The Hostage: BookShots (Hotel Series) (8 page)

Anna sat forward and clicked up the volume on the television. ‘Jon, I think you need to see this.’

Everyone in the room turned their attention to the news reporter standing outside the north London house.

‘Right now the timetable of events is pretty unclear,’ she began. ‘What we do know is a young man and a young woman, both believed to be in their late teens or early twenties, have been freed this morning from a hidden underground basement, where it is believed they have been held captive for the past ten or possibly fifteen years. It is our understanding they were kidnapped when no more than six or seven years old. At this point in time we don’t have any identification on them, as police are trying to contact their immediate families, but police sources have told us they are urgently seeking the owner of the house, a Mr Richard Winn. And I can tell you that our own sources have revealed that a possible third captive, who is believed to be two or three years older, was also held with them for the past decade or more. That third captive is believed to have escaped a number of weeks ago and may well have been instrumental in the freeing of the two remaining hostages this morning. And our sources have confirmed to us that that third captive is in his early twenties. He is believed to be Joseph Harlington.’

JOCASTA HARLINGTON DROPPED
her head forward, releasing an anguished cry. Her daughter quietly placed her arms around her mother as Oscar Miller stumbled backwards to lean against the office desk. Jon Roscoe looked across at Anna, both of them still trying to comprehend what they had heard. Jon knew he had to speak to Mrs Harlington to try to understand what he was dealing with.

‘Mrs Harlington, I need to—’

Jocasta lifted her head, looked first at her daughter and then at Roscoe.

‘No, Jon, it’s me who needs to talk.’ She took a breath, summoning every ounce of her inner strength. ‘It was sixteen years ago,’ she began, telling a story she had carried with her throughout those years and releasing a pain so deep it had never left her for a single day. ‘We were living in London at the time. Tribeca Luxury Hotels was already well established. We had bought all the artificial trimmings which came with that success. The cars, the clothes and an imposing house in Kensington, a short walk from the palace. I soon learnt it was all worth nothing.’ She paused, gasping for air.

An intolerable pain shot through Jocasta and she started to sob uncontrollably. She felt her daughter wrap her arms tightly around her before carrying on, falteringly, tears streaking down her face.

‘We’d been out late. I’d been drinking but Jackson hadn’t, so he’d said he’d drive us. We were at a function for potential investors. Jackson wanted to open a London hotel. We were home so very late. I was exhausted. I went straight upstairs. I never went to bed without checking on Joseph and then Jacqueline. That night I didn’t.

‘I was asleep in seconds. I remember Jackson getting into bed but nothing more. Next morning I was awake early. I don’t know what time it was – probably around five. I was so thirsty. I made my way down to the kitchen and as I did I noticed the outside door was slightly open. I thought it must have been Jackson from the night before but it made me nervous. I went straight back upstairs.’ She howled in pain and clasped hold of her daughter’s hands. ‘Joseph was gone.’

Roscoe nodded. He remembered the case. The Harlingtons were a wealthy family and the press had feasted on the story.

‘For months we waited for a ransom demand to tell us Joseph was alive. Something, some kind of contact telling us what they wanted and how we could get Joseph back. But nothing ever came. As time went by, Jackson and the police became convinced he was dead. But I never gave up hope.’

She looked up, and smiled through the tears.

‘I knew my son was still alive.’

‘
I NEED TO
ask you if the two names Michael Duncan and Richard Winn mean anything to you,’ asked Roscoe.

‘They’re the two dead men, aren’t they?’ Jocasta Harlington said with absolute certainty. ‘Michael Duncan was our driver when Joseph was taken. Richard Winn was our chef.’ She gave a shallow, bitter laugh. ‘We really did have everything money could buy.’

‘Did the police question them when Joseph was taken?’

‘Everyone was questioned. Over and over. Jackson. Even me.’

‘And after the kidnap, what happened to them?’ continued Roscoe.

‘They stayed around for a while. But I didn’t want people coming in and out of the house so Jackson let Winn go pretty quickly. He still needed a driver so I think he kept Duncan on. He never came inside the house again though.’

‘I have to ask you this, Mrs Harlington,’ Roscoe said, looking at her directly, taking in her ravaged, tear-stained face, ‘but did you suspect them?’

