Stealing People (10 page)

‘Have you got any idea of the sort of people she was mixing with in London?’

‘Con said she was pretty wild. Off the leash, was how he put it. She’s so sexually voracious it’s as if she defines herself by her ability to pull. She eats like a pig, drinks like a fish and fucks like a rabbit … Con’s words again. The only friend, or rather “person”, I met her with was the guy she was screwing on my sofa. He had a back full of tats and didn’t seem bothered in the slightest that he’d been caught being sodomised on my sofa by … a man/woman. So I think Con’s reading of the situation was accurate or at least not exaggerated.’

‘Siobhan came to see me three days after Con disappeared, on the instructions of Mark Rowlands. Last night she took my daughter, who works with me, to an art show. They went back to Siobhan’s place …’

‘Uh-oh,’ said Tanya, warily. ‘She’d only take her home for one reason … I’m sorry, but it’s true.’

‘And two guys broke into the house, tied my daughter up and interrogated, tortured and raped Siobhan over a period of three quarters of an hour.’

Tanya sat silent, hands over her mouth, eyes wide open.

‘Is that what you’d call a normal night out for Siobhan?’

‘No, but … I really don’t know,’ she said, shocked. ‘Oh my God … tortured?’

‘They beat her up while they interrogated her.’

‘And raped? Are the police involved?’

‘She didn’t want them involved. She wouldn’t let my daughter call them in the immediate aftermath or me when I turned up on the scene later,’ said Boxer. ‘She insisted that my daughter run her a bath, got into it and by doing so compromised any evidence.’

‘Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I know
I sounded vindictive about Siobhan earlier. I know what I look like to most people: a silly, blonde rich bitch with too much time and money on her hands.’

‘You haven’t come across like that to me.’

‘What I’m going to say might sound really terrible: the fact is, you can’t believe everything you see and hear where Siobhan’s concerned.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m not saying it
is
the case, and I certainly wouldn’t say this about anybody else, but now that you’ve told me about the bath, I think … Siobhan could have cooked it up herself.’

Mercy could see Amy sitting in a clear circle wiped from the steamy window of the Portugal Coffee Deli on the South Lambeth Road, a short walk from her office near Vauxhall tube station. She waved and got a lift when Amy waved back. They hugged and kissed and the hug was so strong, Mercy gasped against the emotion. Even now, two years later, she still couldn’t believe the transformation in her daughter.

They sat, ordered coffee and a couple of custard tarts. It was just after 8.20.

‘I’m sorry … I didn’t find out about Marcus until this morning. Dad kept it from me.’

‘Why?’

Amy put her hands across the table, grasped her mother’s.

‘Promise this is just between us. Mum and daughter. No police.’

‘I promise,’ said Mercy, rolling her eyes, squeezing her daughter’s fingers.

Amy gave her a quick recap of last night’s incident, leaving out the kiss and the sexual anticipation.

‘That’s a serious—’

‘That was just so you know why Dad didn’t tell me. He knows what happened. She’s his client and we’re looking for her father. And don’t ask me why it’s us covering a current missing persons case and not the Met.’

‘Your father wouldn’t tell me either.’

‘Because it’s client confidentiality,’ said Amy. ‘And I’m not here
to talk about me. It’s Marcus we should be talking about. What’s happened?’

‘They called, told me they had Marcus and that they’d had to work him over to get my number. I asked for proof of life. They gave it to me and I haven’t heard another word.’

‘What about work?’

‘I haven’t told anyone.’

‘Who knows about you and Marcus?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Impossible,’ said Amy. ‘You think people don’t know when you’re having an affair, but everybody can tell. They might not know who with but they know you’re in love.’

‘No they don’t.’

‘Mum,’ said Amy, kindly. ‘Join us in the real world. Believe me, they can see it in your eyes, your body language, your whole demeanour.’

‘All right,’ said Mercy, conceding nothing, ‘but they absolutely don’t know
who
it is. If they did …’

‘So you don’t spy on each other?’ said Amy, doubtful. ‘There must be some kind of internal investigation team.’

