The Vanishing Point (12 page)

16

W
ith every passing day the soundproofed room seemed to grow more oppressive. Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides knew the personal scents of the other five occupants so well he could have picked them out of an identity parade blindfolded. He knew their physical tics; the tapping of a pen against teeth, the soft percussion of fingertips on desktop, the sucking of air through the front teeth, the scratching of fingernails on designer stubble, the endless fiddling with the bridge of the reading glasses. He knew who would crack which kind of joke over the contents of the emails they were working through. He knew who was tweeting his mistress instead of working, who was texting his bookie and who was ordering groceries online from Tesco. And of course, he knew more about the professional and personal lives of News International journalists than any adult human should have to.

When he’d been seconded to the team investigating the allegations of News International’s phone hacking and corrupting of public officials, Nick had been excited. It was a headline-grabbing case, and its potential repercussions for the media and the Met were thrilling. Though not in a good way.

But the glitz had worn thin pretty quickly. News International had handed over three hundred million emails. Three hundred million. Nick suspected they’d dumped everything they could find on to the inquiry in the hope that the trees would get lost in the wood. It wasn’t humanly possible to read every one. He remembered reading about a project to classify every galaxy in the universe according to shape. The astronomers involved had asked members of the public to log on to their website and take part in the process. It was the only way to get enough bodies on the case. Even then, it would take years. But that wasn’t an option here because it was a criminal investigation.

So what they had was a computer program that was gradually working its way through all of the three hundred million, primed with key words and phrases that should, in theory, mean that all the dodgy emails would be spat out into the inboxes of the people grafting away in rooms like this all over the old Wapping printworks. Every team was a mix of the company’s own watchdogs and police officers. Embedded, that was what they called what he was doing. And embedded was what it bloody felt like. Embedded up to the neck in other people’s shit.

Now, instead of actually working real cases and catching real criminals, Nick was locked in a bunker looking for evidence which, even if he found it, probably would never see the light of courtroom day. A few months ago, his career had seemed to be on an upward trajectory. But this was the backwater to end all backwaters.

He clicked on the next email in his queue. It had been flagged up because it contained the word ‘credit’. One of the ways journalists paid backhanders to sources was to list their associates in the credits book. If you wanted to pay DCI XXX for giving you an exclusive tip, you put a payment through to his girlfriend or his mum or his best mate. So every time a journalist or an executive mentioned, ‘taking the credit’, or ‘credit where it’s due’, Nick would have to read the innocuous message. Just in case.

This time, it was from an editorial executive complaining that his company credit card had been refused at the petrol station that morning. Nick sighed and sent it to the ‘checked’ folder and clicked on the next one. The ringing of his phone felt like a stay of execution. A glance at the screen revealed an unfamiliar number. But it was an American number. And there was a good reason to answer a call from America this morning.

‘Hello?’ he said, always wary of giving too much away.

‘Have I reached Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides?’ An American voice. Not what he expected at all. A twitch of anxiety in his chest.

‘You have. Who am I speaking to?’

‘This is Special Agent Vivian McKuras of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m based at the O’Hare Airport office.’

‘Has something happened to Stephanie?’ He couldn’t help himself.

‘Sergeant, I need to confirm your ID before I can say anything further. Can you give me a landline number for the police office where you are based so I can do that?’

Now he was seriously worried. What on earth had Stephanie got herself into? He rattled off the number for the major incident team he was nominally attached to. ‘You’ll have to call me back on the mobile, I’m based out of the office at the moment.’ The line went dead.

Nick jumped to his feet and hustled out of the door. There was a shout of protest behind him. He wasn’t supposed to leave the civilians unattended. But he needed to be moving. His long legs ate up the corridors and the wind of his passage whipped his shaggy hair back from his face. Out in the car park, he paced, heedless of the misty rain drifting around him. Wiry and restless, he looked almost feral in his black jeans and untucked denim shirt. Without a guitar in his hands, he didn’t know what to do with himself.

When the phone rang again, he squatted in a corner of two walls and hunched over it. ‘So tell me, Agent McKuras. What’s up that you need me?’

