A loud ping alerted Roper to an email arriving. He glanced at it then sat up as he took in the subject line. Tricia Williams. There was no sender ID. He thought for a moment then opened it. He was confident it wouldn’t contain malware since the senders would be more focussed on delivering a message. The IT team would have had quite different ideas but it was too late; a picture of the missing scientist formed on his screen. Alerted to his sudden intake of breath Hooley walked over and stared at the photograph.
He leaned down as if getting closer to the screen would make him closer to the missing woman. “By sending this directly to you I think they are clearly giving up any pretence that this is about kidnapping for money. They are saying they know exactly who you are and they want you to know they have got Tricia Williams. These people are just playing with us. It’s like they are showing us that they are one step ahead.”
He clenched his hands into fists then forced himself to relax; allowing the red mist to rise would just be a distraction. He glanced at Roper who seemed frozen in place, staring at the picture. The woman was holding a paper showing that day’s headline. She was sitting on a chair and staring straight at the camera. She appeared calm and collected but Hooley thought she must have been terrified. “Do you think there’s any chance we can get useful information from the email?”
“I would be very surprised.” Roper appeared to drag himself away from the image. “I can’t tell anything about the location, she’s in an empty room which could be anywhere. I’ll get Gary Malone to check it over but my guess is that this message has been bounced through servers all over the world. We won’t get any more information about where it came from.”
Hooley was shaking his head.
“This is incredibly frustrating but I suppose it fits with the overall theory that this is all carefully planned to keep us off balance. If we can’t even work out what’s happened to her, or where she is, we have no chance of getting her back.”
Roper looked at his boss. “The fact Tricia is still alive is maybe a bit of good news because it shows they haven’t been able to get what they want straight away. But it still comes back to how long before they do. For all we know they could be murdering her this very minute.”
Hooley couldn’t help shuddering. The feeling reminded him of a favourite phrase of his mothers: ‘someone just walked over my grave.’
He said. “We have to find a way to get back in to this; we can’t have these people treating life and death as some sort of macabre game of one-upmanship.”
“I do have some other news which might help,” said Roper. “It turns out I was wrong about the lab not knowing what she was up to. I spoke to her deputy this morning and she has sent over an outline of what Tricia was working on. It’s pretty complex and it will take me a while before I can understand it, but I’m hoping there will be some clues.”
Hooley was in the mood to jump on anything but knew he needed to remain calm and not heap unfair pressure on to Roper. “That does sound promising. But it’s quite different to what Francis told you. The more we talk about that man the more I fancy getting him
in here for a nice little chat.” He pushed himself up from the edge of Roper’s desk and looked at the time. “You and I could both do with a coffee. I take it you’d like something to eat? While I’m out will you bring Julie up to speed in case she wants to change the plan?”
As he walked out Hooley couldn’t help but wish he had Roper’s astonishing capacity to absorb information. There was an alarming amount of work to get through if they were going to prevent more tragedy. Apart from this new email he needed an update from the rest of the team to see how the other parts of the investigation were going. With two murders, and a kidnap, they were making slow progress. Exhaustive door to door at Eaton Square and Putney had failed to throw up any helpful witnesses. They’d been back at different hours of the day and it was no better.
A mountain of CCTV footage had been accessed and studied, but again it proved of little value. Hooley thought that only Roper seemed to be making progress but even as good as his theories were that’s all they were at the moment, theories. They had no hard evidence pointing them in any direction and sooner or later that was going to become an issue.
He decided to clear his head with a quick walk and pick up lunch. He went to put on his jacket and spotted a copy of that day’s Evening Standard. He recalled the Press team mentioning that the paper was working on some sort of background feature about the inquiry and had promised to leave him a copy. It was always useful to see what the journalists were saying.
The article proved to be a solid piece of work but the reporter clearly couldn’t find any new angle. From the story it looked as though they had tried to speak to the PC’s widow but she had refused. While Hooley could understand her position, part of him wished she had spoken out; it would have generated publicity which might have helped. Sighing at his own cynicism he flicked through the rest of the paper.
“Well, well, well,” he spoke so loudly that even Roper looked up expectantly. He apologised for breaking the younger man’s concentration, and then waved the paper at him.
“That strange case of the solicitor who was murdered a while back. It looks like it might have been the secretary who did it. She killed her mother and then committed suicide leaving a note saying it was the only way she could keep her mother safe. Sounds like things got badly messed up there.”
As the DCI headed off he didn’t notice that Roper had frozen in the characteristic pose that suggested he was thinking furiously; it was the death of the solicitor that was fascinating him but there was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on at the moment. He went back to looking at Tricia Williams’ current work schedule. He’d come back to the solicitor later.
46
Dan Sykes’s Mayfair HQ had an invaluable asset. A huge two-storey basement that stretched out under the garden. With vehicle access using a garage lift, people could be driven inside without being seen. The first floor housed a twenty metre swimming pool, gym, wine cellar and two bedroom suites. The lower level offered climate controlled parking for six large cars as well as what had been described on the plans as storage rooms. In reality these had been turned into individual cells. Each one was very secure and offered basic bathroom facilities.