‘Yes, but only when there’s been an accusation or there’s a genuine suspicion of corruption, malpractice or whatever.’

‘So how are you going to handle this? Are you going to come clean to your boss, whatshisname? Makepeace.’

‘Makepeace has been promoted,’ said Mercy. ‘And if I come clean I’ll be taken off all operations. Marcus’s kidnap will become the property of the unit, which will put him in immediate danger.’

‘Does that mean what I think it means?’

‘It means I’m waiting for developments.’

‘Before you come clean?’

‘Before I make a decision.’

‘This doesn’t sound like you, Mum.’

Mercy made blinkers with her hands around her eyes, stared at Amy down the tunnel.

‘Everything is on the line: my lover, my job, my whole …’ she stopped to consider. ‘No, that’s not true,
that
has changed.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not my whole existence. It used to be, but it isn’t any more,’ said Mercy, giving her hands over to her daughter.

‘Me
and
Marcus,’ said Amy, kissing her mother’s hands. ‘You love him. He’s the only guy you’ve ever cared about apart from Dad.’

Mercy looked off out of the window, knew it was true.

‘You’ve got to work out the best strategy for his survival,’ said Amy. ‘Whoever these guys are, they’re going to come back and ask you to do something for them. You haven’t got any money worth talking about so they’re going to want you to compromise yourself in some way. And I know you. You won’t be able to do that.’

‘I don’t know that it’s about work. It could be my family.’

‘Like who? I’m trying to think of somebody with money, influence and charisma, and since Uncle David died two years ago in Accra, I haven’t come up with anyone,’ said Amy.

‘So what would your survival strategy be?’

‘You won’t believe this,’ said Amy, ‘but I think you should come clean. Get the whole of the Met behind you. Can you imagine the power of that – the whole force behind one of their own? The only drawback is … you’d lose ultimate control, but you’d still be in the picture because the kidnappers would have to come to you with their demands. On the other hand, if you don’t tell them and you get found out, and especially if you get found out compromising your position, you’re finished for life … with jail. And I wouldn’t like to be a black ex-copper in
HMP
Holloway.’

‘Have you been speaking to your father about this?’

‘Not about this kidnap, we haven’t had time, but about Marcus, yes, I have.’

‘And?’

‘You should have told them about him a year ago when you knew it was getting serious between you.’

‘That’s my little problem. I no longer have Makepeace to rely on. The boss of the unit is an unknown quantity. And if anything happened to Marcus I’d never forgive myself.’

‘Don’t play their game, Mum. It goes against everything you stand for. Marcus could be in just as much danger if you try to handle it solo.’

‘I just want to know what they’re after. If they told me that, I could make a decision based on facts.’

‘You and Dad have told me an awful lot about kidnaps over the years, and the one thing that’s stuck in my brain is that the gang’s main strategy is to bring to bear as much emotional pressure on the victim’s loved ones as they possibly can.’

‘It’s started. They’ve already said they’re going to break me, but nobody’s broken me yet and there’s not going to be a first time.’

‘You know it could be days before you find out what they want. Coming clean now looks a lot better than coming clean three days after he was taken,’ said Amy. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you these things. You know it perfectly well already.’

Mercy’s phone vibrated against her hip, she ripped it out, took the call.

‘I hope you’re only discussing this situation with your daughter and nobody in your office,’ said the voice. ‘You do … and she’s next.’

10

08.45, 16 January 2014

Knightsbridge, London W1

Back at the office, Mercy sat in a toilet cubicle, elbows on knees, hands steepled over her face, staring blankly into the tiled floor as a ruthless calm settled in her stomach. This always happened when the real pressure came on. She recognised the seismic change: fear and anxiety being processed through white-hot anger to emerge transformed by some strange heat exchange into Arctic composure. She had always been able to switch off the personal and revert to the professional as if nothing was happening inside her.

