Langton was standing by the patrol car, smoking; he turned as she approached. “You get anything from her?”
“Nope. I don’t think she does know.”
“She made out that Damien was in the clear,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette on the ground.
“Yes, well, I told you that.”
Langton gave instructions to drive back to the station; again he constantly used his phone to answer and send messages. “Still no sighting, and we’ve no way of tracing where all that cash came from, as Rushton’s dead along with Julia. If it came from her we’ll never know,” he muttered.
Anna remained silent, going over the entire interview with Honour, then she leaned forward and tapped Langton’s shoulder. “Where are the children?”
“Safe house, still with the same au pair and a family liaison officer, plus security. In fact, we’re going to have to sort them out, as it’s costing the budget. Why do you ask?”
“Wherever Fitzpatrick is going, I doubt if he’ll ever make it back here to the UK.”
“So?”
“Well, he sorts out money for his mother, tells Honour it’s for his kids and for her to get a decent lawyer; he takes a big risk going to the prison …”
“He thrives on risks! Look at the way he came into the station. I think he’s kind of crazy …”
“Yes, maybe, but it also shows the other side of the monster we rate him as. Do you think it’s possible he might try to see his children?”
Langton began texting to the station for them to check out the safe house. By the time they were back in the incident room, Phil had already contacted the safe house. There had been no phone calls; the children were well cared for; the Chinese au pair was still in residence. The family liaison officer was still there and a second uniformed officer had been posted; the only contact they had had was a query from the au pair about her wages.
Langton suddenly flagged, tired out, and suggested that Anna take off home as well. In the meantime, the night-duty staff would be on call if there was any sighting of Fitzpatrick. They were instructed to contact Langton if they received any news.
Anna had poured herself a very tepid, stale cup of coffee, and was sitting on the edge of a desk talking to Phil, when the place lit up.
In a flurry of calls, they had three separate sightings of a man fitting
the description of Alexander Fitzpatrick. A man had been seen at Pad-dington Station heading for the Heathrow Express. The train moved out four minutes later. A man had also been seen boarding the Eurostar train at St. Pancras. A third man was being held by Gatwick security guards; he admitted that he was Alexander Fitzpatrick.
The latter they were able to dismiss quickly, as he was only five foot four. The second proved to also be a mistake, but they had not, as yet, got any further details on the Heathrow Express sighting. However, the airport security guards were waiting.
Phil was red-eyed from tiredness. Anna offered to stay on, but he said he would keep going and suggested that she go home, so at least one of them would be fresh for the next day.
As she walked through the station, Anna hesitated, passing the stairs that led down to the cells; she told herself to keep on walking out but something made her turn back and head down.
There were four old-fashioned holding cells, only two of which were occupied; one by a very drunk and morose teenager, the other by Damien Nolan.
The night-duty officer looked surprised to see her; he was sitting at his post, reading the evening paper.
“Everything okay?” Anna asked.
“Yeah, well, the drunk kid is a pain in the arse, cleaning up after him puking; he’s made the place stink.”
“And Mr. Nolan?”
“He was reading—I let him have a book from the ones we get left lying around. Seems a very nice bloke.”
“Has he eaten?”
“Yes, sausage and chips and a cup of tea.”
Anna looked at the closed cell door and then asked for it to be opened.
Damien was lying on the bunk bed reading, even though there was only a dim ceiling light on. He put the book aside and smiled. “I would never have believed it—Barbara Cartland!”
Anna laughed, although she felt very uncomfortable, even more so when he stood up and put his hand out to shake hers. She told him to
sit down. “I went to see Honour this evening, to take the holdall with her clothes and wash bag.”
“Thank you. Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine.”
“Do you think you could get me some writing paper and a pen? I’d like to get a letter to her.”
“Sorry—but your solicitor will be here first thing.”
He sat farther back on the bunk bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was wearing the same clothes she had last seen him in.
“Did she know where Alex had run off to?”
“No.”
“Well, I hope you find him. It’s about time he paid for all the trouble he has caused.”
“Bit more than trouble,” she said, hovering at the door, wanting to go but wanting to say more.
“Thank you for coming to see me. I take it, I hope correctly, that you believe me about the money and passport.”
“Yes, I believe you.”
“Good.”
She changed the subject. “Do you think your brother cares for the children?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head, bemused.
“Maybe he never really cared for anyone,” she said quietly.
“He did, but circumstances were always hard for him. I know he loved Honour, as much as he could love anyone.”
“What about Julia?”
“Same applies—but neither woman could ever be more important than number one.”
Anna wondered if she should tell him that Fitzpatrick had visited Honour, but she decided against it. “Good night.”
“I meant what I said to you at the farmhouse,” Damien told her. “When this is all over, I’d really like to see you. Would you mind if I called you?”
She flushed and turned away from him. “Good night,” she repeated, and left.
