It had been impressed upon the Breslin family by Hiley that they should try to lead a normal life. Not possible, of course, but there was no point in staying at home waiting, worrying, allowing their fears to grind them down. And J.J. in particular had business to attend to. He was passing through his outer office, the area where his secretary held sway, when he heard her fielding a call for him.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll see if he’s available.’ She placed her hand over the receiver and raised an eyebrow.
‘Who is it?’
‘A personal call, he says. A Mr Harry Jones?’ Her voice rose in enquiry.
Breslin hesitated for a heartbeat before he took the phone, holding it at arm’s length.
Then he dropped it back into its cradle.
She had agreed to meet him in the old red-brick Wren church of St James in Piccadilly, on the wooden pew in the corner where the faithful lit candles and left their messages on the prayer board.
‘I’m surprised,’ Harry admitted. ‘A church.’
‘Neutral territory,’ Terri said. ‘With what my husband thinks about you, I thought we needed somewhere which wouldn’t encourage the more lurid edges of his imagination. Perhaps we shouldn’t be meeting at all.’
‘And yet?’
‘For old times’ sake, I suppose, Harry.’ But her eyes said differently.
He watched as she lit a candle and stood in silent prayer, staring at its flame as the wax began to drip into the tray. ‘I love it here,’ she whispered. ‘My friends and I, we come to restaurants nearby to do lunch – you know, silly, indulgent girls’ stuff, big frocks, big wines, ridiculously big bills. Then afterwards I creep in here, all on my own, just to say thank you. I’ve never taken what I’ve been given for granted, Harry.’
‘I never knew you were religious.’
‘Do you have to be, just to be grateful?’
For a moment the candles guttered in a draught. A grizzled man in a tattered raincoat came into the church and stopped as he passed, staring at them in the slow, timeless fashion of the homeless. Then he shuffled off to sit in the warmth of a pew closer to the altar.
‘I tried to talk to J.J.,’ Harry said. ‘I think he put the phone down on me.’
‘I’m sure he did. He suspects you and I are having an affair again, or even if we’re not that we soon will be. Silly man.’
‘I told him that was nonsense.’
‘And you expected him to believe you?’
Of course not. And why should he? Harry didn’t even believe himself.
‘I’ve been reading the diaries, Terri. It’s possible I may have found who’s behind all this.’ They were sitting at opposite ends of the bench, as though determined to keep a proper distance between themselves, but now she stirred, moved closer.
‘It’s only speculation,’ he continued, ‘but six months. That’s what the kidnappers are demanding.’
‘And sticking to.’
‘So what’s in those diaries that in six months won’t matter?’
‘J.J.’s had a team of journalists poring over them. Found nothing.’
‘But you have to reckon there’s a fair chunk of a safety margin within that – let’s say a whole three months. So what’s going to happen between now and the end of February that’s so damned important it could be changed by the diaries and someone thinks is worth killing for?’
She shook her head, the end of her nose bobbing in anxiety. Just as it had in Paris.
‘Try power. And Zimbabwe. There’s an election coming up there which Moses Chombo is expected to win. But the diaries might blow a hole in all that, destroy his dreams. He’s not the man he claims to be, you see. The idea that he’s a hero of the struggle is a total sham.’
Her hand reached towards him, as though trying to haul in the rest of what he knew.
‘I think Mandela wrote something like this . . .’ Harry frowned as he tried to drag the words from the creases of his memory. ‘I offer no profound objection to the fact that Moses Chombo preferred to spend his youth in the company of young white girls rather than with his brothers fighting in the bush. It is a choice that many young men would have made. It is not given to every man to be a hero.’ Harry broke off from his recitation. ‘Chombo claims to be a veteran of the bush war, you see, and says he has the scars to prove it.’
Terri had shuffled right across the bench and was now sitting close beside him, not wanting to miss a word. From his pew, the tramp turned to gaze at them in suspicion.
