The Vanishing Point (31 page)

‘Where you gave them details of your incoming flight?’

‘Only the one from Chicago.’

Nick nodded impatiently. ‘But for someone who knows you’re coming from the UK, it’s not hard to work out roughly when you’d be going through security for that onward flight. Have you got an account at 24/7?’

‘Yeah, I’ve had it for ever. I use it all the time. It’s brilliant for weekend trips. We should do that one of these days.’ She could feel herself blushing. This relationship still felt new enough for it to be novel for her to suggest the kind of activities that went hand in hand with commitment.

‘I’d like that. But am I right in thinking pretty much anyone in your circle would know you use them?’

‘I suppose. I never gave it much thought.’

‘And what’s your password?’

‘Dignan97. That was the first ghosting job I did, and the year I did it.’

‘And pretty much anyone in your circle could figure that out.’ He bit into his sandwich fiercely.

A sense of unease made Stephanie uncomfortable. ‘Nobody I know would be involved in this,’ she said.

‘You thought Pete might be,’ Nick said through a mouthful of bagel.

There was a long silence. ‘I don’t make a habit of creating enemies,’ Stephanie said. ‘Apart from Pete, I can’t think of anybody I’ve pissed off in the sort of way that would provoke this kind of response. I mean, when I annoy someone, it’s usually because I’ve said no to a project. And that’s just business,’ she added, upset that Nick could imagine her life as a landscape studded with angry, vengeful people.

‘I don’t mean to suggest that you go around hurting people,’ he said. ‘But there are a lot of fucked-up minds out there. Weirdos who look at the world differently to the rest of us. Who see slights and insults everywhere. It’s not impossible that somebody like that has found their way into the fringes of your life.’

Stephanie sighed. ‘That’s a horrible thought. I don’t want to start looking at my friends like they’re suspects in a major crime.’

‘Nobody does. But somebody did this, Steph. Somebody has taken Jimmy. And I think there’s still every chance we can get him back alive. Here’s another silver lining for you. Because this was targeted and not random, I think it’s very unlikely that Jimmy’s been taken by a paedophile killer. For those people, any kid will do. For whoever took Jimmy, his identity was important.’

‘That’s why I wondered about Megan the Stalker. I know you said she’s out of the picture, but there must have been other nutters obsessed with Scarlett that we don’t know about.’

‘Which is why I’m interested in people who are relatively new to your circle,’ Nick said. ‘If they saw Jimmy as the continuation of Scarlett, if they saw you as the way to Jimmy, they could have hacked your 24/7 account and found out the details of your trip weeks in advance. Plenty of time to get their ducks in a row.’

Stephanie got up and refilled her coffee. ‘I hate the very idea of this. That you think someone has wormed their way into our lives just to steal Jimmy away . . . it’s vile, Nick.’

He couldn’t meet her eyes when she sat down again. She imagined he knew too much about what human beings were capable of, that this plugged into all his worst nightmares. ‘It is vile. Who else besides you would know of anyone who had an unhealthy interest in Scarlett or Jimmy?’

‘Marina would be the obvious one. She looked after Jimmy from the start. Scarlett relied on her for everything practical. She was effectively the housekeeper.’ Stephanie absently picked up her sandwich and took a bite. ‘And Leanne, I suppose.’

Nick frowned. ‘Remind me about Leanne. I don’t think I ever heard the full story.’

So Stephanie told him. The body double, the loose lips, the exile to Spain, the final argument over Jimmy and the refusal to embrace hypocrisy to come to the funeral. Nick listened attentively. Then he spoke in careful, measured tones. ‘You’re telling me she thought she should have custody of Jimmy?’

‘I don’t think she meant it,’ Stephanie said. ‘In that respect, she was like Chrissie and Jade. She saw it as a way to get her hands on Scarlett’s money. She already had the house and the business, but she wanted more. She loved her life in Spain, and having a kid would have seriously cramped her style. Both work and play.’

‘All the same, we should check her out. Have you got contact details?’

Stephanie nodded. ‘I haven’t spoken to her since she stormed back to Spain, but I don’t expect she’s moved. She had the perfect set-up there.’

Nick looked slightly worried. ‘You didn’t call her when Scarlett died? You didn’t ask her to come to the funeral?’

‘It was Simon who spoke to her. I meant to give her a ring, but everything was too chaotic, I never got round to it. I had a Christmas card from her, though. She said she was having a good time and that we should come and visit.’

Nick nodded slowly. ‘You know what, Steph? I think you and me could really use a weekend break in Spain.’

She could see the way his mind was working and, though it made her uncomfortable, she couldn’t blame him. Once he met Leanne for himself, he’d see that organising a subtle and complex abduction simply wasn’t her style.