One of these was currently home to Tricia Williams. In her case Sykes’s instructions left no room for doubt. No harm was to come to her; she was to be made as comfortable as possible and provided with decent food. She was allowed books to read but nothing that gave her access to any form of news; the intention was to make her feel as isolated from the outside world as possible. Ceiling mounted cameras allowed him to monitor her at all times. Intrusive but necessary. He liked being able to see her at all times. He preferred his women in make-up but even though she had none he thought she looked better than her picture had suggested. Her high cheekbones, generous mouth and large green eyes helped.
Now he was standing outside her door, having spent the previous ten minutes watching her on the link in his office. She had spent most of her time making herself comfortable on the bed while she read a book. At one point she had stood-up and stretched her arms, legs and back. Sykes liked the way she was maintaining her cool. People held prisoner could experience extreme emotions ranging from anger to despair. Tricia had maintained a calm and dignified manner.
He hoped she could keep that up. It made no difference to him whether she lived or died but he did think it was important to maintain dignity. She was earning his respect to the point where, if the order was given to terminate her, he would take care of it himself. He felt she had earned that consideration. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. He was alone. She might be fit and strong but she was no match for him. At least in a fight.
Her bed was a metal cot attached to the wall. She had her back propped against the rear wall while she continued to read one of the books he had provided. Her choice of literature had surprised him. She had opted for de
tective stories. He wondered if she was hoping that life would imitate art; that at any moment a rugged hero would charge in to rescue her. She finally looked up.
“So the organ grinder has sent the monkey again. What’s the plan now? You start a comical capering about until I can’t stand it any longer and reveal all?”
Sykes grinned at her. He did like this woman. He said. “I’m just checking you are OK. Your brain is obviously in good working order. After all, my job is to keep you as happy as possible.”
“Letting me go would make me happy,” she shot back.
Sykes spread his hands in a mock display of sorrow.
“If only I could. But as you rightly point out I need to keep the organ grinder happy and he wants you kept here. So I was wondering if there was some small thing I could do. Perhaps you would like to choose your food tonight? The chef is very good and can rustle up anything within reason.”
She made no effort to keep the contempt off her face. “I expect this will come as a surprise to you, but getting kidnapped is doing nothing for my appetite.” She paused and then mimed appearing thoughtful, holding her chin as though deep in thought. Then she pointed at the ceiling camera. “Is that thing live?”
He nodded.
“So presumably you are watching me take showers, even use the loo? I don’t suppose I can get you to stop?”
Sykes shook his head and shrugged. Totally unembarrassed. She gave him a disgusted look and picked her book up again. He stood there for a couple of minutes but she refused to acknowledge him. He decided to break his news to her.
“We may need you to copy some of your lab work for us. My boss will let me know if it needs to be done. He’s sending over the equipment you might need and apparently the other ladies we are holding here will also be useful.”
With that he stepped back and slammed the door shut. For the first time she looked genuinely alarmed. The mention of other women made her go cold. Especially the suggestion that they were what she needed to do her lab work.
Suddenly gripped by a desperate need to do something she threw herself at the door, beating her fists against the cold metal. It was no use. Even if Sykes could hear he wasn’t going to respond. She staggered back to her cot and collapsed weeping, not yet feeling the pain in her damaged hands. She was being held captive. How could this be happening in England in the 21st century?
47
Barely a mile from where Tricia Williams was battling despair, Hooley and Roper were walking towards Buckingham Palace. They had decided to get out for a brief mid-afternoon break. Now they were heading for a small sandwich bar which did superb coffee. It was one of Roper’s favourite places but this time the DCI had almost had to drag him from his desk. Hooley was determined; his sixth sense telling him that events were coming to a head. He might not have a Rainbow Spectrum but he did have a lot of experience. From this point working days would only get longer and they needed to take breaks while they still could.
Once prised from his desk Roper was very talkative. He’d set off at a fast pace but Hooley had gently reeled him in and now he was walking slowly, eyes on the pavement as he spoke. “It looks like Tricia was working on cutting edge research into cell regeneration. It seems to be work that no one else is doing, or at least talking about.”
“Fortunately her notes are very thorough so I am making some sense of it. I think she may have been looking for particular genetic lines to work with, although it’s not clear why. It almost feels like something is missing, or maybe she hasn’t written it down.”
Hooley picked up on the final comment. “Do you think it likely she wouldn’t be keeping a full record? From what you’ve said she is a very conscientious scientist. David Francis may well be holding something back. I don’t think it will be much longer before we have to bring him in.”
Roper suddenly stopped dead, causing the man behind them to swerve to one side. He went off muttering about “bloody muppets.” Hooley watched him walk-away with narrowed eyes.