‘I believe you’re acquainted with Stephanie Harker?’

‘That’s right. What’s she supposed to have done?’

‘It interests me that you jump to the conclusion that she’s the doer rather than the done to, officer.’

Nick cursed himself for his impetuosity. ‘It was a lighthearted figure of speech, that’s all. Stephanie’s not a criminal. Can we please rewind and you tell me why you’re making this phone call?’ He was so much better at the face-to-face. What charms he had never seemed to survive the phone.

‘I’m calling you as part of our investigation into the apparent kidnap of Jimmy Higgins—’

‘Jimmy’s been kidnapped? Where? How? What happened?’ It made no sense. Not in America.

‘They were separated in the security area so Ms Harker could undergo a pat-down. A man approached Jimmy and walked away with him. By the time the authorities realised what had happened, they had disappeared.’

It didn’t sound anything like the whole story. But Nick knew better than to push for more right now. If all else failed, he would get Stephanie’s version soon enough. ‘Disappeared? In one of the most heavily surveilled places around? How can that be?’

‘We’re still investigating,’ she said repressively. ‘However, because Jimmy and Ms Harker are both UK residents, we’re having some difficulty in developing any credible suspects or leads over here. Now, she seems to think that you might be able to assist us in that regard, since you are already acquainted with the boy.’

Nick’s mind was racing. There was one obvious answer to that question. What he couldn’t work out was why Stephanie hadn’t reported it herself. The only reason he could imagine was that even after everything she’d gone through, she still wanted to think the best of Pete Matthews. While it made him furious that she could waste a shred of positive emotion on that piece of shit, he had to admit it spoke well of her loyalty. But still. She should have coughed about Matthews herself, not left it to him. Clearly the bastard had done her more damage than Nick had realised. ‘I do know Jimmy’s history, it’s true. You’ve not heard anything from the kidnappers?’

‘Nothing as yet. There’s nothing to point specifically to a kidnap for ransom. Can you think of anyone who might have a motive for stealing the child? I wondered about family, on either side.’

‘I can’t see it,’ Nick said slowly. ‘His dad’s family disowned Joshu when he married Scarlett. As far as I’m aware, they’ve never set eyes on the boy, never mind wanted anything to do with him.’

‘Do they have other grandchildren?’

‘I have no idea. What are you getting at?’ If she was going to push him down this line of inquiry, let her be the one who laid it out.

He heard Vivian sigh. ‘I’m thinking cultural imperatives here,’ she said slowly. ‘Some cultures place a high value on descent through the male line. If circumstances have dictated that Jimmy is the only male heir, that could change their view.’

Nick exhaled hard. ‘I’ll check it out, if you think it’s a line of investigation that needs attention. However, I think we can discount Scarlett’s family. They don’t have the money or the brains to mount what sounds like a very well-organised operation. Even if they wanted Jimmy. Which they don’t, unless he comes with a pocketful of cash.’

‘That’s pretty much what Stephanie said. So much for where we shouldn’t be looking. What about where we should?’

‘There was an obsessive fan who kept pestering Scarlett during her final illness. She was convinced that God had told her to become Jimmy’s mother if Scarlett didn’t survive. I ran across her during the investigation into Joshu’s death. We warned her off, but she wouldn’t stay away. In the end, she lost it in the hospice day room. Ended up being sectioned. I doubt she’s got the wherewithal to pull off something like this, but I will make inquiries.’

‘That definitely sounds more promising. Is that it? I have a feeling you’ve got more to tell me, Sergeant.’

She was good, this one. Nick pushed himself upright and began pacing again. ‘Stephanie used to have a boyfriend called Pete Matthews. He was one of those insidious bullies. The kind who make out it’s all for your own good, that they’re just pointing out your shortcomings so you can improve yourself. I’m sure you’ve come across the type? In your professional life, I mean?’

‘I know the sort of thing you’re talking about. Go on, Sergeant. This is interesting to me.’

