Well, fuck ’em. Fuck the lot of ’em. He got busy, creating transfer, collecting evidence under his fingernails, on his jacket – he even snorted some of the fibres in case Greg made him wipe down again. They cruised for about twenty minutes, but he felt sure they had doubled back at one point.
When they dragged him out of the car, the landscape was subtly different and they were on a gravel road – an entrance to a farm maybe. Mikey hauled him to his feet while Greg held the gun on him. As he’d anticipated, Greg got him to wipe down again. Damon collected the wipes and pocketed them.
‘We’ll dump those a few miles up the road. The jacket an’ all.’
‘I just bought it,’ Damon complained.
‘I’ll get you a new one.’ Greg looked at Josh and smiled. ‘I’m not stupid, bruv.’
Josh feigned disappointment. Nah, just ignorant.
Greg flipped the gun so the grip faced Damon. ‘’S all yours, son.’
The sixteen-year-old stared at the gun, his arms tight by his sides. ‘Nah, you’re all right, mate.’
‘Take it,’ Greg said.
Damon’s eyes widened. ‘No. I … I can’t.’
‘You asked to be here – now take it.’ Josh heard the familiar warning in his brother’s voice.
‘Greg,’ Josh said. ‘You can’t do this to him. Don’t make him a killer.’
‘We already had one brother turn Queen’s evidence on the family,’ Greg said. ‘Not gonna happen twice.’
Damon stared at the gun as if it were alive. Greg’s free hand snaked out, striking him, fast and hard, on the side of the head. Damon staggered and cried out, putting one hand to his face.
‘Take it.’
‘No, I don’t want to, Greg – please.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Damon,’ Josh said.
‘I do,’ Damon sobbed. ‘You know I do.’ He was a mess, crying, snot hanging in strings from his nose.
Josh took his younger brother by the shoulders, hugged him close.
‘Whatever happens,’ he whispered, ‘remember, I love you.’
He grasped Damon by the hair and his brother began to struggle. Josh pulled away, launched a vicious headbutt and felt the cartilage of his brother’s nose crunch.
Mikey stepped in, dealing a stinging blow to Josh’s ear; he stumbled, grabbing hold of Damon as he went, dragging his brother down with him. Damon prised his fingers apart, blood bubbling from his nose – creating an aerosol so fine the brothers wouldn’t see it on Josh’s dark jacket. Josh held on for as long as he could, then let go without warning and Damon fell backwards.
A second later, the younger brother was on his feet, screaming. ‘Bastard – you broke my nose, you—’ He lunged, but Mikey caught him by the waist.
‘Calm down, tiger.’
Damon swung wildly with his elbows and Mikey left off, laughing.
‘Gimme it,’ Damon screamed. He snatched the gun from Greg.
Josh raised an arm. In the distance the drone of farm machinery. Then a light flashed and—
48
In the field of observation, chance favours the prepared mind.
LOUIS PASTEUR
Fennimore’s Apartment, Aberdeen, Friday, Mid-morning
Fennimore was watching the CCTV from Paris on his laptop and an e-tablet. One was live-streaming while the other replayed recorded footage of the street and the bridge from which the photograph had been taken. His flat was almost back to austere normality after the break-in, and he put together a sandwich in his kitchen, keeping one eye on the monitors.
The doorbell rang and, licking butter from his thumb, he went to his front door and checked the intercom screen. It was APC, courier delivery. A box; about thirty-five centimetres tall, fifteen deep. He signed for it and started back upstairs. He sat looking at it for a few minutes, then found a box of vinyls and gloved up. If this was Tremain’s parting shot from beyond the grave, he didn’t want to mess up any evidence. He opened the outer packaging with a scalpel, slicing across the top and then down one edge of the box before peeling back the brown paper. The wooden box inside was labelled Veuve Clicquot; Fennimore was no wine buff, but he recognized expensive champagne when he saw it. A discreet gift card attached was signed by his US editor. It read, ‘Congrats – Crapshoots just made it into the NY Times top ten science books. You kicked Malcolm Gladwell’s ass.’
