‘As you wish,’ Bett said.
He took a seat as he talked, turning one of the wooden chairs away from the table and sitting cross-legged. His accent was unplaceably neutral, certain inflections suggesting either that English was not his first language, or that if it was, he didn’t always speak it as often as he did others. If she had to hazard a guess as to where he was from, Jane would have said Europe, or maybe just Earth.
He talked calmly and concisely, in a manner that indicated he was used to rapt attention and was thus only going to say this once. Jane didn’t need him to repeat a word of it in any case. The natural interjections of dismay and incredulity – ‘Are you sure?’, ‘I don’t believe it’ – did not get past her lips. He most unquestionably was sure, and after the past twenty-four hours, she quite definitely did believe it. She stood and listened, sipping the cool water Alexis had brought in, the girl wordlessly depositing two glasses and an earthenware pitcher on to a low side table before taking position by the door like some Edwardian servant.
Her head swam. She had so many questions that she was perversely grateful for Bett’s abrupt words of caution, for they forced her to sift, evaluate and prioritise.
‘I’ll give you a moment,’ he said, rising from his seat. She thought he was about to leave the room, but he merely took a short walk to one of the huge windows and stood, looking out, hands clasped behind his back.
‘I’ll start with just one,’ she said, allowing herself the compromise of half-sitting, half-leaning against the back of a sofa. Bett turned around. ‘What am I doing here? I mean, as you’ve explained, your people are all experts and professionals, and you guys swim freestyle in a pool normal people don’t even dip their toes into. I’ve been asking myself this for twenty-four hours and I thought that when I got here I’d find an answer, but nothing you’ve said so far gives me any inkling what it is that you’re expecting from me.’
Bett walked across to the side table and poured himself a glass of water. He took a drink and stood a few feet away. She caught whiffs of shower gel and deo, a light, soapy aftershave, freshly laundered clothes. Smells of cleanliness and order. If it was a marketed scent, it would be called Discipline or Precision. He looked her in the eye.
‘What would you be prepared to do to get your son back alive?’
‘I’d say your question should be “what wouldn’t I be prepared to do?” Since learning he was missing, I’ve stolen two cars, forged a passport and violated international border controls, and that was just logistics. I’d do anything. I’d do anything it takes.’
‘Then anything it takes is what I expect from you. But we’ll begin with what you can tell us about your son.’
Bett pulled out a chair for her around the big table and nodded to Alexis. She exited the room, returning momentarily in the company of another girl, a blonde who carried her tall frame slightly inelegantly, a tomboy all grown up. She had a natural, unaffected prettiness about her, but Jane somehow couldn’t picture her in a dress and heels. She looked the type of girl who’d played with all the boys, then didn’t quite understand why they suddenly got shy around her sometime after her fourteenth birthday. She looked mid-twenties, slightly older than her companion.
‘This is Rebekah,’ Alexis introduced.
Rebekah smiled shyly and took a seat.
They were followed into the room shortly by three males. First was a boy – he barely looked twenty – of South-East Asian aspect, skinny and awkward, cheerful but restless. He introduced himself as ‘Somboon, but call me Som’. Then came a tall and chiselled-looking young Catalan called Nuno, who carried himself gracefully and lightly on long legs, exuding almost as much effortless confidence as Bett. The undone top buttons of his cornflower-blue shirt revealed shaven skin across taut muscle. In contrast with Rebekah, here was someone who was always aware he looked good.
Finally came a balding and grizzled individual, of similar height and build to Bett, though perhaps more tending towards squat. He was also the only one of the group close to Bett in years, and in the company uniquely rugged-looking in contrast to so much fresh-faced youth, the only one who could lay claim to a hard paper-round. Jane anticipated a voice to match his swarthy appearance, from a throat conditioned by a hundred thousand Gauloise, but when he spoke it was smooth, mellifluent. If he read female erotica for audio-books, he’d be a millionaire in six months. He was the only one to approach her before sitting, walking around the table and briefly taking her hand as he announced himself, ‘Armand, Madame Fleming.’