Of course he would.

2

S
tepping out of Malaga airport was like walking into a blast furnace. The dry heat almost took Stephanie’s breath away. By the time they got the air conditioning cranked up on the hire car, her dress was sticking to her back and she could see a trickle of sweat running down Nick’s hairline. She wondered whether it was racist to consider that his looks were better suited to Mediterranean sunshine than grey English weather. Whatever. She thought he definitely looked more glamorous in his white linen shirt and cargo shorts, sunglasses pushed back on the top of his head. Whereas she probably just looked hot and bothered.

Thanks to Google maps, they’d easily planned their route to Leanne’s house in the foothills behind the coastal strip. Nick had reckoned it would take about half an hour. Stephanie, who had spent a while in Spain interviewing a golfer, a retired soap star and a comedian, thought it would probably be nearer an hour, given the Spanish roads and the tourist drivers. At least it would be pretty once they’d cleared the airport and its immediate surroundings.

The villa Scarlett had bought for Leanne was on a quiet side road in a small township which had clearly grown around an elderly village. A couple of streets of old buildings had been ambushed by brilliant white houses with terracotta roofs. The turquoise glint of swimming pools caught Stephanie’s eye as they neared their destination. It looked like a prosperous settlement, somnolent in the late morning heat.

The gates of Leanne’s house were open, which didn’t surprise Stephanie. After all, Leanne was running a business from here, albeit there was no sign at the gates to indicate that. Maybe she was trying to avoid the local taxman, working word-of-mouth and cash in hand. They pulled in next to a silver Mercedes A-class. They’d agreed not to phone ahead and put Leanne on her guard, so it was a relief to see signs of life. ‘Must be money in this manicure business,’ Nick said.

The heat was less oppressive now they were on higher ground, but Stephanie still felt it was better suited to lying on a sunbed than playing at private investigations. Then she thought of Jimmy, ripped out of his old life and facing who knew what terrors, and mentally scolded herself. Whatever the rigours of a hot day in Spain, they faded into insignificance beside the catalogue of loss Jimmy had known. She had an unbidden flash of memory – the delight on his face when, zipped into his first wet suit, he’d swum in the sea off Brighton. He’d splashed through the gentle swell then thrown himself into her arms, giggling in delight. All she wanted was a collection of moments like that. For both of them.

Spurred on by the thought, she paid proper attention to what she was looking at. The house was cared for, the stucco clean and fresh, the gravel raked and the terracotta pots well stocked with geraniums. Bougainvillea was trained up trellises on either side of the mock-medieval nailed wooden door. ‘Looks like she’s got good help,’ Stephanie said. ‘I can’t see Leanne keeping all this in order.’

Nick pressed the doorbell and they waited. He was reaching out to push it again when they heard the shuffle of sandals on tile. The door opened to reveal a short, squat man with skin tanned lizard brown. He wore nothing but riotously patterned shorts and flip flops. Where there should have been a six-pack was a taut firkin. A shock of thick white hair protected his head from the sun that had turned the rest of him mahogany. He looked mildly surprised to see them.

Not as surprised as Stephanie and Nick were to see him. ‘We’re looking for Leanne,’ Stephanie said. ‘This is the right house, isn’t it?’

The man scratched his head. ‘Right house, wrong year. We bought the house after she moved out and we’ve been here, what . . . nine months?’ His accent was Liverpudlian with the edges scuffed off.

‘I’m sorry, Mr . . . ?’ Nick pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

‘Sullivan. Johnny Sullivan. And you are?’

Nick showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides, Met Police. And this is Stephanie Harker.’

‘I’m not with the police,’ Stephanie said. ‘I’m an old friend of Leanne.’

‘Well, like I said, she’s not been here for a long time now. We bought the house, all above board. Never met her, like. It was done through the lawyers.’

‘Can we come in, Mr Sullivan? I’d like to ask a couple of questions.’

Sullivan drew his eyebrows down in a considering frown. ‘I don’t see why not. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

They followed him down a cool hallway and into a big kitchen that looked out over a small kidney-shaped pool. Beyond it was a small building. Sullivan cocked his head towards it. ‘She used to run a nail-bar business out there. According to the wife, she was well thought of among the expat women. Did a good job and she wasn’t dear. She was cousins with that Scarlett lass, the one off
Goldfish Bowl
that died of cancer. But you’d know that, with her being your mate, like.’ He gestured at the patio with his thumb. ‘In or out?’

‘In will be fine, Mr Sullivan.’ Nick stood with his hand pointedly on the back of a chair.

‘Take a seat,’ Sullivan said. ‘You want a glass of water? Or a beer? I’ve got the local brew, it’s not bad.’

