by PT Reade
“Right.”
“Then you’re a friend of mine,” he said. “Look…I know this party is sort of stiff, but that’s how I have to run it for the others. Why don’t you come back in and just enjoy yourself? Have a drink or two. I’ll pay you for the whole six hours, but consider yourself off the clock.”
“You sure?”
Again he smiled and I felt the full force of his natural charisma. No doubt about it, I started to like the guy.
“I am. We can’t have the man who solved the Ellington case punching any reporters.” He winked at me conspiratorially. “Feel free to keep an eye out here, but don’t stress. Have fun. Now come on, and I’ll get you set up with that drink.”
I grimaced briefly, wondering if my past exploits in this town would always haunt me. Before the haphazard success of the Ellington case—where I’d searched for answers in the case of a missing child and inadvertently saved the life of a different boy—I’d been unknown in this city. Now it seemed my reputation preceded me.
In the end, I decided there were far worse things to be remembered for, so I followed Andrew back into the party and stood by as he was instantly pulled away by other people who seemed desperate to speak with him. I shrugged this off, not wanting to insult the man by ignoring his offer to enjoy a few drinks.
At least, that was my excuse.
Forgetting about my secret gin and tonic, I signaled the bartender for a tumbler of his best scotch. I sipped from it right away, and as the familiar warmth touched my insides, I relaxed. Crappy party or not, I could probably manage to find a way to enjoy myself with scotch of this quality. I gently inhaled its sweet and smoky aroma. A bottle of the good stuff probably cost hundreds of pounds. A far cry from the cheap hooch I picked up at the liquor store near my apartment in Hackney. I leaned against the bar and downed the rest of the tumbler, ordering another one, making a note of the blend. A Scottish brand, nearly 50 years old. I’d never heard of the name, but that didn’t surprise me, given the expected price.
Still keeping my security head on, I took this one with me and made a quick circuit of the gathering. I knew none of these people and would never reach their social tier, but I didn’t care. I’d felt mostly disassociated with just about everyone I had met since arriving in London, so this stuffy little get-together wasn’t going to faze me.
I made my way back into the kitchen, thinking I’d try some of the appetizers. As I filled a plate, I noticed that Aisha and Chelsea had moved away from the table and were now standing in the dining room. They were speaking to a handsome young man who looked to be a few years older than them, maybe in his early twenties. He had a shaved head, which was the style for kids his age, and wore a smartly tailored suit. I studied the kid for a minute. He was probably nothing to worry about. He carried an easy smile and looked relaxed around the girls. Still, something about him struck me as familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I looked him over without being too obvious, but nothing was clicking.
Maybe it was because everyone here was dressed the same, or maybe I was too distracted by the one thing I didn’t like about the scene; both Aisha and Chelsea were drinking what looked to be white wine. Amir had told me beforehand that he knew his daughter drank from time to time, but if I saw her going overboard, I was to let him know. Apparently, she didn’t handle the vino very well. I made a mental note and headed away, to avoid creeping her out. No teenage girl appreciates being spied upon, especially by her father’s friend.
Ah hell, I looked to my nearly-empty second tumbler. This is pathetic.
Sure, Andrew Hyde had insisted that I come in and take the rest of my shift off. He’d even encouraged me to drink. But I had Amir to consider. He knew the guy behind all this, and more than that, he had personally asked me to do a job. And here I was a glass or two away from getting wasted.
I drained the tumbler and left it on a table in the hallway. I badly wanted a third but decided that I was done for the night. I’d keep an eye on Aisha and maybe even introduce myself to the young man she was talking to embarrass her a little. Amir would love that.
First, though, I needed to freshen up. I located the nearest restroom, washed my hands, and then stared at myself in the mirror for a moment. The man who stared back at me was quickly becoming an alcoholic. Hell, by some definitions, he probably was an alcoholic. I’d gotten it from my father, as he’d gotten it from his father. It was stupid to deny it. If I weren’t headed in that direction, my body wouldn’t be screaming for a third tumbler of scotch.
I cut the water back on in the sink and splashed some into my face. It was cold enough to take my breath away. A half-decent cure for killing a buzz. I dried my face with a nearby hand towel and turned away from the sink.
Something caught my eye. A shape out of place.
Three toilet stalls stood behind me, all unoccupied with the doors closed. But in the corner of the first stall, a white plastic bag had been wedged between the ceramic and the wall. Because I had been in the security mindset all night, I assumed the worst.
A bomb? Drugs?
Not wanting to panic anyone, I opened the stall and carefully inspected the bag in its place. Soft contents, no heat, no smell and it looked as though it had been hastily stuffed in place.
Probably not explosives.
I gently reached behind the toilet to retrieve it.
I was relieved. There was nothing in it other than a change of clothes. A caterer’s uniform. This made no sense to me because the caterers were all out in the party, making sure the guests stayed drunk enough to forget the poor quality of the canapés and their hollow existence at the top of the social tree. Was this the uniform of a party crasher who used a caterer’s uniform just to get in? Maybe there was another Miranda Abbleton lurking around—or maybe something far worse. I stared at the medium sized men's uniform a moment longer. Not folded, crumpled. Maybe stashed here in a rush. No smell of food or drink. No red wine marks or gravy spatter. No stains at all. Almost as though it had never been used.