Anna felt uneasy as she walked to her car. She knew she should not have visited Damien, but she found him a very attractive man. It wasn’t like her friendship with Pete, or even Langton; in fact, Langton had already become part of her past. This was something else: an unexplained emotion that she was not able to deal with, but it still sat inside her. She wanted to know him better, but realized it was not only unethical, but also unprofessional.
She drove home and, without any hitches with her garage door, without any food in her fridge, without really wanting to be at home alone, went to bed. It was just after four in the morning when she was woken by her phone ringing.
She was disorientated for a moment, as she had been so deeply asleep. It was Langton: they had a firm sighting of Alexander Fitzpatrick, following through on the Heathrow Express sighting. The security forces at the airport had been put on alert, monitoring everyone alighting from the trains. When he was not recognized, they were about to call it off, but had then spotted a man fitting his description caught on CCTV cameras, heading from the short-stay car park into the airport at Terminal 3. They had alerted all terminals to check for anyone using the name Damien Nolan; as yet, he had not been traced, but could have already got a ticket via an online booking, so they were upping the security checks made at the various gates.
By the time Anna joined Langton at Heathrow, three hours had passed. He was depressed and annoyed that they still did not have him. Anna asked to see the CCTV footage; although it was not in good condition, and very fuzzy, she agreed that the man seen heading from the car park among a group of backpackers was Fitzpatrick. Two of the backpackers had been tracked down and, when shown the photograph, said that the man could have been him—but were not 100 percent sure.
It was frustrating, and not helped by Langton’s irritation. “He’s in the fuck
ing airport!” he kept on muttering.
Anna, along with two security guards, sat in the office, surveying the screens covering all the terminals, the baggage claim, and the entry gates to the flights. There were so many passengers milling around, and
they still had no verification as to which flight he could be taking. All they could do was wait as the checks continued.
“He’s bloody hard to miss, at six feet four. It doesn’t make sense; if he was coming here to get on a flight, he has to have a ticket or they won’t let him through the barrier.”
Anna accepted some coffee, still watching the CCTV footage, and then she exclaimed, “There he is—camera four! He’s by the escalator. It’s him!”
Langton leaned forward as the security guards used radio contact to warn the officers on the floor.
“He’s heading down the escalator,” she said, standing up.
“Where does it go?” snapped Langton.
“Out to the tube station, and level one; he could also take the lift down to the car park.”
“Let’s go!”
By the time they reached the escalator, there were uniformed officers and airport security everywhere; they had already checked the floor below, but had no luck. They were now spreading out back inside the car park at levels one and two; they were even heading back up the escalator, in case he had turned around.
Langton was getting into a real temper. Fitzpatrick could, he said, have bought a ticket online at any one of the booths. Anna disagreed: he would have to have a credit card in the name of the passport holder, Damien Nolan—-he would not be allowed on the plane with different names on his passport and ticket.
“Of course he could! If I wanted to buy a ticket for you, I could pay on my credit card or in cash and give your name as the passenger.”
“Then the computers will give us the details. If he’s on any flight leaving, they’ll pick him up.”
But they had no verification of any passenger using a passport in the name of Damien Nolan. By the time they had hurried from one end of the airport to the other, used the escalators, and even checked out the short-stay car park, the pair of them were not only exhausted, but
beginning to think they had lost him. Anna had even listed the entire catalog of aliases known to have been used by Fitzpatrick, but they had not come up on any computer.
They eventually made their way back to the security section, and stood in the darkened room, glancing from one screen to another.
“You’re sure it was him?” Langton said quietly.
“Well, I can’t be one hundred percent sure. It looked like him—the right height; draped coat …”
“Christ, you’re now saying you’re not sure?”
“Yes! All I said was I thought it was him—but why would he be going down the escalator, back to his car?”
Anna moved away from Langton and asked for one of the officers to replay the section again. She waited for him to get the right tape and scroll it through. It had now been over an hour, and no result.
“Stop there—back a fraction.” She watched the man she had said was Fitzpatrick; her heart was beating rapidly as she stared at the screen. Slowly walking into frame, but with his back to camera was the man: he carried one small holdall and, under his left arm, what looked like a folder. “Freeze it there.”
Anna leaned closer, asking if they could enlarge the section with the folder. It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few seconds, as gradually the area she wanted to see was magnified. His arm mostly covered the folder.
“Can you make out anything?”
The officer stared at the screen; both he and Anna had their heads bent sideways to try to read the few words visible.
“It’s a navigation file. I can see the logo: air traffic control,” the officer said.
Anna, trying to keep her voice steady, asked if the private sector had an office within the terminal.
“They have to get permission from this terminal if they are using a private plane, but that airstrip is on the other side of the main runways. We can contact them to halt any plane leaving.”
Anna told him to get onto it straightaway, and grabbed Langton’s
arm. “He’s heading for the private airstrip. He’d need a car to drive there.”
Within seconds, they had confirmation that an Anthony Collingwood had been given permission to fly out from the airstrip where the private planes were housed in hangars. They were driven in one of the airports passenger cars, used for transporting the elderly or disabled to the gates. It was frustrating that it could only go at five miles per hour, but they had a blue light flashing to clear their way to the main exit.