‘To cut a long story short, when Steph dumped him, he turned into a stalker. She had to take out a restraining order. She ended up selling her house and more or less going into hiding for a while. It worked, in the sense that it seemed to shake him off. But because of the publicity around Scarlett’s death and Stephanie taking over caring for Jimmy, she’s been scared that he might be able to track her down again. It’s a long shot, but this is the kind of cruelty he might perpetrate.’

Vivian sighed. Nick pictured a woman with a pissed-off look about the mouth. ‘Any idea why Ms Harker didn’t volunteer this information to us herself? Right away? Instead of taking me the scenic route?’

His instinct was to leap to Stephanie’s defence, but the caution his job had taught him battened down the urge. He didn’t want this FBI agent thinking the pair of them were hand in glove in a bad way. It would poison any possibility of him helping to recover the boy Stephanie loved so much. And that would not help their relationship to flourish. ‘You’ll have to ask her that. But if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it might be something to do with the shame women in abusive relationships often feel. In her shoes, I probably wouldn’t want to own up to Pete Matthews.’ Or to Nick’s role in getting him off her back.

‘Do you know where this Pete Matthews can be found?’

‘He shouldn’t be too hard to find. There’ll be a last known address on the computer, I imagine. He’s a sound engineer, and he’s got a good professional rep. He’s generally in work. Do you want me to follow that up too?’ He stopped pacing outside the main door and leaned his forehead against the glass. Its chill made him feel feverish in spite of the rain soaking his hair.

‘It would be helpful.’

‘You’ll have to put a formal request in to my boss, then,’ he said. ‘You need to get me seconded to your inquiry if you want my help.’ Realising he sounded brusque, he added, ‘I’m in the thick of a major long-term investigation right now. I can’t squeeze other stuff in around it. Call that number I gave you and clear it with DCI Broadbent.’

‘I’ll do that. One more thing. You understand, I have to ask this. Because nobody is better placed than Stephanie to set up something as delicately poised as this kidnap. Have you any reason to suspect that, for whatever motive, she could be behind this abduction?’

Careful
, he told himself. ‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s always seemed like a decent person to me. Nobody made her take the kid on. Social services have been all over her – even though Scarlett left instructions in her will, nobody’s going to hand a kid over to someone who’s not a family member without pretty stringent investigations. So if there was anything dodgy going on, they’d have picked up on it.’

‘I guess.’ Vivian drew the words out, as if she was reluctant to accept what he was saying.

‘Listen, get Broadbent to release me from what I’m doing and I’ll get on to this like a shot.’ He paused for a moment, remembering how hard it was for Jimmy to trust anyone after what he’d already lost. ‘He’s a good kid,’ he said. ‘I hate to think of him being among strangers, scared. All that. I’ll do everything I can to help.’

‘OK. I’ll put in a call to your boss.’

‘Thanks. And . . .’ His voice tailed off. He wanted to let Stephanie know he was there for her, but using an FBI agent as conduit probably wasn’t the best way to do it.

‘Yeah?’

‘Will you be releasing Stephanie any time soon?’

‘We’re not holding her in any formal sense. She’s a cooperative witness, that’s all. A case like this, we try to get as much background info as we can. I imagine we’ll be talking for a while yet. Why?’

It was a question that didn’t have an easy answer. ‘If she wants to talk to somebody – somebody that knows Jimmy, I mean – tell her she can give me a call any time.’

‘Sure. I’ll talk to you soon, Sergeant Nicolaides.’

And the line went dead. Nick strode back to the office to pick up his jacket. He was confident enough of Broadbent to believe he wouldn’t be back at Wapping for as long as it took to sort out whatever had happened in America. Already he was making a ‘to do’ list in his head.

The only problem was that the most important item on the list was the one he could do nothing about right now. ‘Talk to Stephanie’ was going to have to wait till Special Agent McKuras had finished raking through her past. Nick couldn’t resist a wry smile.

Given how much past there was, it could take a while.

17

V
ivian had gone back to her own office to call DCI Broadbent. She’d wanted privacy, a chance to pick up a latte at Starbucks and access to her computer in case Sergeant Nicolaides’ boss wanted the request in writing. He turned out to be remarkably cooperative but yes, he wanted an email to confirm her request. She sipped her coffee and hammered out what she wanted from the English cops. She was glad Broadbent hadn’t made a big deal out of it. If she’d had to run it through her boss, God alone knew how long it would have taken today. But then, it wasn’t like she was asking for much. Just a few hours of a detective’s time. It was amazing how a child’s life on the line could cut straight through red tape.