Knowing the empty bathroom would provide no clues, I replaced the bagged uniform and headed back to the party.
I returned to the kitchen and made a loop through the hallway and then into the large dining room. I scanned each of the caterers, looking for something out of place. There were four in all; two men, two women, and I had seen their faces all night. Nothing unusual there. They were all dressed smartly and wore the fixed smiles of people who served for a living. They scurried around serving wine and cleaning up after the guests who barely noticed them, just as they had barely noticed me. Just five nobodies.
But…hadn’t there been another one earlier? Another nobody?
I had seen him when I had been making my gin and tonic before the shift started. He was a younger guy. I hadn’t seen him in a while…not since these four caterers had come in and taken over.
That wasn’t true.
I had seen the same young man again. Only he had not been wearing a caterer’s uniform. With this realization, my pulse started racing. I hurried back to the dining room, where I had last seen Aisha and Chelsea.
They had gone, and so had the young, well-dressed man they’d been speaking to—the one with the shaven head, the confident posture and the easy smile. He’d been the one in a caterer’s uniform and had been the only one on the grounds when I arrived. I was willing to bet anything that the uniform I had found in the bathroom was his.
I made my way over to the table Aisha, Chelsea, and the young man had been standing beside. The only indication that they had been there at all were the two wine glasses. One was empty and the other, about a quarter full. Before jumping to conclusions, but with my insides cramping in premonition, I made a trail back through the party, searching for either of the girls or the guy. Two quick and unsuccessful circuits of the place.
Jesus. Where had they gone?
Back in the dining room, I picked up the glasses. Both had faint traces of lipstick present. I selected the one that still had some liquid
in it and held it up to the light. I swirled it around but saw nothing suspicious. I then held it close to my nose and smelled something strange. The few drops of white wine remaining gave off its tell-tale sweet smell, but there was something else there. A vaguely chemical odor, something I had been trained to identify during my early days with the NYPD. The acrid smell was faint but clear. Nitrazepam, a muscle relaxant and anxiety inhibitor. A close relative of the infamous Rohypnol.
My gut twisted with the prospects.
I knew better than to make a scene before I had enough evidence though. After all, I was a drunk, washed-up cop—I wouldn’t have believed me either. As such, I buttonholed the nearest caterer, a fifty-something lady who was refilling a plate filled with crackers and caviar.
“Excuse me,” I said. “How many caterers are on your crew tonight?”
“Four,” she said. “It’s not a very big party, so we’re flying light.”
“Would one of those four include a young man, somewhere between about eighteen and twenty-four?”
“No. The youngest on our crew is Kayleigh, the girl in the kitchen. And she’ll be twenty-eight next week. I think she looks older though,” the woman said, sniffing and arching her eyebrows. “We were just talking about going out for her birthday.”
“Ok, Thank you,” I said, leaving the caterer clearly puzzled.
I reached the main entryway to the clubhouse and toyed with the idea of going to Andrew Hyde with the information first. But I knew his type. He’d want to get involved immediately, which would do more harm than good. Besides…if there was foul play with the would-be caterer, it had just occurred within the last ten minutes or so. If I acted fast, I could break it up before the little bastard even escaped the grounds.
A thought occurred to me. When I had arrived at the club, I had stopped by the security gates out front. The guy in the guardhouse had called Andrew or one of his cronies to verify my credentials. He’d made a joke about it and waved me through. If he was still on duty at the gate, I might be in luck.
I made sure not to run until I got out of the clubhouse. There was no sense in scaring people.
Once the door was closed behind me and I was hidden in the darkness of the night, I hauled ass across the lawn and parking lot. Racing down a small road near the entrance, the security gatehouse came into view. I gulped down the crisp air as I ran. Relief washed over me when I saw the same man from earlier was still on duty. He sat behind the glass of the hut, a portly fellow with a goatee beard, thumbing through a magazine.
He jolted upright as I approached, surprised by my appearance. He saw who it was, though, and grinned. “Mr. Blume,” he said. “Out for a run so late?”
“Your name is Paul, right?” I asked.
“That’s me.”
“Paul, how many cars have left in the last fifteen minutes or so?”
Paul took a moment to think and shrugged. “Five or six.”
“Did you happen to see any of the drivers?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “If they’re leaving, it means they were approved to come in. No sense in eyeballing those on their way out.”
It was a half-assed stance that pissed me off, but given my earlier half-assed approach to security, I couldn’t complain. “Okay, well then do you have access to the clubhouse closed-circuit cameras?”
Paul pushed his magazine aside and sat straight up. “Yeah, I do. Is everything okay?”
“It will be if I’m lucky on the timing,” I said. “Do you have one that covers the main entrance?”
“Sure do,” he said. “Come on inside, and let’s check it out.”
I entered the shack and waited while he fiddled with his computer for a frustratingly long time. He finally pointed to the monitor with the view we needed, and I watched as he rewound. Everything went by in a flicker, and when it started at a normal pace again, Paul sped it up. I watched the time tick back up rapidly, every ten seconds covered in the space of one.