But this time it was different.

She was making decisions, profound and deeply personal decisions, of the sort that had to be made alone. No colleague could help her, no sage advice dissuade her. She was wrestling with all her professional instincts. Her moral compass in which she’d always been able to trust had suddenly lost its bearings. She was in unknown territory.

If she hadn’t been sure how much she loved Marcus Alleyne before, now she was absolutely certain. She couldn’t tolerate his suffering. The threat against him, and now her daughter, had brought out some innate impulse she’d never known was there. She’d had an inkling when Amy had disappeared, believed murdered, and she thought she’d lost the best love of her life. But with Amy remoulded to her and this new passion in her life, she was now utterly convinced that she would meet any threat to either of them with total ruthlessness.

The only thing she couldn’t decide was whether to do this from the inside or out. Should she risk compromising the actions of her colleagues or put the welfare of the two most important people in her life in the hands of others?

The main door to the ladies’ opened. Voices from outside drifted in and released her from the grip of her thoughts. She stood, flushed the toilet, went to the sink, nodding and smiling at two sergeants talking about their big night out. She returned to the office and sat at her desk opposite George Papadopoulos, who was looking at her anxiously.

‘What?’ said Mercy, unable to hide her irritation, knowing that what was going on in his mind had to be more mundane.

‘I’ve just been told at the coffee machine,’ he said. ‘There’s been a leak. You heard anything your side?’

‘Clearly not or I’d be looking as haemorrhoidal as you. Relax, for God’s sake.’

‘The new
DCS
is talking redundancies. Further sweeping budget cuts. We’re down to the bone operationally, so that only leaves people, which means us. I mean the unit, not just us two. Could be anybody.’

‘But we’re the best performing double act in this whole cabaret. I saw them in half and you put them together. You make them vanish and I bring them back. We’re brilliant.’

‘He doesn’t know that. Maybe he just sees the Greek and the African and thinks let’s get shot of the immigrants.’

‘Calm down. He’s not
allowed
to think like that.’

‘It doesn’t mean he won’t,’ said Papadopoulos.

The phone went on Mercy’s desk. Papadopoulos jumped.

‘What
is
the matter with you?’

‘Josie and I have got a two hundred and fifty grand mortgage, Mercy,’ he said. ‘A social worker and a copper with a combined income of bugger all. I’ve got shit in my pants all day, every day.’

‘For God’s sake, cork it, George, and I mean your mouth.’

She picked up the phone, listened, put it down.

‘He wants to see me.’

George dropped his head on to his desk, leaving his hands up in prayer.

She walked the corridor, amazed at herself. How could she keep up this banter with such a monumental decision, made slightly more awkward by George’s desperation, hanging over her? She clenched her fists, looked up to find that Makepeace’s name had been removed from the door and replaced by ‘
DCS
Oscar Hines’. She breathed deep, felt her mind swerve one way: come on now, let’s get this out right. Talk him through it, take the hit, home by lunch-time.

She knocked and went straight into the familiar office with the stranger behind the desk. Hines stood up, leaned over and shook hands, did all the pleasantries with charm, pointed her into a seat.

The
DCS
was monstrously handsome, with tremendous shoulders and a full head of white hair, which was swept back from his forehead while grazing his collar at the back. He had very long, luxuriant black eyebrows above gimlet green eyes, which reminded her of Boxer’s. His face was broad, with a powerful nose and flared nostrils above a red-lipped mouth, which was frequently wetted by the quick flash of a tongue tip. But it was his hands that fascinated Mercy. She could still feel their dryness, their firmness without being crushing, and their length and width. There was something of the concert pianist about their expressiveness. She wouldn’t have minded being anointed by them.

‘There have been rumours,’ he said, steepling his forefingers, resting them against the slight cleft in his chin, ‘and I wanted to put your mind at rest. Nobody from the special investigations unit will lose their job. I guarantee it.’

