Stealing People

by Robert Wilson

Boxer leaned back from the bare table in the initial meeting room: no phones, no computers, no interruptions for the families they saw there. The young woman stared at him. Her broad shoulders relaxed inside a pricey grey leather jacket with oversized fur collar and zips going every which way. Her elbows rested on the arms of the chair with strong hands hanging down over a high-waisted long black leather pencil skirt, which had ridden up to show muscular calves enclosed by black ribbed tights. She crossed her legs with no protest from the leather.

  ‘Why come to me?’ he asked, trying to work out how old she was, the expensive clothes going a long way to disguising her youth.

  ‘I was advised.’

  ‘Who by?’

  Silence. Her foot started nodding with her thoughts.

  ‘Going to give me a name?’ asked Boxer.

  ‘That’s my business,’ she said.

  ‘Just out of interest, where are you from?’

  ‘Not relevant.’

  ‘Not strictly, I know. It just helps me … culturally. You sound English but with a slight American accent and you have the look of a South or Central American. Venezuelan maybe. Habla español?’

  ‘Si, mi madre era Cubana, and my father’s English. I did some schooling in the States … my father has business interests there.’

  ‘How did they meet? Your parents.’

  ‘On my father’s yacht.’

  ‘You said “era”. Does that mean your mother’s dead?’

  ‘She died just over six years ago. Breast cancer followed by liver cancer.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Boxer, taking a stab: not easy to age people in their twenties.

  ‘Then why ask?’

  ‘Don’t make me fight for every answer,’ said Boxer. ‘It tires me out and I lose interest.’

  ‘Twenty.’

  Boxer raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Ish,’ she said.

  A knock. The door opened without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Amy, backing out. ‘I didn’t know you had people.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The heating engineer working in your flat says he’s finished but wants to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll call him back.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Siobhan,’ said the young woman, swivelling in her seat, stretching out her hand, which caught Amy off guard: unexpectedly formal. She stumbled reaching forward to shake it.

  ‘My daughter, Amy,’ said Boxer.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Amy, retreating under Siobhan’s unswerving gaze.

  The door closed. Siobhan turned back to Boxer.

  ‘Where’s she from?’ she asked, eyes wide.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Boxer. ‘Her mother’s Ghanaian …’

  ‘And you’re English,’ said Siobhan. ‘We should get along just fine. Nice looking girl. How old is she?’

  ‘Were the police looking for your father at the time of his disappearance?’ asked Boxer, ignoring her, not comfortable with the look she’d given Amy.

  ‘Not actively.’

  ‘Look, why not go to them? They’ve got far more resources than me.’

  ‘My father’s a very private kind of guy. The sort of information I’d have to give the police is not what he’d like to have out there,’ she said, flinging a hand at the window. ‘The people he does business with wouldn’t like that kind of … scrutiny. Is that the right word?’

  ‘It’ll do,’ said Boxer. ‘You’ve seen my colleague Roy Chapel, he’s ex-police—’

  ‘But I’m not talking to Roy Chapel,’ said Siobhan. ‘I’m only talking to you, Charles Boxer. Nobody else.’

  ‘There are plenty of people a lot more qualified than I am to find your father,’ said Boxer. ‘Private eyes with contacts everywhere, even in the criminal world if that’s what you’re hinting at. I’ll give you some names. You can tell them I sent you.’

  ‘I’m not interested in anybody else. I only want you.’

  ‘What if I’m not available … or interested?’

  ‘My father and I were staying at the Savoy Hotel,’ said Siobhan, riding over that little wave. ‘Since my mother died we’ve been very close. He takes me with him everywhere. He doesn’t go for a walk in the park to smoke a cigarette and leave me behind sitting in a hotel room with no communication for three days.’

  She was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, her hands clasped, resting her chin on them. She had long, thick, dark, glossy hair falling in waves to her shoulders, framing her face, which was both strong and beautiful. She had a wide red lipsticked mouth and a slight gap between her very white front teeth. Her light brown eyes under a pair of long, darkly gabled eyebrows transfixed him, held him to account.

  Something about her left Boxer hanging in the balance. He couldn’t make his mind up one way or the other and wasn’t sure about what. She was a danger to him, he’d intuited that, but he could feel an irresistible pull into some innate darkness.

  ‘This doesn’t mean I’m taking on the job, but let’s have your father’s name,’ he said. ‘Preferably his real name and his age.’

  ‘Conrad Jensen,’ she said. ‘But everybody calls him Con … not for the obvious reason. As I understand it, you’ve got to be straight-talking if you want to get anywhere in the security business. And he’s seventy-two but doesn’t look it. He’s tall at six foot three, lean and fit. He’s got a beard at the moment, which I don’t like.’

  ‘Photo?’

  Siobhan played with her iPhone, handed it over.

  ‘That was taken four days ago in Green Park,’ she said. ‘He dyes his hair.’

  Jensen was in a wool coat, a burgundy scarf and a black trilby. His beard was brownish mixed with grey, but well clipped and shaped like a shovel. Boxer zoomed in on the face, which did not look as careworn as he might have expected. Jensen’s dark hair was touching the collar of the coat. He had high cheekbones and his eyes were an intense blue and stared into the camera, giving the face a mesmerising charisma.

