The Ransom (4 page)

Lane took note of the clothing. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?”

Ellie shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “No. I wish there was. God, you can’t know how much I wish there was.”

Her shoulders hunched and sobs shook her body. Lane stood and caught Clayton’s eye, motioning him over.

Clayton moved closer and came to a halt by Ellie’s side, but made no move to offer her comfort. Lane broke the tense silence.

“Do either of you have any idea who might be behind this? Clayton, is there anything you’re working on that could have upset someone? You’ve been involved in some pretty high profile cases recently.”

Clayton cursed. “Yeah, but most of them are based in Canberra. I’ve barely had time to set up my desk in Sydney. Besides, what do you want me to say? The kind of scum I deal with every day…” He laughed without humor. “Pick a name, it could be any number of people. Kevin Fernandez, wife and baby killer, mouthed off at me with obscene threats only two days ago when I attended his sentencing hearing. Threatened everyone related to me. Do I think he was serious?” Clayton shook his head in disgust. “Of course he was, but no more serious than all the others.”

Lane pressed his lips together and nodded. “All right, what about Olivia? Has she been having trouble with anyone?”

“Nothing that she’s complained about,” Ellie replied. “We’ve only been living in Sydney three weeks and she’s been on school holidays all that time. Not that she’d confide in me if she was,” Ellie added with a grimace.

Lane turned to Clayton, who shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I’m just her father.”

“What about you, Ellie?” Lane said, changing tack. “Can you think of anyone who might be bearing a grudge against you?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been out of the field for more than five years, Lane. I doubt it has anything to do with me.”

Lane was inclined to agree with her. “I think you’re right. If anyone’s involved in this, I think it’s more likely to be from Clayton’s end.”

Clayton ran a hand through his hair. “Christ, I can’t believe I brought this on my daughter.”

“I’m not saying that,” Lane said. “At this stage, we don’t know anything for certain, but hell, it’s the most likely scenario.”

Clayton’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “As much as it pains me to say it, I think you’re right.” He sighed and moved closer to Ellie. “So, what do we do now?”

Lane closed his notebook. “I’ll call the boss and get him to organize some phone taps. If this is about money, when the ransom call comes in, we want to be able to trace it.”

Ellie stiffened and her eyes went wide. She shook her head in disbelief. Lane felt her pain. His voice softened. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I wish to God you didn’t have to go through this.” His look encompassed Clayton who stood silent and tense, his face like weathered granite.

“You know the drill,” Lane added. “The techies should be at your house within the hour.”

He offered his hand to Clayton, who shook it. “Thanks for coming, Lane. I’ll go home and start looking into possibilities. We will narrow this down somehow.”

Lane nodded and then turned and hugged Ellie again. “We’ll find her. We’re not going to rest until we do.”

Ellie barely acknowledged his comment. Fresh tears flooded her eyes. Clayton moved closer and awkwardly patted her shoulder. With nothing further to add, Lane left them to their pain.

CHAPTER THREE

Saturday, January 27, 11:55 a.m
.

Lane strode into the station and tossed his keys onto his desk. Following close behind him, Jett threw himself down in his chair with a sigh and stacked his hands behind his head.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “How could one girl be knocked out and another completely disappear and no one see or hear a thing? How does that work?”

Lane sympathized with the exasperation that lined his partner’s voice. He felt the same way. He looked up when Michael Collins strode toward them, his expression grim.

“Lane, Jett. How’d it go with the Munro case?”

Lane shook his head. “Not much, yet. I’ve interviewed Ellie Munro who was with the girls at the store. She didn’t see the attack and so far, she can’t remember anything useful.”

“Ditto for the shop assistants,” Jett added.

“We’ve asked the store manager to provide us with the morning’s security tapes. He’s getting them together.”

“Pity there aren’t any cameras in the change rooms,” Michael muttered.

“Yeah,” Lane said, “but we’re hoping we may spot something out of place. The person or persons responsible must have entered the store some way—probably the same way they left. We know roughly what time Olivia Munro was taken. We might be lucky enough to spot them on camera.”

“Good,” Collins replied. “Let’s hope so. I’ve organized for a group of technicians to head over to the Munro house. They should be there shortly. In the meantime, I want you to take a ride over to the Attorney General’s house. He called a few moments ago. His daughter’s been released from hospital and is now back home. He wants to talk to us. Something about him believing his daughter might have been the target.”

Lane frowned. “Why would he think that?”

“Wouldn’t say. Just asked for someone to go over to his house and talk to him. Pronto. His words, not mine. If there’s a possibility the AG’s involved, we’ll need to form a joint taskforce with the AFP. Given that the child taken belongs to one of their own, I’m sure they’ll be keen to be part of this, but let’s find out what’s going on first.” He handed Lane a piece of paper.

“Here’s the AG’s address. Find out why he thinks his daughter could have been the target. I’ll let him know you’re on your way. Jett, chase up those security tapes. The sooner we take a look at them, the sooner we’ll know who we’re dealing with.”

Lane glanced at the piece of paper he’d taken from his boss. The address was listed in Point Piper, one of Sydney’s most prestigious suburbs. He stowed it in his shirt pocket.

“I don’t need to remind you how sensitive this is, Lane,” Collins added. “Having one of the AFP’s top profilers involved is bad enough. Throw the AG into it and it’s fast becoming a PR nightmare. Dowton’s been in the media a lot lately spouting off about law reform and not everyone’s happy about it. Until we know who’s involved in this, we have to keep things tight.”

Lane eyed him solemnly. “You can rely on me, boss.”

