘I want to see Louis Durand. Où est le juge d’instruction?’
The agent must have recognised her face from the press conference, as he lifted the cordon and led her to an open van.
Durand was livid. ‘Mademoiselle Townsend, what are you doing here? This is a police operation. You should not be here.’
‘It doesn’t matter why I am here, just that I am. Have you found Noah?’
‘My men are about to enter. Please stay out of the way.’ He put the radio to his lips and gave the order.
Over Durand’s shoulder, Becky could see a small monitor in the van. It had to be linked to a body camera on one of the agents storming the building. She stepped to the side and watched as the door to the hotel was broken down and the officers charged in with their weapons raised.
TWENTY-ONE
The agents crashed through the door of the hotel. Two foreign men appeared immediately in front of the camera, one with a beard, the other looking terrified. They reached for their weapons and fired in the direction of the advancing army. The sound of gunfire echoed around the building. As the smoke on the screen dissipated, the two men were down on the floor. More gunfire cracked overhead, as the agent with the body camera raced up the stairs directly in front of him.
At the top of the stairs was a corridor with a dozen or so doors left and right. Screams could be heard from the other side of the doors. He ran to the end of the corridor and kicked in the door. Inside, a topless woman was shrieking hysterically. The naked man on the bed, reached down and covered his erect penis with his hands. The expression on his face was one of resignation: there was no way to avoid scandal now.
The agent cuffed the man and the woman, and closed the door before kicking in the next one. There was just a woman in this one. She was tied to the bed, a thin sheet covering her gaunt frame. Her tearful eyes didn’t know whether he was an angel of death or salvation. The agent secured the room, before radio
ing his findings to Durand.
The women discovered in the next three rooms were barely alive: pupils dilated, track marks on their arms, white stains crusted around their mouths. The contents of Becky’s stomach turned. She forced herself not to look away.
The radio crackled again, and suddenly the image on the screen was bouncing back along the corridor.
Becky looked at Durand. ‘What’s going on? What did he say?’
Durand’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.
‘What did he say? Where is he going?’
The agent tore down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Gunshots echoed nearby. The image froze as the agent crouched in position.
A second agent appeared on the screen, walking past the crouching man; in his hands a young, thin girl, wrapped in a blanket. He carried the child from the house.
Becky stared wide-eyed at Durand. She wanted to scream at him for keeping the raid a secret, but when she saw the tears in his eyes, she couldn’t speak; his gaze transfixed on the monitor.
The agent was back on his feet, his arms extended, and the tip of the weapon just in view. He proceeded past four secured doors, until he reached the end of the corridor, where it bent to the left. Two agents were crouched against the edge of the wall, aiming their weapons at whatever was at the far side of the bend. The agent glanced briefly around the corner, but the camera continued facing the wall.
Durand’s radio crackled. All Becky recognised was the word “enfant”. Whatever or whoever was at the end of the second corridor, there was a child there too. Becky’s heart raced. Noah could be seconds away, but she was powerless to get to him. She wiped a tear from her cheek, as she willed the agent with the camera to engage with whoever was holding him.
Two holes appeared in the wall behind the agents as the sound of gunshots erupted once more. That’s why the agents were staying low: whoever held the child, also had a weapon. They couldn’t risk the child’s safety.
Then He Was Gone Page 8