All of them seated, Bett commenced his questions. His team didn’t have notepads, but they paid such close attention to Jane’s answers, it was as though they expected to be tested on it at the end. She reckoned they’d all score full marks, though she wouldn’t rate so highly. She felt horribly put upon. Bett’s questions were, to begin with, fairly general stuff about Ross, but she couldn’t see where they were going, other than ultimately towards the admission that these days she knew little of any use or relevance about her son. The worst of it, however, was the sense of being on the spot, all these bright and inquisitive faces hanging expectantly upon her every word, so many pairs of eyes focused upon her – and she looked like this. Jane felt old and ugly, scruffy and sore. Every so often her nostrils caught the smell of her own sweat, turned stale and musky from so much heat and effort in the same clothes, and she guessed if she could smell it herself, it must be rank to the others. What did she look like to these people? And what would they do once they found out she was just another redundant, alienated mother, stranded on the far side of the generation gap?
She stared across the table at Bett. The feeling of intimidation was wearing off, fatigue, sorrow and embarrassment starting to overcome more transient emotions. She felt like a rag doll with the stuffing hanging out of it, and he was still talking away, oblivious to her suffering, indifferent to her state. She was just business on the agenda, the subject at hand. There was a moment when tears might have come again, but it passed. She’d bottomed out, and now her fragile feelings of self-pity were being transmuted into anger and resentment.
‘Did Ross mention anything to you recently about what he was working on?’ Bett asked.
‘What he was working on?’ she replied, trying to calm the incredulity in her voice. ‘No, we’ve never talked much about his job, it would be fair to say.’
‘Just an allusion, perhaps. Even a flippant remark.’
‘I’m trying to remember. What was that you were saying about time being of the essence and not asking stupid questions?’
‘Mrs Fleming,’ Bett appealed calmly, ‘it is always possible that the most fleeting—’
‘He doesn’t talk to me about his job, okay? I know he works for Deimos, I know he’s in research and development of non-lethal weapons. That’s it. He doesn’t send me any blueprints. In fact, these days I’m doing well if I get a birthday card. Do you talk to your mother about your job?’ She threw this last question in a rage, and the words were out before she could consider whether he still had a mother to talk to. He didn’t answer, but there was a brief flash in his eyes, just a millisecond’s glimmer of reaction before discipline restored the veil of his assured composure. He opened his mouth with a smack of the lips, then paused, as though changing his mind about what he was next about to say.
‘When exactly did you last speak to him?’ he asked.
Jane sighed. ‘Exactly? I don’t know. Maybe three weeks ago.’
‘Three weeks?’ asked Bett, trying not to sound surprised and, she suspected, disappointed. ‘And how did he sound? Was he worried?’
‘He sounded the same as he always does. Uncommunicative. We exchanged the usual formalities, skirted around the things we ought to be talking about but never do, and then I passed the phone to his father. Forgive me if I failed to interpret anything crucial from minor nuances in his speech patterns.’
‘Do you know what he spoke to your husband about?’
‘Not in detail, no. B
ut I doubt it would be of any greater pertinence. Not unless you can detect any coded message in whether Chris Sutton is best deployed as an out-and-out striker or played deeper behind Larsson and Hartson.’
Nuno shifted in his seat at this. He looked like he wanted to say something, but reluctantly swallowed whatever it was. Jane had detected a growing tension around the table as she failed to provide any salient information, sighs and traded looks that Bett’s admonishing glances were having a diminishing effect in reining in. She felt under increasing pressure to deliver, and thus more resentful that she had been put in this position.
‘Does he … do you have any relatives on the continent, or friends that he might contact? People or a place he might consider familiar?’
‘No. No relatives. As for friends, I don’t know.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend? Or boyfriend?’
‘He was engaged, but that’s all off now. Two years ago, in fact.’
‘Two years ago is a long time. What about now? Did he ever mention seeing a girl?’
‘I’m the last person he’d talk to about that. He’s still sore at me because we had a bit of a falling out over him breaking it off with his fiancée.’