* * *

The midmorning traffic was heavier than usual, but Lane made good time crossing the Harbour Bridge. He joined the flow of traffic heading toward Sydney’s eastern suburbs. The sun shone clear and bright across the sapphire blue of the Pacific Ocean, sending blinding shards of light off the water. A scattering of yachts and the occasional iconic mustard-and-green-colored ferry decorated the harbor, packed with carefree weekenders.

It was a view Lane never tired of and one he wished he could afford. His two-bedroom condo, situated on the busy Pacific Highway only minutes from the Chatswood train station might have been convenient to work, but was a far cry from the luxury and old-world opulence of the lower north shore and eastern suburbs, where architecturally designed mansions with views of the harbor bunkered down behind high brick fences—with nary a train track in sight.

Still, his condo was comfortable and didn’t stretch his modest salary to its limit and the double glazed windows took care of almost all of the noise from the busy highway below. Besides, with his crazy work schedule often comprising multiple twelve-hour shifts, it was really only a place to crash and recover for the next bout.

Not that he regretted his career choice. Being a cop was all he ever wanted. He’d entered the Academy straight out of high school and graduated a year later with honors, ready to conquer the world.

More than a decade later, most days he still felt invincible. He’d been smart and he’d been lucky. He’d worked hard and had come up the ranks with enviable speed and even though he’d been caught in some sticky situations, he’d managed to come out unscathed.

Well, relatively.
Give or take a few cuts and bruises and the seventeen stitches he’d received in his bicep after coming up close and personal with a burglar high on crystal meth and wielding a razor-sharp machete.

He turned onto Stafford Drive, a cul de sac off New South Head Road and looked for the number Michael had written on the paper. It was the third house along, although to call it a house was an understatement.

Like all of the other houses in the street, there was only part of it visible from the sidewalk. A high rendered fence, painted in the same shade of taupe as the house, shielded most of it from view. A set of double, black iron gates guarded the driveway.

Lane turned into the entryway and came to a halt. Pressing the button located on a steel panel set at eye level on the gate wall, he announced his presence. Moments later, the gates swung inward on well-oiled hinges.

Huge Moreton Bay figs that looked more than a century old graced at least an acre of well-manicured lawn and provided shade to a number of symmetrical flower beds that burst with color. Two gardeners labored with hedge clippers and secateurs, their full-brimmed hats bearing the brunt of the noonday sun.

Lane’s unmarked vehicle crept along the winding, paved driveway. He surveyed the grandeur of the house before him. Three storeys of brick and sandstone towered above him, looking like something out of Hollywood Hills. To his left, the driveway peeled off and led to a garage that was big enough to house four motor vehicles. He’d always assumed the Attorney General made a good living, but this was way beyond his imaginings.

Continuing along the right fork, he headed toward a parking bay situated outside the main building and brought the car to a stop. He climbed out and was assailed by the sweet scent of roses and honeysuckle that hung heavily on the air.

Almost immediately, Lane’s nose twitched and his eyes began to water. He grappled for his handkerchief and caught the sneeze seconds before it exploded. He was still sneezing several minutes later when the imposing double entry doors opened inward to reveal a slight woman with graying hair and kind eyes. The white apron she wore over her navy uniform regaled her to the position of housekeeper.

“You must be the detective. Come in. Mr Dowton’s expecting you. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you,” he managed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

The housekeeper looked at him curiously for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “Hay fever.”

Lane nodded and grimaced. “Chronic.”

* * *

The interior of David Dowton’s mansion was just as impressive as the exterior. Original artworks from some of Australia’s most reputable artists lined the sandstone walls. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot ceilings and an enormous Persian rug, in muted hues of cream and burgundy, covered the polished concrete floor that led from the entryway into a large, open concept living room.

Lane waited in silence for the housekeeper’s return. A light breeze drifted in through an open window on the far side of the room, bringing with it the verdant scent of the garden. He braced himself for another bout of sneezes.

A few moments later, the woman reappeared, her rubber-soled shoes making no sound. “The Attorney General will see you now. Please, come with me.”

Lane followed her through the living room and into what he assumed was Dowton’s office. Floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with books lined one wall. An enormous, red cedar desk cluttered with an untidy assortment of papers dominated the room. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows and cast the face of the man who sat behind the desk into shadow. Although he’d seen the Attorney General countless times on the television, Lane had never met the man in the flesh. David Dowton stood as Lane entered and came toward him with his hand outstretched.

“Detective Black, thank you for coming. I appreciate your quick response.”

Lane shook the proffered hand and eyed the Attorney General with interest. Of medium stature, Dowton’s light-brown hair was liberally streaked with gray, but the strength in his forearm and the tautness of his belly beneath his tailored business shirt indicated a level of discipline rarely seen in men who had passed their prime.

“What can I do for you, Attorney General?”

“Please, call me David. And take a seat,” he added, indicating a pair of richly upholstered, black leather armchairs that stood opposite the desk.

The Attorney General returned to his seat. Lane followed suit. His gaze snagged on a pair of matching photo frames that graced the overcrowded desk.

“My daughters,” David supplied, noticing Lane’s interest. Picking up one of the frames, the man turned it so that Lane could take a better look. “This is Zara, my eldest.”

Lane looked at the photo and tried to contain his surprise. The girl looked about eighteen or nineteen and was unmistakably of Filipino heritage. Her midnight black hair framed an oval face and fell in long, straight waves to below her waist. She was smiling at the camera, displaying a set of perfect white teeth.

Unable to help himself, Lane reached for the photo frame and examined the picture more closely. His stomach somersaulted. The girl seemed to look right into his soul.