by Alex Carver
“You’ll have to play the game to see how she’s back.”
Though he was amused to see his usually reserved partner so animated, Stone knew he had to bring conversation around to their reason for being there. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Keating, but we are here on a matter of the utmost importance and urgency.”
“Yes, of course, sorry,” Keating apologised. “I tend to get a little over-excited when I’m talking about our games. So, inspector, what can I help you with?”
“I’m afraid we’re here with bad news,” Stone said. “And there’s no way to sugar-coat it. Approximately an hour and a quarter ago, after leaving school, your daughter, Alice, was kidnapped.”
The colour drained from Keating’s features and, white-faced, he sagged in his chair. His breath came in short sharp gasps, and Stone feared he was having a heart-attack. It was several long moments before he recovered, enough at least to straighten up a little, though he still looked as if he had just survived an encounter with a phantom. “What happened?” he asked hesitantly. “Who took my little girl?”
“We don’t know at this time,” Burke answered before Stone could say anything. “We have some witnesses who were able to tell us that your daughter was taken by three people in a white van; we have the license number, and are confident we will catch your daughter’s kidnappers and have her home safe, soon.”
Stone wished Burke hadn’t said that. He could understand wanting to reassure the upset father, but unfounded confidence was not the way to go about it. “I realise this will be of little comfort to you right now, Mr Keating,” he said in his most compassionate and professional voice. “But based on what we know at this time; we believe your daughter was kidnapped for financial reasons. Not…not for any other reasons.”
If it was possible, Owen Keating went whiter than he had before – his face took on the sickly pallor of someone nearing the end of a long-term and fatal illness. Both Stone and Burke started round the desk, but Keating waved them away, indicating that he was alright.
“Do you have any enemies who might be responsible for taking your daughter?” Stone asked, once Keating no longer looked as though he needed medical attention.
Puzzled, Keating shook his head. “No, I have no enemies, I just run a computer games company. Why would you think I have enemies?”
“It’s a possible line of enquiry, Mr Keating; after all, you are rich, and becoming rich can involve making enemies. Then there’s the recent attempted takeover of your company by Feliks International; as I understand it, the owner has been linked to the Russian mafia. It’s possible that he has resorted to extreme measures to get his hands on your company.”
A quick bark of laughter escaped Keating, surprising him as much as it did the two detectives. It was enough to bring a touch of colour back to his face, making him look less unhealthy. “Grigori Feliks is not connected with organised crime, in Russia, or anywhere else, at least not as far as I’m aware. He’s a tough businessman, and used to getting what he wants, I can certainly vouch for that, but that’s all.
“His interest in buying this company, other than it being a good asset for anyone, stemmed from his favourite grandson’s interest in the Undead Evil series. I wasn’t prepared to sell the company, but we were able to make a deal which we are both happy with.”
“Can I ask the nature of that deal? It might have a bearing on your daughter’s kidnapping?” Stone said when he saw that Keating was about to say something.
After a moment, during which he appeared to be trying to work out what the inspector was thinking, Keating shrugged. “It’s not public knowledge yet, and the agreement allows Grigori to make the announcement, but as long as you keep it to yourself it should be okay. Grigori owns a lot of companies, among them a production company and a publishing company; the agreement allows Grigori’s companies to produce films, television series and books using characters from the Undead Evil series and set in the UE universe. We also agreed to include a character named after Grigori’s grandson in the next game.
“I can’t go into any more detail at this time but, given the agreement, I can’t imagine that Grigori would have had anything to do with Alice being taken.”
Stone nodded. “I think you’re right, we can rule Mr Feliks out. To be honest, Mr Keating, I didn’t consider it very likely, but I had to ask.”
Keating nodded understandingly.
“Whoever has kidnapped your daughter, we will catch them and bring Alice home safely,” Stone said, projecting as much confidence as he could. “My superior has requested a technical expert from Scotland Yard,” he continued. “They should be here in a couple of hours, and will help us with tracing the kidnappers when they get in touch. We’ll need to set ourselves up at your home, and speak to your family and your household staff; we might even need to speak to some of your employees here.” When it became clear that Owen Keating was having difficulty taking things in, Stone signalled his partner to fetch the man a drink from the bar that sat discreetly in the corner of the office.
16
Burke knew he had found the right room when he saw the constable seated to one side of the door.
“Everything alright, Hanks?” he asked the young officer.
Hanks jumped to his feet at the detective’s approach. “Yes, sergeant, no problems so far – they’re both still out of it.”
Burke nodded and pushed the door open, he then held it so the couple with him could enter. “I’m sorry your daughter hasn’t been given a room of her own,” he said once they were all inside. “But it was thought best if she and Mr Jacobs were put in a room together, so they can be protected easier.”
“Protected! Why should Julia need protecting?” Mrs Harris asked in a worried voice as she approached the right-hand bed, which held her daughter. Julia showed no sign of being aware that her parents were there.