She leaned back in her chair and considered what she had learned. Either Stephanie Harker was as decent as Nicolaides believed or else she’d comprehensively fooled him over some time. Not knowing him, it was hard to tell. For the time being, she was inclined to believe Stephanie. Her reactions thus far seemed credible to Vivian. She’d have behaved in much the same way, she reckoned. But teasing out what lay beneath those reactions was not quite so straightforward.

The ping of her email inbox derailed her thoughts. Broadbent had confirmed his agreement to her request for help. She forwarded it to her boss in the Chicago office, just to cover all the bases. While she was waiting for Abbott and Nicolaides to fill in some of the blanks, she’d see what else Stephanie Harker was willing to tell her.

When she returned to the interview room, Stephanie eyed her coffee greedily. ‘Any chance I could get one of those?’ she said. ‘I’ve been up for a long time and I’m pretty much running on empty.’ It was hard to argue against; she looked frayed and frazzled. They always did when they went into adrenalin deficit.

Vivian dug into her pocket for a twenty and gave it to Lopez. ‘Get one for yourself, Lia. You want a latte, Stephanie?’

‘Could I have a mocha? I need sugar as well as caffeine. And maybe a muffin or something?’

Vivian nodded to Lopez. ‘Get me a receipt, please.’ She took a sip of her own coffee. ‘Tell me about Pete Matthews,’ she said. ‘And before you say it, I know it’s a long story. But until we have some positive leads to chase, we may as well use the time.’

What with one thing and another, it was a couple of days before I made it back home. I’d barely had time to put the kettle on when Pete turned up with a face like a poisoned pup. ‘About bloody time you got back,’ he grouched as soon as I opened the door.

‘And it’s lovely to see you too.’ I was trying to tease him out of it, not to be sarcastic. But when he was in that kind of mood there was no point in anything other than total capitulation. ‘I did text you yesterday. Didn’t you get it?’

‘I should have a key for this house,’ he said, stomping down the hall into the kitchen. ‘I was frantic with worry when I didn’t hear from you for two bloody days. I tried to ring you, I tried to text you. But nothing.’

‘I told you. My phone was dead, and there was no Nokia charger at Scarlett’s. I didn’t manage to get another one till yesterday.’ I followed him through and carried on making a pot of coffee.

‘I came round the house to check on you. To make sure nothing had happened.’

I burst out laughing. ‘What was going to happen? I’m not an invalid, Pete. I’m a healthy woman who can take care of herself.’

‘Anything could have happened. You could have slipped in the bath and hit your head. You could have fallen downstairs. You could have been attacked by a burglar.’

I shook my head, my back to him as I pressed down the plunger in the cafetière. ‘It’s being so cheerful that keeps you going.’

Suddenly he gripped my upper arms and whirled me round. Then he clamped his hands tight round my biceps and shook me. ‘You silly bloody woman. I was worried about you.’ The anger in his face was frightening. I knew it was rooted in fear and concern, but that didn’t make it any less scary.

‘Let go, Pete, you’re hurting me,’ I yelped.

My words seemed to break the spell of his rage. Abruptly he let go and turned away. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. ‘You have no idea how upset you made me,’ he said. ‘And over what? That bloody slapper Scarlett Higgins.’

‘She’s not a slapper,’ I said, rubbing my arms. I’d have bruises later, I knew it. ‘I happened to be with her when she went into labour. And then there were things that needed sorting out.’

He turned back and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘And why’s that your responsibility? You’re her bloody ghost writer, not her mother.’

‘Because she hasn’t got anybody else. Joshu’s as much use as a cardboard hammer, most of her mates are only interested in clothes, clubbing and copping off, and she doesn’t have anything to do with her family.’

‘She’s got an agent, hasn’t she? I still don’t see why it’s down to you.’ He opened the fridge and peered suspiciously at the milk.