  ‘How long did it take before you called someone about Con disappearing?’

  ‘Three hours,’ she said. ‘He told me he’d be gone for an hour. I try not to panic.’

  ‘And who did you call?’

  ‘His girlfriend Tan … short for Tanya. Her surname’s Birch, although you could switch the r for a t and get a more accurate picture of what she’s like.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She was pissed … annoyed, I mean. And possibly drunk, too. That would not be unusual,’ she said. ‘She was always annoyed if she found out we were in London and Dad hadn’t called her.’

  ‘So why did you call her?’

  ‘Just in case Dad had gone over there for a … you know … fuck, and not told me.’

  ‘Was that the nature of Con and Tan’s relationship?’

  ‘Fuck pals, you mean?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Siobhan, sitting back, hands clasped over her stomach,’ I mean, he didn’t call her up for philosophical or literary discussions or to go out to the theatre, the opera or even the movies. It was always dinner in somewhere like Locatelli’s or the Wolseley and then back to her place.’

  ‘Did you ever go?’

  She frowned and pouted.

  ‘Tan and I didn’t get along. Ever since a couple of years ago when I went to stay with her while Dad flew off to a meeting in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Want to tell me about that?’

  ‘None of your business. You haven’t even taken on the job and you want all the dirt,’ she said, reclaiming her iPhone.

  ‘You got any siblings?’ asked Boxer.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Half-siblings?’

  ‘None that have ever been talked about.’

  ‘Who did you call after the angry Tan?’

  ‘Dad’s lawyer, Mark Rowlands.’

  ‘I don’t know that name.’


  ‘It took me a while to track him down. He was on a trip down the Amazon.’

  ‘What did he tell you to do?’

  ‘Sit tight until he called me back.’

  ‘And that took a while?’

  ‘A couple of days,’ she said. ‘But when he did, he gave me your name.’

  ‘Does Mark Rowlands think your father has been kidnapped?’

  ‘If he has, then nobody’s thought to ask me for a ransom.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer the question,’ said Boxer. ‘Did Mark Rowlands give you my name because I’m a freelance kidnap consultant or what?’

  ‘I think it’s probably more along the lines of “or what”, because he didn’t tell me you were a kidnap consultant.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘He told me that you ran this charitable foundation called LOST, that you were skilled at finding people. And yes, he mentioned that you were a negotiator but he didn’t relate it to kidnapping.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m known primarily as a kidnap consultant. I am not particularly skilled at finding people. I run this charitable foundation for personal reasons.’

  ‘What are they?’

  He looked at her long and hard with a stare that should have had her shifting in her seat. Siobhan smiled back, her tongue flickering in the gap between her teeth.

  ‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,’ she said.

  ‘My father went missing when I was a kid, seven years old. I never heard from him again,’ said Boxer. ‘I like to help people who’ve suffered the same sort of loss.’

  ‘Tan came back from work early and found me fucking a boy on the sofa.’

  ‘I thought you were going to tell me the real reason Mark Rowlands recommended my services.’

  ‘The real reason?’

  ‘I’m not a PI. He didn’t mention my kidnap consulting skills. I used to be in homicide and Amy’s mother is a detective inspector. So why, given my lack of primary skills and all my police connections in this burning metropolis overflowing with investigative talent, should you come to me?’

  Silence.

  She knew. He could tell she knew the one thing nobody was supposed to know about him. He could also tell that she’d been told not to mention the unmentionable.

  ‘How old were you?’ he asked, switching the subject.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When Tan caught you with the boy.’

  ‘Not quite sixteen,’ she said, relieved to be off the hook. ‘But that wasn’t it.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I think it was because we were on her best white leather sofa.’

  ‘So if Con didn’t meet Tan, and kidnapping doesn’t seem to be a concern, where else could he have gone?’ asked Boxer. ‘Your father presumably has business associates, and Mark Rowlands will have—’

  ‘Dad doesn’t work with anybody. He might team up with someone for a contract but never on a regular basis. He keeps himself to himself. But he has plenty of businessmen and other … types he deals with.’

  ‘So what’s his game?’

  ‘He supplies security to the US military.’

  ‘But he doesn’t work for one of the known private security companies?’

  ‘He’s a private contractor … that’s all I can tell you. He hasn’t sat me down and talked me through his business. I listen to his phone calls when he’s in the room. I pick things up. That’s all.’

  ‘Any names?’

  ‘Some, but you don’t get to hear those until you’ve taken on the job.’

  She was impressive, had learnt a few things listening to her father, not a common trait in the young.

  ‘Do you know the value of any of these contracts? Have you heard figures?’

  ‘They’re not peanuts.’

  ‘If you’re in the Savoy …’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about my ability to pay.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m interested in levels. Hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions or more?’

  ‘More,’ said Siobhan. ‘What does that tell you?’

  ‘It’s just an indication of risk.’

  ‘Are you risk averse?’

  ‘Is that one of your father’s expressions?’ asked Boxer. ‘I’m a kidnap consultant. I don’t take risks with other people’s lives. That’s the extent of my aversion. What about Con?’