She sighed. ‘Never directly, but I thought it could have been somebody associated with the business. Or someone who knew us. Everyone knew we had a lot of money but no ransom demand was ever made.’

Roscoe hesitated. ‘And Mrs Harlington, I don’t like to ask this—’

‘Did I ever suspect Jackson was involved?’ Jocasta interrupted, and Roscoe knew she was voicing a question she had never dared ask herself for the past sixteen years.

‘Did you?’

Jocasta looked at her daughter and then across to Oscar Miller, who still leant against the office desk. Turning back to Roscoe, she said with great certainty, ‘No, never.’

‘Why not?’ he said quickly, aware that he was pushing her but needing answers. ‘He employed the driver? He employed the chef?’

‘He did.’

‘And then Joseph disappeared.’

‘Jackson was in bed with me at the time,’ Jocasta said sharply, raising her voice. ‘Neither of us heard a sound. He would never have done this. Never!’

‘But now he’s dead. And so is Duncan. And so is Winn.’ Roscoe feared he might bully Jocasta into answering but he had to know. ‘And from the news report it would seem that Winn had held your son captive for the past sixteen years.’

But Jocasta’s head was in her hands again, and Roscoe watched her crying uncontrollably as her daughter held her closely.

The room was silent except for the sounds of Jocasta’s sobs and Anna typing on the computer keyboard. Roscoe looked across to her and she gestured for him to come and look at the monitor. She was scanning the original press reports surrounding the case when Joseph had first disappeared.

Four days after their child had been abducted, a press conference was held where the Harlingtons appealed directly to the kidnapper to contact them and let them bring their son home. At the same time, the lead investigating officer made a plea to any member of the public with information surrounding the kidnapping to please come forward.

Anna clicked on the embedded video clip of the press conference.

‘If anyone has any information on the kidnapping of Joseph Harlington,’ the officer said, ‘however small or insignificant they think the information might be, please call the number displayed on the screen now. We have officers waiting to take your calls as I speak. Or, if you prefer, you may ask to speak with me directly.

My name is Detective Sergeant Peter Savage.’

ROSCOE DIVED ACROSS
the room and out into the lobby.

‘Savage!’ he yelled across the vast marbled space, frantically scanning the crowds in front of him. ‘Savage, where are you?’

He ran across to the entrance of the hotel, where people were being lined up and counted out as part of the evacuation process. He grabbed hold of the first officer he came across.

‘Where’s Inspector Savage?’ he asked urgently, then repeated, ‘Where is Inspector Savage?’ with even greater urgency before the officer had a chance to answer.

‘He was here a couple of minutes ago,’ said the officer, ‘but he could see we had everything under control. He said we should continue the evacuation until the foyer was empty.’

Before the officer had finished speaking, Roscoe was sprinting across the lobby. ‘Where’s the inspector?’ he shouted as he ran towards one of the armed officers who’d accompanied him to the twenty-fifth floor.

The officer replied immediately, ‘I’ve been securing the restaurant area, sir. I haven’t seen him since we came down in the elevator.’

Bloodied and exhausted but driven on by adrenaline, Roscoe ran back to the reception desk and jumped up onto the counter.

‘Savage! Has anyone seen Inspector Savage?’

The crowd assembled in the lobby looked at Roscoe with a mixture of fear and anticipation. In his blood-covered T-shirt, Roscoe realised he looked an alarming sight but he knew he had to find the inspector while he still could. Still standing on top of the reception desk, he turned towards the elevator bank.

The express elevator had stopped at the fortieth floor.

He charged back into the office and knelt down by the couch where Jocasta remained with her daughter.

‘Mrs Harlington, I need your help. To stop these killings we must speak to your son.’

‘My Joseph?’

Roscoe nodded.

‘He was seven years old the last time I saw him. I can’t begin to imagine what he’s been through.’ Jocasta looked desperately at Roscoe, and he wished he could offer her some kind of hope. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Jon.’

Roscoe put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m afraid I’m certain of it. Mrs Harlington, the killer is your son. And the only person who can get him to stop is you.’