‘Because we’re friends, Pete.’

He snorted and sniffed the milk. ‘This is off. That’s what happens when you’re busy chasing after the Scarlett Harlot. You don’t look after yourself or the people who really care about you.’

‘Don’t call her that. It’s horrible. And she’s not. I’m sorry about the milk but there’s a carton of cream in there that hasn’t been opened. That should be fine.’ I reached past him and handed him the cream. ‘Have a bit of luxury for once.’ I was determined not to give in to his bad mood.

‘It’s not the same,’ he grumbled, tipping cream into his coffee with a mistrustful look on his face.

‘So, how’s things with you? How were the Northumbrian pipers?’

‘They were good,’ he said, brightening a little. ‘Very professional. They turned up on time, they got what we wanted straight off and they delivered. It was only the one track we needed them for, but they were a dream to work with.’ His mouth turned down again. ‘I wish I could say the same about the bloody band. Sam changes his mind more often than he changes his socks.’

Getting him off the subject of Scarlett changed the atmosphere between us, and we prepared dinner together, arguing with the radio and laughing at each other’s smartarsed remarks. Later, when we were sitting at the table, finishing off the wine, Pete suggested going out to a gig the following evening. Some indie band he’d mixed a couple of tracks for were playing down the road in Hoxton and he’d been invited.

‘As long as it’s not too early,’ I said. ‘I promised I’d pop in tomorrow at evening visiting to see Scarlett and Jimmy.’

Pete groaned. ‘Oh Christ, Stephanie. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? You running around after Scarlett and her bloody sprog? You need to back off.’

‘Pete, she had a really rough time giving birth. It’s going to take her a while to recover, so yes, I’ll be helping out for a few weeks. That’s all. Once she’s back on her feet, things will go back to normal.’

He tipped the last of his wine down his throat. ‘You’re being taken for a mug, Stephanie. And I don’t like it one little bit.’

‘It’s not like that, Pete. I keep telling you. We’re friends. Mates. We get along.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘You do things for your mates all the time. And that’s a good thing.’

‘Yeah, and they do me favours in return. It’s not a one-way street like you and Scarlett.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘No? Well, what’s she done for you lately?’

‘Friendship’s not a balance sheet, Pete. It’s not about keeping score. Scarlett’s my mate. You ask what she’s done for me lately? She’s brightened my day more times than anybody else I know. And she’s asked me to be Jimmy’s godmother.’

He spluttered with laughter. ‘You think that’s her doing something for you? You don’t even like kids. Stephanie, that’s just another way of getting her claws into you.’

I felt sad for him that he couldn’t understand the compliment. ‘No, Pete. It’s a gift. Inviting someone into your child’s life is a gift.’

‘Yeah, and you’ll be giving gifts for life in return,’ he said cynically. ‘I’ll meet you at the gig, then. If you get back in time.’

‘You could come with me?’ I cleared the plates and glasses from the table.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, his derision obvious.

And that was how it went on. Pete expected me to be available when his irregular hours gave him free time. He’d always grumbled when my work took me away, but when I wasn’t actually doing interviews, I managed to be fairly flexible to suit him. But it wasn’t always easy to accommodate the timetable of a new mother and a young baby, and Pete grew increasingly irritable if I was too busy with Scarlett and Jimmy to devote myself wholly to him. To be honest, it began to feel quite stifling. It was as if he was jealous of the time I spent with Scarlett and Jimmy.

As with all bullies, his constant niggling was at its most effective when it echoed my own misgivings. Because it was true that Scarlett needed a lot of support after Jimmy’s birth. When she came out of hospital, she wasn’t in great shape. A C-section is major abdominal surgery and that means taking things easy. She didn’t like the restrictions on her movements and activities, but she had no choice. It’s hard enough to get over major surgery; it’s an even bigger ask when your life’s been transformed by the arrival of a baby. Nothing runs the way it used to. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d had a supportive husband or family members around to pile in and give her a hand. But Joshu gave a whole new meaning to part-time parenthood. He would breeze in with flowers and soft toys, cuddle his son for ten minutes, then phone for a takeaway. He’d stick around long enough to share his food with Scarlett, then he’d be off again, working or clubbing. His life hadn’t changed at all. Drugs, drinking, DJing were still at the heart of his agenda. Women too, I suspected.