“We have no reason for thinking that she does,” Burke said reassuringly. “It’s simply a precaution. She is a material witness to a serious crime, the kidnapping of Alice Keating, as is Mr Jacobs. There is a chance, though we consider it unlikely, that the kidnappers will try to keep them from talking to us. Don’t worry,” he said quickly in response to the alarm his words had inspired in Julia Harris’ parents. “As I said, we don’t consider it likely. Just in case, though, there will be a constable stationed outside this room at all times, and the hospital’s security staff have been warned to keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously in this area.”
“Why isn’t Julia responding?” William Harris wanted to know. He waved a hand in front of his daughter’s face, and then shook her shoulder, but there was no reaction from her. Her eyes were open and fixed on a spot on the wall opposite. “Did they do something to her?”
Sheila Harris’ hand flew to her mouth, and she went white as she imagined the things that could have been done to her daughter. None of the possibilities that occurred to her were good, and she sagged against the bed.
“No, they didn’t do anything to Julia,” Burke reassured her. “She’s in shock; it’s understandable after what she witnessed. She’ll come out of it in time, probably by morning; for now, the doctors want to keep an eye on her.”
17
With DC Grey at his side, DS Mason walked up the path to Seventeen Cutler Street. He would rather have been at the station, questioning Jerry Logan, but the second half of the Ice-Cream Boys was still to be found.
Mason knocked loudly on the door and rang the bell, making sure that if he was home, David Ashford would hear him. He was on the doorstep for the best part of a minute before he heard footsteps approaching, and then the door swung open. The unhappy, and slightly contemptuous, look on the face of the huge man framed in the door told Mason that both he and Grey had been recognised as detectives, and their profession was not well thought of.
“What d’you want?” the giant of a man asked in a deep voice that was intended to discourage them.
“David Ashford?” Mason asked.
“Detective Sergeant Mason and Detective Constable Grey,” Mason said. “We need to ask you a few questions, can we come in?” He stepped forward, as though he was going to force his way into the house.
Despite being big enough at six-five, and seventeen stone of muscle, to keep the detective out with ease, Ashford stepped back. He let Mason in without a vocal protest, though his expression made it all too plain that he would rather have told him where to go.
“Well, Mr Logan,” Mason said when he reached the living room and saw the figure on the sofa. “This is a surprise; we’ve been looking all over for you.”
Annoyance written on his face, Jerry Logan paused the game he was playing. “You can’t have been lookin’ hard,” he remarked. “I’ve been ‘ere, all day.” The slur in his voice revealed that the can of lager on the coffee table in front of him was not his first.
“Well, we’ve found you now, and we have some questions we’d like to ask you down at the station. Chris,” Mason turned to his partner, “would you take Mr Logan out to the car and keep an eye on him, while I speak to Mr Ashford.”
Briefly, Mason thought Jerry was going to protest, or make a break for it – his eyes darted around the room as if he was searching for a means of escape. After a second or so, though, he got to his feet and allowed himself to be led from the room without complaint, and without resistance. Mason was glad about that, the paperwork resulting from someone resisting arrest and breaching their license conditions was a pain he preferred not to have to deal with.
Once he heard the front door close on his partner and Jerry Logan, Mason turned his attention to David Ashford, who fixed him with a very unfriendly look. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr Ashford,” he suggested; looking up at the bigger man throughout an interview was likely to hurt his neck.
Slowly, as if to make it clear that he was doing so because it was what he wanted to do, and not what he had been told to do, Ash sat. “So, what d’you want?” he asked impatiently when the detective before him didn’t speak straight away. “You said you have some questions for me, what are they? I got better things to do with my time than talk to a pig.”
Mason ignored the insult, knowing it had been made deliberately, with the intention of getting a reaction. “Where were you on Sunday night?” he asked once he judged he had kept the man waiting for long enough. He didn’t think Ashford was involved in the robbery, he was far too big to be either of the armed robbers, but he was sure the man had agreed to provide his friends with an alibi – he just had to prove that.
“What the hell d’ya want to know that for?” Ash demanded suspiciously. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“I didn’t say you have; is there any reason why I might think you have done something wrong?” Mason asked.
“No, but you pigs are all the same; once a guy’s got a record you think he can’t go straight, and you’re always trying to find him guilty of something.” His dislike of the police was evident.
“If you’ve done nothing wrong then you’ve nothing to worry about. Now, where were you on Sunday night?”
“I was in the pub, having a good old pissup.”
“Which pub, and until when?”
“The Horse and Jockey; I was there till it closed, ‘bout midnight, something like that.”
“Is there anyone who can confirm that?” Having listened to the recording of the interview with Ben Logan, Mason knew the details of the alibi the suspected armed robber had given.
“Ben and Jerry, the landlord, Nick Lansing, Charlie and Magda, the barmaids, and probably a bunch of the regulars.” Ash smiled. “It wasn’t a busy night but there were a reasonable bunch of guys there.”
That tallied with what Ben Logan had said, but Mason didn’t consider it confirmation of his alibi. “That takes you up to midnight, or thereabouts,” he said. “What about after that? What did you do after you left the pub?”
“I came home.”
“Alone?”