  ‘My father was never risk averse, but that doesn’t mean he was reckless. He just … pursued his interests.’

  ‘Does that mean financial or business interests or just what fascinated him?’

  ‘He tried to avoid being bored even for money.’

  ‘Where do you live now?’ he asked, finding her caginess tiresome, but impressed by the way she played her hand. ‘Are you still in the Savoy or of no fixed abode?’

  ‘I moved into a flat in Islington this morning. Lofting Road. A short-term rental.’

  ‘OK, that’s good. Don’t want you out on the streets,’ said Boxer. ‘So where do you and your father live normally?’

  ‘These last few years he’s had his work cut out in the Middle East,’ said Siobhan. ‘We have a flat in Dubai, been spending time there.’

  ‘All right,’ said Boxer. ‘Give me your mobile phone number and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Why can’t you let me know now?’ she asked, dropping her guard for a second, showing her need.

  ‘Because now I’d have to say no, whereas later I might say yes … depending.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how my enquiries go.’

  She got up to go, keeping her eye on Boxer as she collected her things, trying to think of something that might persuade him to say yes. As she headed for the door, Boxer couldn’t help looking at her: the long silver zip that travelled the length of the skirt with its winking pull tab hanging below the hem, her black stilettos with the silver detail above the heels, her narrow hips, her broad shoulders, her hair cascading over the grey fur collar, which didn’t look fake.

  At the door, she turned, caught him looking at her and interpreted it right. Not sexual, just curious. Puzzled even. She reached for the handle and revealed a chunky Breitling Galactic stainless-steel watch and bracelet on a wide caramel wrist. If anything persuasive had occurred to her, she’d decided that saying nothing was more powerful. She nodded to him, closed the door quietly.

  Boxer stared after her, still dazed, definitely not at his best after an all-night poker game in which he’d lost £120,000. He’d returned home at first light, collapsed into bed. He’d woken up at three in the afternoon remembering the dangerous thought he’d had only the previous morning (one of those that no one should ever be tempted to think) that life was good. His relationship with Amy, built on the solid rock of trust, was getting better as they worked more closely together. He was in love with Isabel, who he’d consulted for on the kidnap of her daughter a couple of years ago, and the passion had not abated. Mercy had turned her attention to her new boyfriend, Marcus Alleyne, and had eased herself into a friendship with Boxer rather than insisting on being his lover manqué. He was even getting on better with his mother, Esme. Amy, who was very close to her, had been instrumental in that. All this had meant that he was careful about the consulting jobs he took, travelled less and was as close to being happy as he’d ever been.

  And then he’d lost heavily at poker. No cards and all his bluffs had failed, and yet he couldn’t tear himself away from the table. Now Siobhan had stepped into his world. He knew that this job was something he shouldn’t even have to think about. The answer was a screaming NO! The kid looked like trouble on stilts. And yet … there was something fascinating about her, and Conrad too.

  The first thing he had to find out was how she knew about his willingness to kill people who’d done wrong. As far as he was concerned there was only one man in London with that knowledge: Martin Fox of Pavis Risk Management, who’d given him freelance work since he�
�d left the salaried security of the top kidnap consulting private security company GRM. He hadn’t worked for Pavis since the job he’d done for Isabel and her ex-husband Frank D’Cruz, negotiating the return of their daughter Alyshia. There’d been offers but he’d turned them down, didn’t like Fox’s intimate knowledge of his past. Fox had been clever enough not to press him, understood his sensibilities. Now, as Boxer’s thoughts rumbled on in the aftermath of Siobhan’s powerful charisma, he began to wonder whether this was just Martin Fox making an indirect approach.

  Boxer made the call.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ said Fox, coming on the line.

  ‘I think we should meet,’ said Boxer.

  ‘I’d given up on you.’

  ‘I’ll see you at our usual bench.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty.’

  He hung up, put his coat and scarf on, tucked his Canadian trapper’s hat under his arm and went out into the main office, where he saw Siobhan still there fitting a black furry Cossack hat on to her head and finishing up a conversation with Amy. She slipped her hands into some black leather fur-trimmed gloves, hunched her shoulders and walked out, one hand in the pocket of her calf-length raincoat, the other yanking out an umbrella from the coat stand. She swaggered a little and returned Boxer’s unflinching gaze. He waited until he heard her heels on the stairs.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Boxer.

  ‘My earrings.’

  ‘Your earrings?’

  ‘And she asked me out.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘A Sarah Lucas show at the Whitechapel Gallery.’

  ‘Sarah Lucas?’

  ‘Not your kind of thing, Dad.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Instinct,’ she said and shrugged.

  ‘You going to go?’

  ‘If I don’t get interrupted any more and I can finish my work.’

  ‘What do you make of her … Siobhan?’

  ‘She’s cool.’

  ‘You want to expand on that?’

  ‘Why? She want us to work for her?’

  ‘Me. She wants me to do something for her.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Find someone,’ said Boxer, walking to the window, looking down on Siobhan as she came out into the mews. ‘Her father.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’