Roper had missed the whole thing. “His file fits in to most parts of my Rainbow Spectrum. One way or another he is connected in lots of different ways to this investigation. On top of that, we know DF Pharmaceuticals is one of the companies that Sir James took a keen interest in. At first, I was thinking it was because they were working on a cancer cure. Since his wife died he has supported a lot of promising research, especially for anything that might help with breast cancer. But I am starting to think it might be some other reason.”
He shut his eyes and started gently rocking backwards and forwards on his feet. Hooley had seen him do this before, but he couldn’t help feel self-conscious as they were standing in the middle of a busy pavement. He glanced around but no one was looking. A woman in was heading their way, she was holding hands with a young Downs Syndrome boy and as she passed she smiled at the DCI and patted his arm. The gesture was so reassuring he went to say something but she was moving away. He wondered if she thought Roper was his son.
Roper opened his eyes. “The Doctor!”
Hooley was so surprised he said “Dr Who”, but Roper missed the involuntary TV reference.
He said. “I’ve been thinking about what Sir James’ doctor told me when I spoke to him eight days ago. I asked him if Sir James was suffering from any illness at all and he said these exact words ‘nothing that showed up.’
“At the time I took that to mean there was nothing wrong with him. But what if he was saying there was a problem but no one could, or would, be able to tell? And why would he answer in such a way that it could have two meanings? Everything else he said was very precise. I must have been subconsciously worrying about it all along but it has only just come back to me.”
Hooley knew better than to question this line of reasoning. It wouldn’t be the first time Roper had performed this particular conjuring trick. Hooley wished he had a similar ability to pull things from thin air.
He patted Roper on the shoulder. “I think you’re right. Let’s talk to him again and this time we can make it a bit more formal. I’ll contact him and give him the choice of meeting us at his office or come to us.”
Realising from his sudden frown that Roper was taking this extremely seriously he quickly added. “I’ll stress it’s very urgent. Why don’t we try to see him at about 6pm? That gives us the rest of the afternoon.”
He nodded back in the direction they had come. “Much as I hate to turn my back on a great cup of coffee, I think we’d be better off in the office. I need to get hold of your Doctor and you need to try and make sense of what Tricia Williams and David Francis are working on.”
Stepping back into base they passed Mayweather’s door. Hooley glanced in and saw she was on the phone. She spotted him and held up her hand, fingers spread. This was followed by an apparent V for victory sign. He knew what that meant. “You two, my office, five minutes.”
She had only just finished her conversation when they walked in and sat down. “I wanted to let you both know that our little mole hunt has produced something,” she said.
Both men sat up.
“We found that someone in HR has been tapping into your personnel files. In fact it’s not just you two. It looks like he’s been doing this sort of thing for quite a while. His name’s Tim Ross and he lives in Dulwich, South London.
“He’s off today but we have him under surveillance at home and are planning to pull him out in the next hour or so. I’m happy if you would like to go along and have told the team commander you may well be there.”
Roper was clearly enthusiastic but Hooley shook his head.
“That’s fine if you want to go Jonathan, in fact you might well spot something the arrest team miss. But I want to stay here and check on the David Francis surveillance team.”
Mayweather didn’t waste time with any more questions. “In that case you’d better get going Jonathan. I assume you are OK on your own? The arrest is being run from Clapham police station and the man in charge is Chief Inspector David M
oore.”
She watched him head off and then turned back to Hooley. “He will be OK down there?”
“He’ll be fine,” said the DCI. “He’s got a specific task to do and he’ll get on and do it. I imagine he might put a few noses out of joint, but that’s the great thing about Jonathan - a lot of the time he doesn’t notice.”
48
The lights in Tricia Williams’ cell never switched off. They made it impossible to keep track of time. She thought it might have been two days since she had been dumped in here. Her instincts were telling her that she was being held in the centre of London; something about the traffic noises on the journey to this place had convinced her this was the case.
She was being tormented by recollections of what had happened. The man had appeared in her bathroom as if out of thin air, holding a large knife. She had no idea how he had crept up on her and the fear had stripped her of the ability to react, not even able to scream. The man had stared at her nakedness and then smirked before ordering her to get dressed.
As he led her out of the house she kept telling herself to run but it was as though he had her under a spell. He had parked close by and roughly shoved her on to the back seat. She had known her last chance of escape would end when the door slammed shut. Her captor had produced that unpleasant smirk again, he had known it too. He produced a cable tie which he used to bind her hands together. The plastic biting painfully into her flesh. Then he had placed a bag over her head. It had smelled rank, like stale body odour. She wondered if he had grabbed other women.
He briefly lifted the bag and pointed at the heavily tinted rear windows before pressing his lips close to her ear making her stomach churn. He had held her tight to stop her pulling away as he whispered “no one will be able to see you sitting there so do yourself a favour and sit nice and quiet.”
Going Underground (Jonathan Roper Investigates Book 1) Page 15