TAKING JOCASTA HARLINGTON
by the hand, Jon Roscoe led her across the hotel lobby towards the elevator bank. As he did so, he looked across to the entrance of the hotel and saw the evacuees continuing to leave the building. This was almost over.

As they stepped into the express elevator, Jocasta turned to Roscoe.

‘I never thought I would see my son again, Jon.’

Roscoe looked across at the mother of a multiple killer. It was impossible for him to imagine how she felt. There were three brutally murdered bodies scattered around the hotel, as well as Stanley fighting for his life in hospital. Her son had been taken from her sixteen years ago and now was about to be returned to her as some kind of avenging executioner.

‘I’m terrified, Jon. But at the same time I can’t help but feel some kind of anticipation. I’m about to see my son.’

‘Even after what he did to Mr Harlington?’ Roscoe looked deep into Jocasta’s eyes. He felt sure Jackson Harlington had been involved in the boy’s kidnap and that was what was driving these revenge attacks.

The elevator doors opened and Roscoe stepped out ahead of Jocasta Harlington. Crossing the glass footbridge that leads from the elevator to the infinity pool, Jocasta stopped.

‘Jackson wasn’t Joseph’s father.’

‘Did he know that?’ replied Roscoe, startled but not totally surprised as he fit the pieces together in his mind.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘When did Jackson discover he wasn’t Joseph’s father?’

‘The month before he disappeared.’

Roscoe turned away from Mrs Harlington and looked out across the royal park opposite the hotel. Suddenly it all made sense.

‘Jackson was a powerful man, in every sense of the word,’ Jocasta said. ‘I feared him every second of the day, especially after he found out about Joseph. But although he wasn’t Joseph’s father, I never believed he would do anything to harm him. I couldn’t think that. Ever. Until today.’

A desperate cry came from the other side of the roof terrace and Roscoe quickly ran across the bridge to the shallow end of the pool. What he saw stopped him instantly.

Kneeling at the far end of the pool was the unmasked killer. In front of him, Peter Savage floated in the pool, his throat cut.

Blood traced the water.

The killer gripped Savage by the hair, pulling his head above the water to stop him from drowning and allowing him to slowly bleed to death. Roscoe could see Savage was still alive.

‘Joseph. It is Joseph, isn’t it?’ Roscoe said, the calmness in his voice at odds with the horror rising inside of him. ‘This has to stop. Why don’t we start by pulling Inspector Savage out of the water?’

He started to take small steps along the edge of the pool, towards Joseph Harlington. As he did, Jocasta came forward and stood motionless by the shallow end. She looked lovingly at her son’s face, which bore such a great resemblance to her own, for the first time in sixteen years. Water gently lapped his hands, washing away Savage’s blood.

Tension rising within him, Roscoe continued to walk towards the killer. ‘Joseph, let’s pull Inspector Savage out of the pool.’

When Joseph Harlington looked up and fixed his eyes upon him, Roscoe felt afraid. Never before had he seen such depth of hatred.

‘Come one step further and I will blow his brains out.’

As Savage fought for his life, his blood spreading across the pool, Roscoe kept talking. ‘Joseph, let’s get him out of the water. I can help you.’

Almost imperceptibly he edged forward.

‘I told you not to come any further. You should know by now when I say something I mean it.’

And then Joseph ripped a gun from the back of his belt, pressed the barrel into Savage’s temple and pulled the trigger.

SAVAGE’S HEAD EXPLODED
into the infinity pool. Screaming, Jocasta Harlington collapsed to her knees.

‘Joseph, no. No more. Stop this. Please!’ she cried.

Standing at the top of the pool, Savage’s brains and blood splattered across him, Joseph looked at his mother for the first time.

‘I told him not to come any further.’ He turned to Roscoe. ‘I did tell you not to come any further.’

‘Is that it now, Joseph?’ asked Roscoe, struck by his childlike logic. ‘Have you done what you came to do?’

Still holding the gun, Joseph looked down at Savage’s shattered body floating in the pool.

‘He was one of them. Every week he would come. Same time each week. He was the worst. He liked to beat me first. And then he’d rape me. He’d make the others watch. And then he’d do the same to them.’ He looked at his mother. ‘Sixteen years ago he was the one who took me from our house. He loved to tell me that.’