by Tim Adler
Detective Inspector Syal, however, did not look terribly pleased to see me. "My officer says you know the man whose office was firebombed."
"I'm sorry?"
"The man you came to see. Somebody poured petrol through his letterbox. He was locked inside so we had to break the door down."
"My God, is he all right?"
"Can you identify him? You obviously know who he is."
"His name's Martin Wynn," I said. I felt myself going into shock. "He's a private detective. I was coming to see him about some work he was doing for me."
We wouldn't even have been having this conversation if you hadn't recommended we hire somebody, I thought. The irony was not lost on me.
"Coming through," said a voice behind us. I turned to see green-suited paramedics stretchering somebody out covered in a red blanket. Wynn's face looked as if it had been boiled away.
We watched the ambulance doors open, and a paramedic inside helped ease the stretcher in.
Syal turned to me. "I would be grateful if you could accompany him to the hospital. You're the only one who knows him." Wynn was moaning and crying from the back of the ambulance. "Wait until the local wears off," Syal said quietly.
"He must have a wife and family. Can't you contact them?"
"We're trying to do that," the detective said, touching my elbow. Clearly, she was giving me no choice. The paramedic was shutting the doors when Syal told him to wait. "I'm a friend," I explained, clambering up.
Wynn was lying on a gurney hooked up to a saline drip. I wondered whether he could still tell me what he had discovered about Alice. The paramedic gestured to a jump seat and we set off, saline bag jangling as we tore through the West End. I guess they were taking us to St Thomas', south of the river. I tried following the route in my mind as we turned left, then right, but soon gave up. The paramedic was making notes on a clipboard. He smiled encouragingly at me, as if to say everything was going to be all right.
I was thinking about phoning Mole and telling her what had happened when we stopped. The paramedic checked Wynn's vital signs and told me to wait while he went for help. Opening the back door, he jumped down into what I glimpsed to be an underground car park. There was a smell of cement and petrol. "Won't be a sec," he said, slamming the door. I sat back down and stared at my clasped hands, trying not to look at the private detective. It was as if somebody had thrown a glass of acid over him. Wynn was sobbing. I willed myself to get up and stand over him. I felt helpless because he was in so much pain. "Help me," he whispered. Where was that paramedic? Why was he taking so long? "It's going to be okay," I said uselessly.
Suddenly Wynn went into convulsions, his legs hammering beneath the blanket.
It was such a shock, I jumped backward. Wynn's chest lunged upward as he made an awful sucking sound, as if he could not get enough air inside him. The ECG flatlined, and the alarm sounded. I am ashamed to say that I panicked as I tried to get the ambulance door open. I pulled the handle down, but still it wouldn't budge. I was locked in. "Help," I shouted, banging on the window. Ambulance men were standing around the entrance talking. Why couldn't they hear me? I wrenched at the handle but still it would not move. "Help," I yelled, thumping on the glass.
Martin Wynn died while the paramedics were clattering his gurney into A&E.
The A&E nurse left me sitting alone in the hospital atrium absorbing what had just happened. A stunned-looking old woman with a tube up her nose was being wheeled past me towards the hospital entrance. Our private detective had burned to death in an office fire. Now he would never be able to tell me Alice's real name. I felt as if I had come this close (I pinched my thumb and index finger together) to solving our mystery, only to see the truth wriggle away from me.
I tried ringing Mole, but the call went straight to voicemail, so I left a message telling her to call me back. Urgently. Then I took a sip of thin hospital coffee. I was starting to feel bad now the adrenaline was wearing off. I could have been burnt alive, too. What if I had arrived on time and both of us had been trapped, shouting for help as flames ripped through his office? I had come this close to death.
That was when I saw them. A woman and her teenage son coming in through the revolving door. A doctor was there to meet them and I knew, I just knew this was Martin's wife and child. Everybody came here to lose something, I reflected, a limb or a relative or, in this case, a husband and father. The woman opened her mouth, and after a moment made an awful keening noise while her son just looked at the ground.