Harry steepled his hands in concentration as he tried to recite more of Mandela’s script. ‘Yet Chombo chose to watch his brothers die, and at a distance. To return to his homeland and claim their legacy, as he did, is nothing less than to steal their spirit. He has gone down a route that has dishonoured Africa ever since the white man arrived. He is unworthy.’ Harry snorted like a horse after a canter. ‘That’s the word he used. Unworthy. Can you imagine the damage that verdict would do if it was put about before the election?’
‘It’s motive, for sure, but scarcely proof.’
‘This is a game played in the shadows, Terri. Oh, there are plenty of others who’d happily give their right testicle to stop those diaries being dragged out into the sunshine, but it’s the timing, you see. No one has a more pressing motive than Chombo.’
‘But we can’t prove it,’ she insisted once more.
‘You don’t have to. Perhaps all you need is to whisper what you know, or simply suspect, into the right ear and suddenly you’ve got a hell of an advantage. Leverage. Negotiating muscle.’
‘Whose ear?’
‘Chombo’s, of course.’
Yet she showed no excitement. Her head fell. ‘They cut off his finger, Harry.’ She began to sob gently. The exhaustion and anxiety had drained away her spirit, she needed a shoulder to lean on, a hand to grasp, and it was now Harry’s she clutched.
His ear began to burn, as though the knife was cutting through it once again. ‘I’m sorry. But he’ll get over that.’
‘I sometimes wonder if any of us will get over this.’
Harry sensed she was talking about much more than just the kidnap.
‘They said that if we don’t cooperate, do what they insist, they’ll carve him up and drop him down a hole in the ground so deep we’ll never find him.’
‘They said that?’
But for the moment she was unable to say more. She buried her head in his chest, and soon the sounds of sobbing could be heard, echoing back from the marble floor and the high vaulted ceiling.
Slowly, screaming at himself to stop, with his ear burning in warning, Harry put his arm around her. The memories came flooding back. He knew he wasn’t over her.
Suddenly Harry found himself staring into the face of the curious tramp. The grizzled old man was smiling mischievously, eyeing the woman in Harry’s arms, tapping the end of his nose, joining in the conspiracy. Then he nodded his battered head in approval and was gone.
Once her tears had dried they left the church. It wasn’t an appropriate place for some of the thoughts that raced through Harry’s mind as Terri nestled in his arms and her perfume set siege to his senses. They walked out into the small courtyard that faced Piccadilly, and there they found a Christmas market in full swing, with ruddy-cheeked stallholders wrapped in gloves and colourful scarves, serving out good humour and mulled wine as they tried to entice the passers-by. The bustle of the crowd was intense, forcing Harry and Terri distractingly close. They stopped beside a stall where a small girl with raised voice and stamping foot was begging her mother for a trinket, a glass globe with a primitive model of the towers of Venice inside. As the girl shook the globe, flakes of imitation snow cascaded over the city.
Venice. They’d been there, as well, not just Paris. He knew from the look in Terri’s eyes that she was back there, too, and he wondered what memories she clung to, and whether they were the same as his own.
Venice – that was the direction the helicopter had been heading. But something
told Harry the gang wasn’t there, couldn’t be, not on the water, yet if not Venice . . . ?
He took Terri’s arm, swung her round. ‘What did they say again – drop him down a hole so deep we’d never be able to find him?’
She nodded: ‘Almost exactly that.’ And suddenly he had grabbed her hand and was running, forcing their way though the crowd.
A little further along the pavements of Piccadilly stood Hatchards, purveyors of books to many members of the Royal Family and the oldest bookshop in London. When Harry dragged Terri through the doors they found themselves surrounded by a sea of bodies, elbows nudging, tills clattering, telephones ringing. This was its busiest time of year.
‘Hello there, Harry. Where have they been hiding you this time?’ a voice called out above the throng. A man with short-cropped silver hair and a recent yachting tan waved from behind the cash desk. Roger Katz came close to being as much of an institution as the shop itself, a man who loved books and people to the point that he’d retired several times yet somehow could still be found behind his beloved counter. His enthusiasms bubbled forth, his eyes danced in fascination over Terri and he was about to launch upon a detailed interrogation when Harry raised his hand and brought him to a halt, like a traffic cop.