“No, Ben and Jerry were with me.”
“Did you come straight home from the pub?” Mason moved over to the window and, keeping one eye on Ashford, flicked the net curtain aside so he could look out and check on his partner and Jerry Logan – everything was okay as far as he could tell.
Ash shook his head. “Not straight away; we stopped off at the takeaway, Nando’s, for some grub. Once we had that we came back here and finished off some beers I had in the fridge while playing Call of Duty. We were here for the rest of the night. That good enough for you? D’you need anything else?”
Mason shook his head, as if accepting Ashford’s story, but then he spoke again, “Ben Logan gave us the same story when we questioned him down at the station; the funny thing is, he couldn’t explain how, if he and his brother were here with you, two people matching their descriptions were seen leaving the scene of an armed robbery that took place just after one o’clock on Sunday morning at the Rock Radio Music Festival. Nor could he explain how his brother’s fingerprint came to be in the pavilion where the robbery occurred.” He paused to let that sink in, noting the nervous look that appeared in David Ashford’s eyes. “Perhaps you can explain that.”
Ash was silent as his mind raced; he wasn’t dumb, but neither was he very good at thinking on his feet. He couldn’t think of an answer, and he didn’t want to say anything that might get his friends, or himself, into more trouble than they might already be in.
“Perhaps you’d like some more time to think about what you and the Logans were doing on Sunday night,” Mason suggested. “How about down at the station.”
Ash surged to his feet, his face darkening, and Mason had to resist the urge to back up and put some more space between them. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said warningly. “It won’t do you any good; just sit back down.”
“I’m not having you pigs set me up.” The muscles in Ash’s huge arms flexed and rippled and his meaty fists clenched and unclenched, hinting unpleasantly at the damage they could do. “I already did two years because of you bastards, for what, a few lousy radios.”
“It was a little more than that, Mr Ashford,” Mason said, having looked at David Ashford’s short criminal record before coming to talk to him, “as you know. I can assure you, though, that I have no intention of setting you up, for anything. If you’ve done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about; I simply want to confirm the alibi that you and Ben Logan have provided for both Ben and his brother.”
18
Stone turned away from the gate, glad that Louisa Orchard was still the only reporter he had to deal with, and made his way up the drive. He could only wonder how much longer it would be before more reporters, perhaps even some from the national newspapers, and representatives of the news networks, arrived to report on the kidnapping of Alice Keating – he hoped it would be a while, but he suspected that sooner than any of them would like, it wouldn’t be possible to leave the property without being bombarded by questions and having dozens of photographs taken.
“Okay,” he said briskly as he entered the library, where the staff had assembled at his instruction. “I’m sure by now you are all aware of what has happened.” He had said nothing to the staff himself, and he had instructed his officers not to say anything, but he didn’t doubt that the news of Alice Keating’s kidnapping had reached them anyway.
There was a chorus of nods from the staff, revealing that he had been right. To a person, they wore shocked expressions, with the housekeeper and the butler, whom Stone presumed were the longest-serving of the Keatings’ servants, seeming almost grief-stricken.
“I want it understood that none of you are to speak to the press, or any news reporters, or indeed anyone, about this without my permission, is that clear?” Another bout of synchronised nodding answered him. “Good. Now, I will be s
peaking to each of you in turn about this.”
“Why? Do you think one of us was involved?” A concerned voice asked.
Stone identified the speaker as Ken Williams, one of the two junior gardeners – he had been introduced to all the staff as they were assembled, but he knew nothing about them yet beyond their names, and their positions within the household. “Not at all,” he said, making a mental note to have the young man checked out.
He had no idea if Williams had anything to do with Alice Keatings’ kidnapping, but the concern in his voice suggested he wasn’t happy at the thought of being questioned by the police. Not only that, but the way he glanced at Stone and then quickly looked away, without being able to take his eyes off him completely, indicated he had something to hide. “But it’s possible you know something that will help us find Miss Keating and catch the people who have taken her.
“I gather from Mr Keating that there are some staff members not here at present,” Stone said, looking around the assembled group.
“Yes, that’s right,” Vincent Chambers, the house-manager, said with a nod of his head. “It’s Hamish Gordon’s half day, he’s the senior gardener, and Katya Bilinski, the second maid, is on holiday – she’s gone home to visit her family, in Poland I believe.” He looked to the housekeeper, who doubled as cook, for confirmation.
“That’s right, she’s due back on Monday,” Mrs Wembley – the moment he was told her name Stone had thought of the old sitcom ‘On The Up’ and its catchphrase ‘Just the one, Mrs Wembley’ – said, her face the most troubled of all the staff.
“Then of course there’s Brian, who’s in hospital,” Chambers continued.
Stone waited until the house-manager, a position he still thought of as butler, whom he had questioned last, left the library, only then did he turn to Burke. “What do you think?” he asked.
Burke allowed himself some time to consider the question before he answered. “That gardener, the young one, Williams, is hiding something,” he said. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s drugs, or something like that, rather than anything to do with the kidnapping, but we’ll have to check him out.”