Now was the moment. Interrupt. Get it out and over with. Feel the release.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Mercy. ‘George has just bought a flat with his partner and he was getting nervous.’

‘I’ve looked at the reports on your work over the last three years and all I can say is that you’ve been relentlessly impressive, DI Danquah. Peter Makepeace and your colleagues think you’re nothing short of magnificent, and in taking
DS
Papadopoulos under your wing, you’ve created an extraordinary team.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mercy, trembling inside at the praise being heaped on her, hungry now to hear what was coming her way. ‘I learnt a lot from
DCS
Makepeace and I wouldn’t have been able to perform at this level without the support of my colleagues.’

‘I understand that since your private life has … normalised over the last two years you’ve reached new heights, but what particularly impressed me was how you’ve managed to perform under the most intense pressure of all. I’m referring to the Bobkov case when your daughter was
in extremis
,
shall we say. You’re a remarkable woman, DI Danquah. There aren’t many people who could have retained their intelligence, humour, focus and analytical elegance under those circumstances.’

‘Now it sounds as if you
are
going to fire me,’ said Mercy.

Hines roared with sudden laughter, held his arms open as if he was going to hug her and slapped the edge of his desk with his gorgeous hands. Mercy looked down on herself, incredulous at her behaviour.

‘Bloody marvellous,’ said Hines. ‘Which brings me to the next point. I’ve got a job for you, or rather several jobs all rolled into one. Yes, a bit more demanding than usual and it’s no accident that I mentioned Bobkov, because the nature of it means you will be coming into contact with the secret services. Ours, the
CIA
, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a showing from the the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the
SVR
.’

‘In London?’ said Mercy, amazed.

‘All in London,’ said Hines. ‘My task at the moment is to give you an initial briefing before we head off to Thames House, where we’ll be getting together with MI5 and MI6 et al.’

‘We’re still talking kidnap rather than terrorism, aren’t we, sir?’

‘Possibly both,’ said Hines. ‘I’m going to begin at the end, so to speak. Because the last kidnap has transformed the political landscape. Have you heard of the US company Kinderman?’

‘They’re an American-based corporation doing oil field services and equipment as far as I remember. Deepwater platform rigs, pipelines, refineries and chemical plants, that sort of thing?’

‘Right, that’s their mainstream business,’ said Hines. ‘So the hostage is an eight-year-old girl called Sophie Railton-Bass. Her mother, Emma Railton, is the ex-wife of Kinderman’s global
CEO
Ken Bass, who is currently working out of Dubai. The girl was being chauffeured from the family home in Belgravia to Francis Holland Junior School in Sloane Square. At ten minutes past eight this morning the car was diverted into a mews off Lyall Street using fake roadworks. The chauffeur was just a driver, not an experienced operative, and it seems he was quickly overwhelmed. The girl was transferred to another vehicle, whose colour, model and registration are unknown. The police were called by several of the residents of the mews when the chauffeur’s car remained in its awkward position and they found him slumped back in his seat, no keys in the ignition and the doors locked. The chauffeur has been released from the car, which has been removed for forensic inspection.’

‘What shape is he in?’

‘Still unconscious in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.’

‘Anything from the kidnappers?’

‘Emma Railton received a call at 08.35 from a male voice telling her that they had kidnapped her daughter and would require a payment of twenty-five million pounds in cash, but not for her release. This is not a ransom, they said, this is just for expenses. Time and location to be nominated. Ken Bass has been informed. Sophie is his only child and he adores her, as he still does his ex-wife. He bought her the house in Belgravia, gave her a lump sum of one hundred and twenty million dollars and ten million a year, and he’s still worth in excess of a billion dollars.

‘Now for the really complicated stuff,’ said Hines. ‘You know about Kinderman’s oil activities, but they’re also involved in other sorts of building work, like military bases in Iraq and Afghanistan. Some of them are secret; most of them are not open to public tender. They’ve also developed a private security company, Anchorlight Services, to protect their construction workers and convoys. You may remember there was some trouble when a platoon of their employees opened fire and killed seventeen innocent Iraqis. What you might not know is that they were using a consultant for these security operations in the form of a famous, or infamous, depending on how you look at it, British ex-army officer who’d been with the Staffords and later became a mercenary. His name is Colonel Ryder Forsyth.’