I dropped in almost every other day, running the gauntlet of media hacks who seemed to be practically living outside the gates. I began to understand how oppressed Scarlett felt by their constant presence. She certainly wasn’t in any mood to feed their hunger.

That brought its own problems. After she’d been home for four or five days, I called George. ‘You’re going to have to sort out some live-in help for Scarlett,’ I said. ‘She’s not coping. The house is a tip, the washing’s piling up and somebody needs to do a major shop.’

‘Can’t you give her a hand, Stephanie?’

Posh men. They pretend to be feminists, but really, they don’t have a bloody clue. To my horror, I found myself echoing Pete. ‘I’m her ghost, Georgie, not her mother. Sort it, would you?’

And so Marina turned up. A buxom brunette in her late twenties, Marina was from Romania but she spoke better English than most of the bimbos Scarlett hung out with when she was in her public persona. She had a sardonic sense of humour but in spite of a figure like a fifties Hollywood starlet and a face to match, she was a grafter. I liked her; more importantly, so did Scarlett. And best of all, she was entirely immune to Joshu’s charms. She made it plain that she thought he was a tosser, without ever saying or doing anything that crossed the line.

She was very clear where she drew the lines, was Marina. She was there to work, not to be Scarlett’s confidante. Whenever we tried to draw her into our circle, she’d always withdraw politely. She kept the house clean and tidy, she did the shopping and cooked the meals, she took care of Jimmy for two hours in the afternoon and that was that. In the evenings, she retreated to her room where she had a TV and a cheap laptop, or else she got on her bike and cycled to the nearest village where there was a pub and, apparently, a couple of other Romanian workers.

After that little drama, Scarlett and I fell into a more regular pattern. We would do a bit of work on magazine profiles when Marina had Jimmy in the afternoons. We generally spent our evenings with a bottle of wine and a DVD of
The West Wing
or
Footballers’ Wives
. Then we’d talk about books we were reading and the parlous state of the country under New Labour. I had to explain why Margaret Thatcher had been A Bad Thing and how her regime had created a new underclass and smashed the old alliances within the working class. The deaths of Betty Friedan and Linda Smith gave me the chance to hold forth with a brief history of feminism, which intrigued Scarlett. I kept forgetting how much she didn’t know. Sharing without patronising became one of my constant goals. But now she had discovered the wider world of politics and society, she was like a sponge, soaking up information and figuring out what it meant in her world.

Just as I was getting grief from Pete about the time I spent with her, she was getting a hard time from Joshu. Whenever our paths crossed, he was always trying to enlist me in his cause. His complaints cycled round the same basic poles. He wasn’t getting enough sex and Scarlett never wanted to go out on the town with him any more.

I couldn’t do anything about the sex, but I did try to encourage her to go out with him, if only to keep the peace. I offered to babysit, to stay over if need be. But she wasn’t keen. ‘I can’t be arsed,’ she’d say. ‘There’s no fun in it. I don’t want to get off my face and stagger around a dance floor with a bunch of airheads and dickheads. I don’t want to be where the music’s too loud to think, never mind talk. Plus I’m up half the night with Jimmy more often than not. Why would I want to be up half the night from choice? I tell you, Steph, these days my idea of a good time would be eight straight hours of sleep.’

Scarlett’s attitude didn’t help Joshu’s relationship with his son either. He ascribed the change in Scarlett’s behaviour to motherhood, not understanding that motherhood was her excuse to cover the fact that she was finally behaving as the woman she was, not the woman he believed her to be. I can see how it must have been confusing for him; emotional intelligence wasn’t his strong suit. Not that he was any better when it came to the other varieties.

And even if he’d had the nous to suspect the truth, it wouldn’t have been that easy to figure it out. Because the public Scarlett was still very much in evidence. And I have to take my share of responsibility for that. I was the only writer she could trust, so I was the one who got all the assignments from the slag mags and the red-tops.