The patrol car was already in position and, with sirens blasting, they headed out to the private sector. They could see in the distance the small planes lined up; one was already taxiing down the airstrip as the fuel tanker moved away.
Langton was beside himself, shouting at the driver to go faster, but they had to maneuver around the lines of traffic pulling up to drop passengers off at departures and arrivals. Anna hung on in the backseat as the patrol car swerved and, with tires screeching, drove out of the main exit gates from Terminal 3. They made up some time by using a road blocked off for repairs and smacked through a barrier to get onto the slip road leading to the hangars.
Langton was using the radio microphone to instruct the air traffic controllers to halt the plane that they could see moving slowly down the airstrip, and turning into position, ready to head onto the runway. The sound was very distorted by the roar of overhead flights and their car siren. Langton was shouting instructions, asking if they had information on the plane and pilot. He was so stressed out, Anna thought he would have a heart attack. It was reported back that there was no passenger fitting the description.
“He’s fucking flying the thing himself! Did anyone, anyone, get information that the bastard had a pilot’s license? Jesus wept!”
By the time they entered the airfield, there were numerous security officials running around like headless chickens but they could only watch helplessly as the plane continued to taxi toward the runway, ready for takeoff. Anna was trying to listen to an official on her mobile, but again it was hardly audible.
“Keep driving—get onto the airfield!” Langton instructed, and the driver, with his accelerator foot pressed to the floor, sirens screaming, chased the twin-engine Piper plane.
The patrol car was catching up as the plane completed its curved journey onto the straight airstrip ready for takeoff.
“Keep going! Try and cut across him!” Langton shouted. He still had the car radio and it crackled as the distorted voice fed details of the flight’s destination: Spain.
Anna couldn’t make out what they were saying to her, and kept on asking them to speak up, but they now had the plane literally within a hundred yards ahead of them and they could hear the engines revving up. Langton again said to drive across the nose of the plane to force it to stop, when Anna eventually heard what they were telling her from the control tower: there were two young children on board.
“No, no! Don’t cut across the plane, he’s got the children on board!”
They were so close they could see the small faces at the window. Their patrol-car driver slammed on the brakes; Langton shouted for him to keep going. Anna screamed that it was too much of a risk and instructed the driver to stop the car. He did so with a hideous protest from the brakes. Then it was all over: the plane roared down the runway and lifted off.
They sat in stunned silence, apart from the sound of the disappearing plane, and the security trucks screeching up behind them. It was too late.
Anna watched Langton get out and stand, staring upward to the plane, his coat flapping in the tailwind. He shaded his eyes, still staring skyward as the sun broke through clouds and bathed them in the early morning glow. When he eventually turned back to their patrol car, his face was white and his jaw set in a rigid line. He got back into the car, slamming the door
hard.
Anna swallowed, her nerves ragged, and she was shaking as Langton, in an icy-cold voice, gave the driver instructions to head to the safe house where Emily and Kathy had been staying. He radioed for backup to be there waiting for them.
They found the female liaison officer, thankfully alive, but bound with torn sheets. The uniformed officer was shut inside a cupboard; he had a deep bruise to his cheek and a bleeding cut over his temple. Fitzpatrick had done it again; he had shown a fake ID to the duty officer, who had allowed him entry to the house. The family liaison officer had been in bed in the room next to the two children. Mai Ling had given the game away. As she had been woken by Kathy crying, on seeing Fitzpatrick she had started to scream. Fitzpatrick had slapped her into silence, and then grabbed the liaison officer. Mai Ling had been forced to help him tie her up. When the uniformed officer walked in, as he had heard the screaming, he was hit over the head by Fitzpatrick. Although he tried to fend him off, Fitzpatrick had punched him in the face and dragged him into the cupboard. It had taken only fifteen minutes.
Mai Ling had run—whether or not he had given her money, no one knew—but he had calmly packed the children’s toys and clothes and walked out. He was using a hire car, and had driven to the airport. He had not, as they had suspected, used the Heathrow Express. The sighting there was a mistake.
The family liaison officer was very distressed; she kept on repeating that it wasn’t her fault. Anna tried to comfort her, but Langton was bitterly angry and almost abusive.They waited for backup to take over and get their statements of the abduction.
As they drove back to the station, it was by now ten o’clock in the morning. Langton remained so angry he was unapproachable. Although they had confirmarion of the route and destination of Fitzpatrick’s plane, they knew it would be difficult to get him picked up, as they doubted he would stick to landing in Spain. They did, however, contact the Spanish authorities, with orders to arrest the pilot and retain the children. They had no confirmation that the plane had landed.
The incident room was full of the entire team. They were quiet, aware of the morning’s debacle. Langton gave them a curt briefing about what had taken place. He said he was still hopeful they would get details of where Fitzpatrick was landing. He also said that it was a very wretched situation that no one had discovered that Fitzpatrick not only owned a
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