More sighs, rolled eyes, a tut.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I’m not a fount of knowledge here, okay?’ Jane hit out, staring fiercely around the table. ‘But I never volunteered myself and it wasn’t me who thought I would be.’ She looked last at Bett, as did everyone else. The dynamic was beginning to become a little more clear. It wasn’t her they were frustrated at.
‘Mrs Fleming, please don’t allow yourself to become flustered,’ he stated flatly. He couldn’t have been less solicitous about it; his concern was all for the success of the interrogation. ‘This is not a test of your knowledge or of your relationship with your son. What you don’t know may prove as relevant as what you do, and what you do know may not be immediately apparent to yourself.’
This sounded like rubbish. Maybe it wasn’t her he was trying to convince.
‘If you had to take a guess, just on sheer instinct, where would you say Ross might go? Pure gut-reaction. He’s alone, he’s anxious, he needs to hide, needs to feel he’s somewhere he knows, an environment he can control. Where would he go?’
Jane sighed, venting her own frustration. ‘I haven’t a clue. I’d guess home. That’s the only place that fits the bill as you described. Maybe he’s there right now and we just missed each other yesterday. Shall I call?’
Bett continued, his tone betraying no response to her sarcasm. He was singularly undistractable. ‘Home is too dangerous. Too obvious. He’s smart, he wouldn’t take the risk. Nor, I imagine, would he want to bring his pursuers anywhere near to his loved ones.’
‘Yeah, thank God that didn’t happen.’
‘Is there another city he’s familiar with? Somewhere he’s frequented, a regular family holiday destination from his youth?’
‘We went to the Canaries mostly. Tenerife, Lanzarote a couple of times.’
Bett shook his head. ‘The police impounded his Audi TT after it was left illegally parked in Demerin, near the Swiss border. He also lifted a lot of cash from an autoteller there, according to records obtained by Deimos.’
‘So you think he’s in Switzerland. We’ve never been there, not the family.’
‘I don’t think he’s in Switzerland, but I believe that’s what he wants people to think. He knew his bank records were traceable and he had no shortage of inconspicuous places to leave his car. He wanted it found. So I ask you again, one guess, but mainland Europe. Where would he go? First thing that comes into your head.’
‘Paris.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s big and impersonal. It’s comparatively close. Lots of transport options. He speaks French.’
‘Does he know it well?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know if he’s ever been, to be honest, but you said first place that comes …’
‘Okay.’
Nuno shifted restively again. He and Bett stared at each other for a tense couple of seconds, then, with an irritated tut, Bett returned his gaze to Jane. ‘Barcelona,’ Bett said, with the merest hint of weariness.
‘What about it?’
‘Does it mean anything to you? Can you think of any reason Ross might go there?’
She looked back blankly and shook her head. She tried to remember whether Ross had ever expressed any interest in the place, but no bells rang. Hadn’t he once … no, she was pretty sure that was Prague. Or maybe Budapest. Christ, this was hopeless. Bett looked to Nuno with a thin-lipped expression and a fleeting twitch of his brow. Though wordless, it said ‘Told you, now shut up,’ more witheringly than words could have expressed. Part of her wanted Nuno to lamp him for it.
‘Why Barcelona?’ she asked, wishing to throw Nuno a crumb of solidarity in facing a common foe.
‘Because he’s from bloody Barcelona,’ Bett answered for him. ‘And he thinks the whole bloody world revolves around it.’
Nuno shot back an angry look, but again swallowed whatever he had to say.
‘It’s as likely as Paris,’ Jane admitted. ‘You might as well get me to throw darts at a map. I don’t have any priceless insights, trust me on this. And I’m starting to feel like an idiot for bothering to get myself here. The best chance of me being any use to Ross is if he phones for help, and in the highly unlikely event that he does, I’ll be in the wrong bloody country.’