They accepted a glass of water each and began the business of extracting information from Johnny Sullivan. He was forthcoming to a fault, apparently holding nothing back. A year ago, he and his wife had been renting an apartment in the village, looking for somewhere to buy. Leanne had taken off one day without warning, causing some annoyance to her customers, who had all forgiven her when they heard her celebrity cousin had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Nobody could argue with that as a reason for cancelling a pedicure.

What had been more surprising was that Leanne hadn’t come back. Someone had obviously been to the villa to pack up her clothes and personal effects, but they’d been in and out without anybody seeing them. ‘People assumed she’d decided to stop in the UK.’ He shrugged. ‘Some folk get homesick, like. They miss the food and the weather.’

A few weeks after her departure, the villa had been quietly put on the market. Johnny and his wife heard about it through the network of property lawyers. ‘I won’t lie to you, we pounced on it. The price was fair and it was exactly what we were looking for.’

‘You bought it from Leanne herself?’ Nick asked. Stephanie was fascinated to watch him in action. He asked things that wouldn’t have immediately occurred to her, but she could see how important the questions were. They were both expert interrogators, but because they started with different goals, they took very different routes.

‘Well done, young man. You put your finger on the one unusual thing about the whole transaction. The property wasn’t in Leanne’s name, it was owned by some charitable trust.’

‘Was it the TOmorrow Trust, by any chance?’ Stephanie was pretty sure she already knew the answer, but she had to ask.

Johnny Sullivan pointed his finger at her like a pistol. ‘Got it in one. I assumed it was a tax dodge. It usually is round here.’

‘Did she leave a forwarding address?’

‘Only the lawyer. She didn’t get much post, but when anything does come, we pass it straight on to the lawyer.’

‘Do you know if Leanne was particularly friendly with anyone in the village?’ Nick leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed, sociable interest.

‘She had a bit of a thing for Paco. He runs the bar in the main square. She was pally with a British couple, Ant and Cat. The three of them used to hang about in the bar nattering to Paco. But I don’t think they’re in touch with her any more. Ant and Cat got married at New Year and they sent her an invitation via the lawyer. She never so much as sent a card or a wedding present, let alone turned up. They were really pissed off with her.’ That was the last nugget of useful information they got from Johnny Sullivan.

As they waved goodbye, Stephanie said, ‘It sounds like Leanne had really had it with Scarlett. To turn her back on all of this, just because they had a row.’

Nick grunted noncommittally. ‘It’s interesting,’ he said. ‘I want to see what Paco and the famous Ant and Cat have to say.’

They found the bar without difficulty. Better yet, the three people they wanted to speak to were all there. It was a typical village bar; simple décor, basic menu and a friendly ambience. But as soon as they mentioned Leanne’s name, the temperature dropped. ‘Walked out on us without a word,’ bleached-blond Ant said, curling his lip in contempt. He rolled his shoulders, deliberately displaying his weight-room muscles. ‘She was Cat’s best mate but she just used you, pet. As soon as she was back with her celebrity pals, we were history.’ Paco nodded, polishing a wine glass with vigour.

Cat, statuesque with an Amy Winehouse mane of raven hair that owed everything to the skills of her hairdresser, nodded sagely. ‘Dumped Paco there like he had the pox. Not so much as a postcard or a text. I lost count of the number of times I texted her and got nothing back.’ Ant patted her hand.

‘And voicemail,’ Paco chipped in. ‘She ignore my voicemail twenty time or more. She love that life in London, I know this. But I think she will come back because we have something good.’ He finished polishing the glass and replaced it on the shelf. ‘I love her. But is no point.’

‘That’s right, Paco. No point. How could we compete with the likes of Scarlett?’ Cat pouted, petulant as an adolescent.

‘After Scarlett died, did you not expect her to come home?’

‘Course we did,’ Ant said, flexing his forearms. ‘But she must have hooked up with some bloke with more money than sense.’

‘She always had an eye for the main chance.’

It was, thought Stephanie, an odd judgement. Living in a small Spanish hill town and painting women’s nails for a living didn’t seem to her to demonstrate an eye for the main chance. What it had always said to her was that Leanne was a woman who knew her limitations and was happy to work within them. If she’d been a gold-digger or someone who was only out for what she could get, she’d had her chances when she’d been living at the hacienda. She’d had power over Scarlett and Joshu and she’d never chosen to wield it. But Ant and Cat had constructed their story as deliberately as Stephanie built the biographies of her clients and this was the version of Leanne that would be handed down now and for ever.

A second beer in the bar produced nothing else of significance. It was clear to Stephanie that Leanne had made a life here then promptly burned her bridges behind her. But Nick saw a different set of possibilities.

They weren’t the sort of possibilities that would fill anyone’s heart with joy.