‘Roger – Italy. Geography. Now!’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Terri was naked, in her bathroom, bent over and smoothing skin lotion onto her legs when J.J. arrived home. It was late, gone nine, he reeked of tobacco smoke and was exhausted after a day spent fighting with the money men. No women, not this time, not now the Bitch of Blackheath had retired to her lair. As he walked into their bedroom he found the bathroom door open, framing Terri’s body like a scene by Degas, misty with steam, her body glistening, one slender leg extended, her breasts falling forward, towels discarded in rumpled piles at her feet.
She looked up. ‘Hello, darling.’
The time she had spent in the bathroom had been not just for herself but for J.J., too. Ruari’s plight had become their only focus, understandably so, but it had made their lives dangerously unbalanced. Even before their son’s disappearance a drift had set in to their relationship that was slowly pulling them apart, but not until she had sat so close to Harry and felt his breath on her cheek once again had she realized how much peril her marriage was in. Her family meant far too much to her to let it slip away without a fight, so she had spent her lonely evening trying to wash any trace of bitterness away, hoping to revive old feelings. He’d been sleeping too long upstairs in the guest room, it was becoming a habit rather than a necessity, it was time to bring his heart and his mind back home. Yet as she greeted him he didn’t even bother looking up but slumped wearily on the edge of the bed.
Not the start she’d been hoping for. He was upset with her, that she knew, ludicrously suspicious about Harry, his suspicions far more ludicrous than those she’d been harbouring about him. She wasn’t blind. J.J. had been ‘distracted’ in recent months, and she guessed with another woman. It happened, it hurt, but she could live with it while he got over it, so why was he being so childish about . . . about nothing? Not yet, at least. They had to deal with the Harry thing, better to drag it out into the open where it would shrivel and disappear, wouldn’t it? At least, that’s what she hoped.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said, trying to sound welcoming as he pulled off his tie and cast it into a corner. ‘Harry Jones called, had something to pass on.’ She tried to make it impersonal, innocent, as she wrapped a towel around her and came to sit near him on the end of the bed.
J.J. responded by moving away to his wardrobe and rifling through his shirts to select one for the morning. ‘He’s persistent, I’ll give him that,’ he grunted.
‘He thinks he knows where Ruari might be,’ she said, pressing on.
J.J. turned, scowled, said nothing.
‘The helicopter’s flight path was to the north-east of Italy. In fact, if they’d kept going they’d have ended up in Venice, but Harry doesn’t think they’re there, or anywhere on the coast.’
A petulant pause, but he had to ask. ‘Why?’
‘Because of what they said. About dropping Ruari down a deep hole. Now, if you’re sitting in Venice or anywhere by the sea, they’d be talking about feeding him to the fishes, something like that. They wouldn’t suggest dropping him down a hole.’
J.J. didn’t respond, still refusing to catch her eye. Terri couldn’t tell whether his silence implied scorn or deep concentration. She hurried on. ‘They didn’t even talk about burying him, digging a hole. They made it sound as if the hole already existed.’
‘It was just a phrase.’
‘No, it may be more than that. A little beyond Venice there’s a huge limestone plateau that stretches all the way to Austria and Slovenia. It’s riddled with sinkholes, caves, underground rivers, the lot. J.J., I looked at some travel books this afternoon in Hatchards. That area is like a chunk of honeycomb, it’s got holes so big and deep some of them are tourist attractions. You know, after the last war they found that thousands of prisoners had been dumped down there. It fits, don’t you think?’
‘It might.’
‘Yes, it might. And it might be worth suggesting that the Italian police take a particularly close look at the area.’
‘He conjures all this out of one stray remark from the kidnappers?’
Her exasperation was growing, and beginning to show. ‘They’ve already let slip they’re in Italy, they may have let slip a little more. Use it, for pity’s sake. It might just give you a little more leverage. What have we got to lose?’