DI Syal came up to me, and I was glad of the distraction. I did not want to watch the grieving family anymore.
"It was you who gave me the idea of going to see him," I said, looking up.
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"The private detective. You told me to hire one. We still haven't found her, you know. Our surrogate. Six months now, and not a word. It's like she's vanished into thin air. Wynn phoned to tell me that he'd found her real name. That's what I was going to see him about."
"We're treating it as murder. Do you have any idea who might have done this?"
"He mostly did divorce work. A husband he'd caught out taking revenge? I dunno – it could have been anybody."
"I am afraid I need to treat you as what we call a 'significant witness'. Would you be all right to come to the station with me now? We need you to give a statement."
"What, now? Can't it wait until the morning?"
Syal shook her head, and, an hour later, I found myself back in the interview room with the big tape recorder and the bolted-down table and chairs. I went through the whole sequence of events, from our surrogate walking out on us with our baby to Wynn telling me he had found out who she really was. "And apart from your wife, was there anybody else who knew you were meeting the deceased?" Syal asked. Anybody could have known I was meeting Wynn, I told her. My assistant knew how to get hold of me.
Syal told me that I was free to go, but that I should make myself available in case she needed to contact me again. They would be in touch, she said.
Blue lights splintered and reflected back at us through shop windows as we sped through the City. It took about half an hour for the police to drop me back at Woolwich Arsenal.
Mole came out to meet me in the hall as I put down my briefcase. You could see how worried she was. We hugged and held each other for the longest time. Why is it that the touch of another human being, the feel of their skin, is the nearest thing we can know to paradise?
"It was horrible, Mole. His body was covered with burns. He asked me to help him. The paramedic left us alone in the ambulance for a moment, and that's when it happened. He had a massive heart attack right in front of me. I've never seen anybody die before."
"Here, come into the kitchen and have a drink. Who would do such a thing?"
"That's what the police asked. I know that Wynn did a lot of matrimonial work. Perhaps it was a pissed-off husband. I don't think I'm ever going to forget his face, Mole. It was dreadful." I paused for a moment, remembering just how awful it was, and shuddered. "Funnily enough, the officer investigating the case was that woman we met, the Indian one."
"Who, the woman detective inspector?"
I nodded as Mole led me into the kitchen, where I unloaded my pockets, dumping my BlackBerry and keys on the counter. We kept a bottle of gin on the sideboard, and I poured myself two fingers while Mole banged the freezer open hunting for ice cubes. The mood I was in, the blissful anaesthetic barely made any difference to how I was feeling. I guess I was still in shock. I had come this close to death, and it had really shaken me. Taking in my surroundings for the first time, I looked round the kitchen: there was a pot of delicious-smelling casserole on the stove and half-diced vegetables on a chopping board. Glancing at the wall calendar, I reflected bitterly that today was our baby's due date, the day that was supposed to be the happiest of our lives. Instead, I had witnessed somebody's death. Mole bustled about. She was a great believer that food and drink were the
salve for all wounds, even a psychic wound as deep as this one.
"Somebody must have seen something," Mole said. "It was a serviced office block. You can't just walk in off the street and start pouring petrol through somebody's letterbox." I nodded. "I could have died," I repeated, shaking my head. Mole sat down and took my hand. She looked concerned.
My BlackBerry pinged on the kitchen counter with an incoming text. "It'll be the police," I said. Mole picked up the phone, paused and stood still. Something was wrong. I asked her what the matter was but she didn't say anything and, instead, handed the phone across. She looked as if the life was being sucked out of her, too.
"HOW MUCH IS YOUR CHILD WORTH?" said the text.
I stared at the phone incredulously. God, it must be from Alice. Mole and I looked up at each other. I felt massive relief that Alice was still alive, but on the other hand, this looked like some kind of ransom demand.
"Is it really from her?" I said. "I don't know what to say."