‘I don’t believe it’s unlikely at all,’ Bett said, again impervious to her rant. ‘The fact that he’d not been in touch for three weeks before he ran will most probably make it more tempting to hear a friendly voice. No matter how self-reliant he is, he’ll never have felt so alone. He’s going to want to talk to someone, and my guess is, it’ll be his mum. He’ll call, Mrs Fleming, believe me. Eventually, he’ll call, and what country you’re in is irrelevant. We can get to anywhere within …’
‘I’d say it’s pretty bloody relevant if I’m not at home to answer.’
‘If your mobile doesn’t work abroad, I can get you a SIM card that will—’
‘I don’t have a mobile. Only the free gift I got at the supermarket, courtesy of Alexis here.’
There was a moment of complete silence around the table. Bett remained poker-faced as ever, but she could read the headlines in everyone else’s reactions. He’d screwed up. That the odds were enormous would be scant consolation: Jane was probably the only woman in Lanarkshire between the ages of nine and ninety who didn’t own a mobile phone, but for Mr Attention-to-Detail it constituted a howler.
‘Does anyone at home know the number of the phone you’re carrying?’ he asked, remarkably no hint of anxiety in his voice.
‘I don’t know the number of the phone I’m carrying.’
‘Have you phoned anyone with it?’
‘Yes, I called Michelle, my daughter.’
‘Then she should have it. You’re still contactable.’
‘She may have it. I wouldn’t say more than that. I don’t know whether international codes show up on Call-ID.’
‘You’re right. Call home. Now. Give your husband the number. Alexis has it. Alexis, write it down for Mrs Fleming, please.’
Jane took out the mobile and looked around at the circle of faces. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to share.
‘Would you excuse me,’ she said, and walked across the room to the fireplace. A silence hung in the air as she left, thick with unspoken recrimination. Ironically, despite her feelings of solidarity with the others, it was Bett who’d thrown his lot in with her, and right then it looked like they were both sinking.
She dialled her home number. It rang out. She looked at her watch, tried to estimate where Tom might be, asked herself whether he’d have gone to work as normal after Michelle told him his wife had absconded. Chances were, Tom would have gone to work as normal if Michelle had told him he’d twelve hours to live. He didn’t operate well outside of defined para
meters. ‘Twelve hours? Okay, I’ll put in a shift, have my tea and just hope the game tonight doesn’t go to extra time.’
She dialled his mobile instead. A recorded announcement said it was switched off and invited her to leave a message.
She called Michelle. She answered so quickly, she must have been sitting with the phone cradled in her lap.
‘Dad?’ she asked expectantly.
‘No, it’s Mum.’
‘Mum, thank God. I was hoping you’d call. Mum, it’s about Ross.’
‘You’ve heard from him?’ Jane looked towards the table, her voice having risen unintentionally. All eyes were now fixed upon her.
‘He called Dad last night, not long after you phoned me. He’s in trouble, Mum. That’s why they tried to grab Rachel.’
‘I know.’
‘You know? Why didn’t you say something?’
‘It’s complicated. What did Ross say? Do you know where he is?’
‘Yes. Dad’s gone to meet him. He flew out first thing this morning. Couldn’t get a direct flight because they’re all full, so he flew to Madrid and drove the rest.’
‘Drove where?’
‘Barcelona.’
Jane looked across at Nuno, unable to stop herself when she heard the word. She put her hand over the speaker.
‘He is in Barcelona,’ she announced. Nuno threw his hands in the air in a gesture of exasperation.
‘Mum? You still there?’
‘Yes, honey. Barcelona, you said. But what’s your dad planning to do? He can’t bring him home, it’s too dangerous.’
‘Dad said he knew someone over there who might be able to help.’
‘Dad? Who does he know in Barcelona?’
‘I don’t know, he didn’t tell me the name. He said it was someone with connections.’
‘And is he there now, your dad? Is he with Ross?’
‘Yes. Dad called about an hour ago. They had met up with this guy and they were waiting for someone he knew, someone who could help. Look, you shouldn’t be talking to me about this. Call Dad. He’s got his mobile, and—’
All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye Page 22