The footage showed an elderly couple leaving, the man opening the passenger side door for the woman. Moments after they left, the monitor displayed three people coming out of the clubhouse door, front and center on the screen—one male and two females.
“Right there,” I said.
Paul stopped the recording and let it play at normal speed. The footage was a little washed out due to the floodlights, but the girls were unmistakably Aisha and Chelsea. The guy standing between them was the same I had seen in and out of a caterer’s uniform.
Damn.
Chelsea was giggling in fits, clinging to the young man as they walked to a car parked along the curb of the lot. It was a black taxi, the driver simply waiting behind the wheel. Even Aisha, normally reserved and sensible, laughed and stumbled toward the vehicle.
“How long ago did you let that taxi in?” I asked.
“Maybe fifteen minutes. Probably closer to ten. It left soon after.”
“Okay, Paul…I have to go back and talk to Mr. Hyde. Call that taxi company and ask them to find out where that one was headed when it left here. Give them the plate number right there on the screen, and they should be able to tell you. Call my cell the moment you get the information.”
“Of course,” Paul said, looking excited to be involved in something other than watching cars come and go.
Scrawling my number on a scrap of paper, I thanked him.
I then sprinted back to the party. On the way, I tried to think of how to tell Andrew Hyde that I had lost track of his daughter, and how she had disappeared with a guy I was certain was up to no good.
More than that, I was going to have to tell Amir the same thing. And that struck a chord of sorrow in me I had not felt in a very long time.
THREE
The situation was in freefall.
The boss needed to know, and fast. I found Andrew in the center of the largest crowd, on a swanky little dance floor next to the bar, bumping to some tacky ‘70s music. I pushed into the crowd, not caring who I had to barge out of the way. Some of the assholes looked at me like I was a piece of garbage.
When I reached Andrew, he must have been alarmed by the expression on my face.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said leaning close to his ear, trying to make myself heard over the shitty disco beat. “Do you have somewhere we can talk without interruption?”
“The manager’s office,” he said, clearly noticing the serious tone of my voice. “Come with me.”
We dodged through the crowd and into the hallway that connected the kitchen and dining room. Halfway down it, Andrew opened the only door, and we stepped in. The moment the door closed, he turned to me and the hesitant smile on his face was a hopeful one.
“More reporters?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Hyde…we may have a …situation on our hands.”
I told him everything I had discovered. The man’s brows knotted. Anger and fear touched his usually cool demeanor. I told him about the strategy Paul and I had worked out. It didn’t seem to help.
Andrew rubbed his head and paced the room. “Oh god. My Chelsea. Please tell me this fake caterer bastard has taken the girls to a club somewhere? Maybe another party? Does he have designs on my daughter? If I had a pound for every boy that tried to get his mucky paws on her ….” Andrew huffed heavily and placed his hands on his hips. “What do we do?”
I was 3000 miles from home, semi-drunk, and with only a vague idea what was happening. I was just about the worst person to offer advice, but right then I also happened to be the only person who could.
“Sir, I think it could be more serious than that. I think—” I started to say, but then my phone rang.
I answered it quickly, feeling Andrew’s eyes burning into me. “This is Blume.”
“It’s Paul, Mr. Blume. Sorry it took so long, but there’s…well, there’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The taxi company is Black Cab Co. I called them and asked them if they cou
ld help, and they seemed very cooperative. But when I gave the license number, they said it wasn’t their car. They checked four times. And I double-checked the number on the screen, too. Nothing.”
“Shit,” I said. “Okay.”
“I’ll try the other taxi companies,” Paul said. “But I’m not sure how helpful it will be.”
“Thanks, Paul. Keep me updated.”
I killed the call and pocketed my phone.
“What is it?” Andrew asked.
“The license plates—,” I started, but was interrupted by the hum from Andrew’s phone.
He answered it so quickly that he almost dropped the thing. “Yes?”
I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but Andrew’s reactions told me everything I need to know. Anger, then disgust, and finally, the wide-eyed specter of fear and utter hopelessness flashed in sequence across his face.
The kidnappers had made contact.
FOUR
Just another day at the office.
The following twenty minutes flew by in a hectic blur. Andrew asked me to join him at his office a couple of miles away. His driver wasted no time bringing the car around and whisked us away from the party. Andrew spent the whole time speaking on the phone, while I considered the options. He was calling some of his best people, contacts he had that would supposedly be able to help.
I listened to him plead with business assistants, estranged family members, and the head of security at his company. Among the demands from those who had taken the girls was that Andrew not get the police involved. Because of this, I heard him try to convince a good friend of his on the local force to help on the quiet. He offered the man £25,000 for two days of services, but from the frustration in his voice, I knew he was having no luck.
I tried to remember the last time I’d seen 25,000 anything. This guy was playing hardball, but for all his efforts, he was getting nowhere.
Sitting there, listening to his desperation, I waited for the inevitable. For when Andrew asked for my help. But I knew there was something I needed to do first. My heart broke just thinking about it, but if I didn’t do it, some faceless cop would end up with the duty.