He minimized the live-stream and looked up the New York Times. Crapshoots was there all right. Which was puzzling, considering the doomy call he’d had from his financial adviser just before he left for Essex. He’d scribbled the guy’s name and number down as he headed out to the airport. He rummaged in the pockets of his jacket and sifted through receipts until finally he found the scrap of paper and smoothed it out on the kitchen counter. John Vincent. He began tapping the phone number into his mobile, but something on the second computer monitor caught his eye: the bridge over the Seine was filled with high-end cars, parked nose-to-tail.
He accessed the time stamp: the footage was taken at 3:15 p.m., two days earlier. Groups of men in uniform stood about, smoking, chatting. Chauffeurs. Fennimore stared at the frame. The photo of the man with the girl in the orange sundress had been taken from that bridge. Looking at the neat line of gleaming cars, he had the feeling this was a regular occurrence – he wondered if they dropped off their VIP clients at a nearby venue. A quick check online revealed that the Paris Chamber of Commerce met once a month, not far from the bridge; a fashion house gave occasional shows a short step away; two private art galleries were situated half a block down the road from the line of cars. He called up the image of the girl and the man, both well dressed – expensively dressed; the type who would not seem out of place stepping from a chauffeur-driven limo. He flicked back to the CCTV recording, watching the drivers disappear from one spot and appear further along the row, as the camera jumped between burst-shots. In one three-frame burst he saw the men stub out their cigarettes and straighten their uniforms: their clients were returning. A procession of chic, sleek Parisians slid gracefully into the waiting cars. He thought he recognized a British actress among them. As she approached the line, one of the chauffeurs took a mobile phone from his pocket and, folding his arms to partly obscure the device, he aimed it at the woman. Is that how the photo Fennimore had received was taken? Was it possible that this anonymous emailer was one of these chauffeurs?
49
Manchester, Friday, Mid-morning
Simms was in a debrief meeting with the carjack killer investigative team. She was still officially on leave, but didn’t want to miss the opportunity. In generous mood, the DCI in charge invited her to the front of the room and even gave her credit for having discovered Lauren.
CSIs had previously found a minute trace of blood inside the car of Kim Restel, the Manchester marketing rep who got away: four tiny droplets, smaller than a pinhead, but they’d had nothing on the DNA database to match it to. Now, they had, and they were a match to Tremain. He was now linked to the earlier murders, as well as the murders of Carl Lazko and Julia Myers. They were still waiting on trace evidence from Fennimore’s Tom Killbride appeal, but they were confident that would close the Gail Hammond murder investigation.
‘Six murders, one attempted abduction – and Lauren Myers returned to her family,’ the DCI said. ‘Brilliant work, everyone.’
A cheer went up, along with the sound of fifty-plus pairs of hands drumming on tables.
Simms grinned with the rest of them, elated and relieved, ready to punch the air with the sheer joy of it. Her phone buzzed in her pocket; she checked the screen – it was DS Donal McLeish, her contact at Police Scotland. She excused herself and stepped out into the corridor.
‘Donal, how are y—’
‘Kate, I don’t know how to tell you this,’ he cut in.
The smile faded from her face. ‘Josh?’ she said.
‘The surgeons tried to remove the bullet from his brain. He died on the operating table forty minutes ago.’
‘DCI Gordon is calling him as we speak.’
‘Thanks – f-for letting me know,’ she stammered. She ended the call and stared numbly at the screen.
Her phone buzzed in her hand; it was Fennimore.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘I’m looking at a line of high-end cars with their chauffeurs, parked on a bridge in Paris – the bridge,’ he said. ‘I think the man who took the photo of Suzie with the older man was one of these drivers.’
He doesn’t know. For a moment, she felt sorry for him, but then she thought, And here he is, calling me, asking for another favour.
She was suddenly blindingly angry – with him, with Josh, with herself. And how the hell did he have pictures of a bridge in Paris?