Mole took the phone back and studied the text again. "If it really is from her, she's playing games with us."
"So, Dad was right."
"What do you mean?"
"When I went to see him, he said she would need money eventually. We must call the police."
"For them to do what exactly? Let's not rush into anything. If she wants to play games, then let her wait."
"The police must have equipment. Surely they can find out where the text is coming from."
"I don't think it's as simple as that. In any case, Alice isn't stupid. You see that sort of thing on TV all the time. You don't think she would have thought of that already? No, we must see what her next move is."
We had waited months for this moment, and now Mole wanted to play mind games with our surrogate. I was perplexed. Whereas a man would just barge straight in, women have a much more subtle and devious way of dealing with each other.
"It's such a crazy question, how much is your baby worth?" Mole said. "Everything. Nothing." Pause. "Fuck her. We can have another baby, we can go through the procedure again. We can find another surrogate. This time we'll do it right." There was a cruel edge to her voice I hadn’t noticed before.
"Mole, we can't just ignore it. We have a responsibility to this child. If she wants money, then let's give her money."
In my mind's eye I saw a line of police searching woodland, a string of people tramping through frozen grass and then the dreadful discovery.
Mole started worrying a fingernail with her teeth. "You're right. We don't have any choice, do we?" Suddenly she pushed her chair away and stood up. "Christ, how did we get into this mess?" she said, pacing. "If we give her money, what's to stop her coming back for more? We're assuming that Alice has already had our baby. We don't know that, we don't know anything. For all we know she could have had an abortion. This is just blackmail."
"We have to text her back something. First, we need proof that our baby is alive. Mole, don’t you see? We could finally be with our baby." Before Mole could stop me, I typed "Show me a photo" and pressed send. We both stared at the BlackBerry on the pine table, willing it to ping. I reached across and we held hands. Somebody else's touch felt so good. Moments later the BlackBerry chimed.
There, lying on a blanket, her face scrunched and inscrutable, was what looked like a baby girl. Already I could discern my own features. She was clearly our baby. Mole put her hand to her mouth, and I put my arm around her. Together we were going to get through this, so help me God.
The phone pinged again. "HOW MUCH IS YOUR CHILD WORTH?"
Without saying anything to Mole, I texted back "£10,000" and pressed send.
"NOT ENOUGH"
Considering where Alice had come from, ten thousand pounds represented a bloody fortune. A grain of doubt entered my mind. Was there somebody behind Alice, telling her what to do? A boyfriend, perhaps. "Tell her twenty thousand pounds, and that's our final offer. If she doesn't accept, we'll go to the police," Mole said. I did what I was told. This time the wait was longer. Why is it that the longed-for text is the one that never arrives? We both grabbed for the phone when it pealed.
"NOT ENOUGH"
I reckoned I had about thirty thousand pounds in cash sitting in various current and deposit accounts. Beyond that, everything was tied up either in shares or the flat. Mole and I sat talking it though until after midnight. If Alice did not accept our final thirty-thousand-pound offer, then we really would go to the police. Hell, we were going to the police anyway once our baby was safe. This time it was Mole who sent the message.
We waited and waited, but Alice, if it really was her, did not reply. Eventually I'd had enough. I was done in. Because of everything I had been through that afternoon, I could barely stand up. I needed to close my eyes and get away from this nightmare. Even for a few hours.
Mole was undressing in the bedroom as I went to have a pee. Resting the BlackBerry on the cistern, I watched it intently while I unzipped my fly. The BlackBerry pinged again.
"I'LL TELL YOUR WIFE WE HAD AN AFFAIR UNLESS YOU PAY UP. DON'T THINK ABOUT GOING TO THE POLICE."
I pulled my zipper up, frightened that Mole had heard the incoming text. My forehead popped with sweat. Double-checking that I was alone, I deleted Alice's last text and replied, "How much do you want?"
Silence.