Mercy’s eyebrows went over a hump.

‘Do you know him?’ asked Hines, missing nothing.

‘That was my ex-husband’s old regiment. He fought with the Staffords in the 1991 Gulf War.’

‘As did Ryder Forsyth until he quit the army in 1994 and went into … well, let’s call them “activities” in Africa. It also appears he never made it beyond captain in the Staffords, but calls himself Colonel.’

‘You’re making him sound a bit dodgy, sir,’

‘Well, he isn’t squeaky clean. How can you be if you’re a mercenary in Africa who then slipped off the radar and reappeared in strange places like Colombia and Central America, where he specialised in “planned operations for the release of kidnap hostages”?’

‘How did he get involved with Kinderman?’

‘He pulled off an extraordinary rescue operation of Kinderman oil employees who’d been kidnapped in Mexico, one of whom happened to be the son of the then
CEO
of Kinderman Services and Logistics in South and Central America. By all accounts it was a real Chuck Norris job. The boy was being held by a very nasty drug baron, and Forsyth went in there and not only killed the gang hierarchy but rescued the hostage unhurt. He was secretly given a medal by the Mexican president and God knows what by Kinderman. Right man, right connections, right time.’

‘And he’s involved in this job?’ asked Mercy.

‘I’m afraid so. Such is the reach of Kinderman into the British government that they have been able to force, or should I say coerce us into a joint operation. So in this particular case the kidnap consultancy will be run by Ryder Forsyth, the special investigation unit will be ours – i.e. you – and the
CIA
will be doing whatever they do and feeding us any relevant intelligence.’

‘Sounds like a nightmare,’ said Mercy.

‘At least they’ve recognised that they need our help on the ground, that London is our turf, but even that was touch and go,’ said Hines.

‘Do we, or the
CIA
, have any reason to believe that the kidnap has been undertaken by anyone other than a criminal gang seeking financial gain?’

‘Not in any obvious way, but when the Kinderman corporation is involved in anything, the US government sits up and takes notice. That means, given the sensitive nature of a number of their projects in the Middle East, Iraq and Afghanistan, the
CIA
will at the very least be listening in, and more than likely extremely active.’

‘This being an organised kidnap with evident planning, can we assume that the gang would know what they’re taking on and be prepared for some intense heat?’

‘They’d be mad not to,’ said Hines.

‘You said “in this particular case”, sir. So there’ve been other kidnaps?’

‘Six in the space of thirty-two hours,’ said Hines. ‘Three in the early hours of the fifteenth, four hostages taken. We’re not entirely sure of the timings. Siena Casey, daughter of an Australian mining heiress, went missing from a party in Hackney. Karla Pfeiffer, daughter of Deal-O supermarket heir Hans Pfeiffer, was kidnapped along with Wú Gao, the son of Chinese real estate queen Wú Dao-ming, after attending a nightclub in the West End. And finally Rakesh Sarkar, the son of Uttam Sarkar, the head of commodities conglomerate Amit Sarkar Group, has disappeared but they’re not quite sure when … or how. The parents in all cases have received phone calls asking for the same demand for expenses, which in each case is the first they knew of their child’s disappearance. There was a further kidnap yesterday morning on the outskirts of the St George’s Hill Estate in Weybridge, when a car taking nine-year-old Yury Yermilov to Danes Hill School in Oxshott was held up. This time the driver and bodyguard were murdered. Driver shot four times in the head and chest, bodyguard once in the head and the boy kidnapped. Irina Yermilov, the boy’s mother, received a phone call this morning again asking for twenty-five million pounds, not for ransom, just for expenses. Time and location to be nominated.’