‘How did you come by this information?’ she asked stonily.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Are you employing a private detective – is that it?’ Her voice was controlled, but even she could hear the tightness in it.
He hesitated.
Do not lie to me, Fennimore.
‘No,’ he said.
‘So you’ve been using covert surveillance?’
She heard him take a breath, hold it for a second. ‘Yes,’ he said on the out-breath.
‘Are you insane?’ she said.
‘Kate, listen—’
‘Nick,’ she said, ‘you set up covert surveillance in a foreign country – that’s not only illegal, it’s stupid.’
‘Hear me out,’ he said. ‘I did some web trawling, sent a few enquiries to limo companies in Paris – but they won’t talk to me. I’ve emailed the details to you – can you get CEOP’s International Child Protection Network to take a look at him?’
‘You’re not listening, Nick.’
‘I hear you,’ he said. ‘I broke international law – and I’ll face the consequences. But if you could just—’
‘What about the consequences to everyone around you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll do anything, use any means – anyone – to get what you want.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ he said. ‘If it was Becky – or Timmy – wouldn’t you use any means necessary to get them back?’
For a second, she didn’t have the breath to speak. When she found her voice she said, ‘I’d like to think I wouldn’t screw up a friend’s life just to set mine straight.’
‘Kate—’
He sounded apologetic, but Simms was way past conciliation.
‘You spend half your professional life trying to show the police up as incompetent or vindictive, because it explains why they haven’t caught Rachel’s killer – why Suzie is still missing. That way you don’t have to blame yourself.’
‘Kate!’
‘You screwed up, Nick. You – and me. No one else. We should have been at home that weekend. But we lied to our partners, and we interfered in a police inquiry we had no business meddling in. You’ve always blamed Lazko for diverting police attention from the investigation – have you ever thought how our actions affected it – how we might have held up the search for Rachel and Suzie?’ Her voice was hoarse, but she spoke through the emotion that threatened to choke her.
‘Has something happened?’ he asked. ‘Are you all right?’
‘You never face the consequences, other people do – it was me, when Rachel and Suzie were abducted. I guess now it’s Josh’s turn.’
‘What are you saying?’ His voice sounded weak.
‘He’s dead, Nick,’ she said. ‘Josh is dead.’
50
Simms went home shortly after her debrief meeting broke up; like everyone else on the team, she had a report to write. She sat in her back garden with a mug of coffee, her laptop open on the patio table. Kieran’s school holidays had officially started and he was playing kick-about with a half-size football on the lawn with Timmy. She listened to her son’s squeals of delight, but couldn’t stop brooding. Her thoughts went to Becky and that terrible case last winter – the breathless chase through the icy wastelands of Manchester, the suffocating terror that she might never see her daughter again. What if she had lost Becky as Fennimore had lost Suzie? What extremes would she go to in order to keep her safe? Every time she tried to put herself in Fennimore’s position, her brain shut down – it simply wouldn’t let her think in those terms. But watching her husband and son play in the sunshine, hearing Timmy’s laughter, Suzie’s absence still nagged at her. It was a dull ache that refused to go away.
She sighed, impatient with herself and resentful of Fennimore’s question. Hadn’t she already jeopardized her career, gone way over the line to help him find Suzie? And what about Josh? He had taken Josh’s chance of a new life and squandered it – there was no excusing that.
She shook her head. Enough. Returning her attention to her report, she typed a few lines, but an image intruded: Mr Myers in the hospital, crouching beside his little girl, tears of joy and relief in his eyes. How many times had Fennimore fantasized a similar rescue for Suzie?
She groaned. You need to write up this report, Kate, she told herself, but two minutes later her thoughts had circled round to Suzie again. She gave up and called Becky.
‘Mum, is everything okay?’
‘Hey, that’s my line,’ Simms said.
Becky laughed, and the knot of tension just below her heart eased a little.
‘C’est Maman,’ she said, as an aside.
‘Sorry, Becks,’ Simms said, ‘is this a bad moment?’