‘Have you been seeing him?’
She flustered at the unexpected assault. ‘I don’t understand, he telephoned, you know that . . .’
‘Simple question, I’d have thought. Have you seen him?’
‘What do you mean?’ But her question trailed off into a fatal hesitation.
‘I wondered, you see, how he would know what the kidnappers said. About dropping Ruari down a hole.’
‘Just remember, J.J., this is about Ruari, nothing else.’
‘I hope so.’
Dammit! She’d been trying so hard, the ridiculous man was being so inflexible, unreasonable. And now she felt vulnerable, and guilty. The Harry thing. So she decided not to mention Chombo. It was a possibility, no more, another of Harry’s theories that wasn’t going to go down well. Nothing for J.J. to do with it except grow still more suspicious. Yet they needed each other, they’d been married too many years to play childish games. She stood up, moved towards him to give it one last try.
Yet because they’d been married these many years he sensed she was holding something back, so when she stretched up to kiss him, she found only his cheek.
‘I’m tired,’ he complained. ‘Going to bed early, if you don’t mind. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Without another word he took his shirt and began climbing the stairs with a slow, heavy step, dragging his pain behind him.
As she listened to the familiar creak of the treads, she wondered if he would ever sleep in her bed again.
The bare bulb suddenly sprang to life and Cosmin stumbled his way down into the cellar. He was holding a battered tin bowl of bean soup and bread, and as he tried to negotiate the primitive wooden steps his foot slipped, leaving him swaying and struggling for balance. For a moment it seemed as though he would fall, then he recovered and burst into laughter.
‘Hey, Little Shit, see that? Not a drop spilled!’ He stared in triumph and with glazed eyes at the bowl, then at Ruari, before bending to dump the food beside his prisoner. That’s when he almost toppled, spilling a good portion of the soup onto the dirt floor. Up close, Ruari could smell his sour breath. The Romanian had been drinking again, the South Africans must be away.
Cosmin straightened himself, planted his feet firmly for balance, unaware that he was standing in the puddle of soup he had just spilled. ‘What, you think I’m drunk, Little Shit? No! Well, maybe a little.’ He laughed again.
Ruari groaned, not wanting to meet the Romanian’s eye or do anything that might antagonize him. His hand was still a throbbing mass of dried blood and he was terrified Cosmin had come to do him more harm. Yet, as he cowered, expecting more hurt, he began to realize it wasn’t as simple as that. Things had changed, and in one respect at least for the better. Like Casey and Mattias he, too, had suffered at the hands of these animals, and that put all three of them back on the same side, didn’t it? They were together again. He had lost a finger but through that he had regained his friends and also his self-respect. The ghosts had gone and he was no longer alone. The finger had been worth it.
‘We have been celebrating, drinking toasts to you,’ Cosmin was declaring, swaying above him.
‘To me? Why?’ Ruari asked weakly. With his uninjured hand he reached out for the bread on the floor and began eating the thick soup as quickly as possible before Cosmin had the chance to stumble once more and scatter the rest of the meal.
‘You are our prince. You make us all rich men. We keep you here six months, maybe more. That costs someone a fuck of a lot of money.’ The Romanian sniggered.
Six months? The bread stuck in Ruari’s throat and he choked. Yet as he forced his food down, he realized it meant they intended to keep him alive, long enough maybe for the rats to help dig him a way out of this wretched hole. Even now he could see bright red eyes lurking in the shadows, eyeing up the spilt food.
‘Any chance I can join the celebration?’ Ruari asked.
‘You? You want to drink, too?’ More rough laughter.
‘All I want is a bowl of water so that I can wash.’ He held up his hand to Cosmin, covered in black, hardened bandage. His wrists were also raw. The shackles had rubbed through the skin and had formed pus-filled scabs. He had noticed that the scratches on his body and legs were no longer healing so fast, either. ‘All I want is to keep clean. Otherwise I’m going to get sick.’
Cosmin stared and scratched himself as he considered the matter.
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