Neither of us slept much that night. We kept thrashing about, trying to get comfortable, praying for at least a few minutes of longed-for sleep. And even when I did sleep, it was no good: everything was jumbled up in my head – Alice moving through a crowded atrium, her jersey stretched tight over our baby, with people blocking my way as I tried to reach her. She kept ducking behind pillars, always right around the corner, just out of sight–
Something jerked my leg and I opened my eyes. It took me a moment to remember where I was. The ceiling was pulsing with red light, which, I dimly registered, meant that my BlackBerry had a message waiting. I reached across and stared at the text.
"A MILLION POUNDS"
Mole moved next to me, the warmth of her body pressing against mine. "Is it from her?" she mumbled, still half asleep.
"She wants a million pounds," I said, passing the phone across. It was so absurd, I wanted to laugh out loud.
Mole sat up in bed and looked at the text. "She's mad. We haven't got a million pounds. I say we go to the police."
Lying there in the dark, I ran figures through my head. If I cashed in my shares and increased the mortgage on the flat, then we could do it. Just. How much is your child worth? How much is your marriage worth, more like. I knew that Mole would leave me if she found out the truth. This way, there was a chance we could be with our baby for the first time and then I could explain, patiently and calmly, just how we had gotten into this mess. Surely Mole would understand. Everybody deserves just one more chance, don't they?
"We have, actually. If we cashed in everything, we could pay the ransom."
Chapter Twenty
I sat at the kitchen table with the BlackBerry in my hand while Mole made coffee for the two of us. We both felt ghostly with lack of sleep. It took some convincing to get her to accept my plan. In the end, she agreed to my selling my shareholding in Berkshire RE and getting a bridging loan on our flat. Of course, I would have to tell my other directors what I was doing, and we would have to make an announcement to the City, but what choice did we have? Liquidating everything, we might just scrape together a million pounds. The irony was that the shares would be worth so much more in a few weeks' time when the Continual Life deal went through.
"I don't understand why you're so willing to give in," Mole said, pouring water into the coffee jug. "We could just offer half and see what she says. A million pounds. That's everything we own."
If only you knew the half of it, I thought. Because I love you and I want to hang on to my marriage. "That's the beauty of it," I said. "We'll bring in the police once we make sure our baby is safe. We'll know where Alice is then. We finally get to meet our ch
ild, and we won't have lost any money. Like you said, all we have now is a mobile phone number."
Mole finished stirring the coffee grounds. "Our daughter. I can't believe it. I'm going to finally hold her. I've been waiting for this moment for so long I'd given up hope."
I got up and put my arm around her shoulders. "Think of it as a short-term loan. The money's going to leave our account for a few days and then come back to us."
"I still think we should call the police."
"They'd tell us to stop. If we don't pay the ransom, there's no telling what she might do." I thought of the police line again, people beating the ground with sticks.
Finally the moment had come. I took a deep breath and texted, "Agreed. How do we get the money to you?"
We did not have to wait long for an answer.
"ACCOUNT # 513781100, SORT CODE 843942. YOU HAVE TWENTY FOUR HOURS."
Next, I texted Rupert Currie, telling him I needed to see him. Urgently.
Foresight Investment, the wealth-management company he worked for, had its offices just around the corner from Berkshire RE. Currie was waiting for me as the lift doors slid open. "Oy oy, you're up bright and early this morning," he said chummily. Then, "Blimey, matey, you don't look well. Are you all right?" I told him there was something I needed to talk about. In private. He led the way to a meeting room with opaque-glass walls and ordered some coffee. More coffee was the last thing I needed. My head was rattling with the stuff, burning holes into my brain. I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window and looked down over the City's magisterial greyness. I wasn’t sure exactly where to begin.
"Remember I told you that I'd hired that private detective to find our baby, that the police weren't interested?"
Currie nodded. From the look on his face, he was bracing himself for something big.
"We didn't hear from him for months. A complete dead end. He called me up yesterday and said he needed to see me. He'd found out Alice's real name–"