‘Pas du tout,’ Becky said. ‘We’re on our way to the Champs-Élysées, to take the tour of L’Arc de Triomphe. You can go right to the top and take pictures.’ Her French pronunciation seemed authentic and unselfconscious, and Simms experienced a tingle of pride.
‘So you’re having fun?’
‘I’m loving it. Is Timmy there? Can I say hi?’
Simms called Timmy and handed him the phone. ‘Your sister wants to say hello.’
She handed him the phone and he said, ‘Hello’, answered, ‘Fine’ to two questions, then nodded mutely.
‘You have to speak, Timmy,’ Simms said. ‘She can’t see you.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m playing football with Daddy.’
A pause, then he said, ‘A beeyan-toe,’ and handed the phone back to her. ‘Becky says that means “see you soon” in French. Is she telling fibs, Mummy?’
‘I don’t think so, sweetie.’ She asked Becky and was rewarded with another laugh.
‘Oh, we’re here!’ Becky exclaimed. ‘Love you, Mum, give Dad my love. Tell him I miss him.’
‘He misses you, Becky. We all do.’
Then Becky was gone and tears came unbidden to Simms’s eyes.
‘You okay?’ Kieran asked.
‘Fine.’ She smiled, blinking away the tears. ‘Just this case, you know.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s been a tough one.’ He swung her laptop around to take a cheeky peek at the screen and she slapped his hand.
He grinned. ‘You don’t seem to be getting very far with your report.’
She closed the laptop, disgusted with herself. ‘I can’t concentrate.’
‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘I know,’ he said again. ‘Look, why don’t I take Timmy to the adventure playground – give you an hour or two to finish it?’
She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘I want to go on the climbing frame!’ Timmy yelled, already tugging at his daddy’s hand, and Kieran gave her a droll look.
‘The decision is made,’ he said, allowing Timmy to drag him inside the house.
She completed the report and emailed it in forty-five minutes. After that she washed up, changed the bed-sheets and put a wash on, but she could not shake the idea that she should be doing something – anything – to help Fennimore.
What if he was righ
t and Suzie was somewhere in Paris? She might even be a few miles from where Becky stood now. Those two had been inseparable as ten- and eleven-year-olds, and now, listening to Becky, seeing how much she had grown and matured as a person, how much she had to look forward to in life, it seemed even more cruel that Suzie might never have those same opportunities.
Could she deny Fennimore a chance – however slight – to give Suzie her life back?
She found herself scrolling through her mental Rolodex of contacts; she wouldn’t risk her job for him, not again. She’d had to resign from London Metropolitan Police and move her family two hundred miles north to escape the tedium of committee work and community initiatives she had been consigned to last time. Four years of inter-agency ‘partnerships’, and focus groups, political wrangling and target-setting. She would have quit after the first six months if it weren’t for a few inspirational people she met along the way. She had to admit that during that time she had made some great contacts both in the job and in other agencies.
Her run-through of names and agencies snagged at Interpol. Its central function was to facilitate communication between law enforcement agencies around the world; surely it would be the best channel of communication in this instance? Simms knew that each of its 190 member countries had its own national bureau – she herself had worked closely with an Interpol officer in London on the disappearance of a prostitute that had later exposed an international trafficking ring. Yes, she thought, he was the man to call, and she sighed, resigning herself to the notion that she and Fennimore weren’t finished yet.
51
You know my method. It is founded on the observation of trifles.
A. C. DOYLE, ‘THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY’
Paris, Friday Afternoon
Fennimore sat drinking coffee outside a café on the bank of the River Seine. It was just over four hours since he’d learned of Josh’s death, and in that time he had made a frantic call to DCI Gordon and had turned up at the hospital mortuary. Josh was on the table; Fennimore opened the door to the postmortem room, but a detective blocked his way. Fennimore could see the pathologist, gloved and gowned, ready to make a start. DCI Gordon himself was witnessing the PM. He took Fennimore by the elbow and helped the detective to edge him out of the door.
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