Out of Mind

by Catherine Sampson

  Silently, he read. And then he read again. With an angry jerk and a shake of the head that looked as though he were fighting off the hangman, he handed the document back to her and stood, pushing back his chair so that it fell over on the carpet behind him. The school secretary glanced down at the paper and felt nausea overwhelm her as she saw a list of numbers that represented the school bank accounts and a transfer order, another bank account number, a bank address in the Virgin Islands, and the principal’s signature.

  “Appelez la police,” the principal barked at her before his knees buckled and, gasping, he collapsed.

  Chapter Twenty

  WE landed in Majorca, and I had to drag myself away from my father’s crimes in France and concentrate on my missing teenager. What I had feared would be a grim and distressing day turned into something else entirely. She had been found, quite happy and not much wiser, after an absorbing holiday romance abruptly ended. Instead of interviewing worried police, I ended up interviewing the teenager herself, who was surprised to find herself missing. She was funny and frank about what she’d been up to, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way, but the fact that she was alive and available for interview meant that filming took longer than we expected. We spent that night in an uninspiring hotel, and headed back to the airport the next morning.

  On the plane home, I read the English papers. Inspector Mitford had admitted that the raid on Ronald Evans’s house and the detention of both Ronald and Sheryl had been “regrettable.” Evans was said to be staying with relatives, “devastated” by what had happened.

  “We carried out the search with what we hoped would be minimum disruption to Mr. Ronald Evans and to Mrs. Sheryl Laver, who was a guest in his house at the time of our visit,” Inspector Mitford said in a statement issued to the press. “Because of the information one of my officers had received, and because of the grave anxiety we felt about the well-being of Christopher Darling, we felt that it was vital to give no prior warning that the police would be searching the premises. In the event, we regret the distress we caused to Mr. Evans and Mrs. Laver. We would repeat that no incriminating evidence of any kind was found during this search. We would like to thank Mr. Evans and Mrs. Laver for their cooperation, and assure them both that we will not be troubling them again.”

  A second article noted that Fred Sevi, “psychiatrist and companion of missing camerawoman Melanie Jacobs,” had been questioned for a second time by police after “new information” had surfaced.

  I shifted uncomfortably in the cramped airplane seat. Dave had nodded off, and his head was threatening to land on my shoulder. We were circling over London, waiting our turn to land, bumping through clouds, the view from the window in turn obscured and then clearing so that I could see the city below.

  I got back to find that William was throwing up, his pale little body shaking and shuddering with misery. Carol, who had been clearing up vomit all morning, was exhausted.

  “He’s thrown up everywhere,” she wailed. “The poor thing can’t understand what’s happening to him.”

  For the next three hours I did vomit duty, ferrying him to and from the bathroom, laying him on a bed of towels. In between bouts of sickness he slept, and I used the time to load up the washing machine and then the tumble dryer, and I showered the vomit out of my hair and changed my clothes. When he had not woken for an hour, I knew the worst was over. But I was so awake, so conditioned to the idea that I would not sleep that night, that I was not surprised when the telephone call came. I glanced at the clock as I picked up the receiver and rubbed my eyes. It was nearly midnight.

  It was Justin, desperately apologetic as only Justin could be, but upset and angry, too.

  “I need your help,” he said. “Jacqui’s gone with her dad to meet the kidnapper. They just left. They’ve gone to get Christopher back.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “To get Christopher back, from the kidnapper.”

  “How do they know where he is?”

  “There was a ransom demand. They’re going to pay it.”

  “Where did they get the cash?”

  “Sheryl gave it to them. Everyone’s been screaming at each other. Dad shouted at Sheryl for giving Mike the money. He told Mike not to pay the ransom, he said there’s no guarantee he’ll get Christopher back. Look, you have to hurry. I can’t move, I can’t drive, I’m stuck here, and I’m afraid Jacqui’s going to get hurt. Her dad’s taken a gun.”

  “Has Mike told the police what he’s doing?”

  “Of course not, and you mustn’t, he’ll kill me. Please. Hurry. There’s a warehouse in Morden, Revender’s warehouse on Blodale Road.”

  I grabbed an A to Z from the bookshelf and looked up the address as we spoke. I’d have liked to tell Justin I couldn’t possibly get there before dawn, but I could probably make it in about the same time that Mike could make it from Sydenham.

  “You need to call the police,” I told Justin. ‘Tell them what you’ve told me.”

  “I can’t,” Justin moaned. “Jacqui made me promise.”

  “Well, if Jacqui gets killed, it’s your fault,” I told him harshly. “There’s nothing I can do to protect her.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, “I’ll call the police. But you will go, too, won’t you?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll go and take a look,” I told him.

  I had moved William into my bedroom so that he wouldn’t disturb Hannah. Now I switched on the bedside light and lay down on the bed beside him. I felt his forehead. He was cool. His breathing was slow and peaceful, his arms thrown out in deep, comfortable sleep. Whatever it was, he had got rid of it. I kissed him lightly, and he didn’t stir.

  I ran up the stairs and tapped on Carol’s door. I heard a light being switched on, then reluctant footsteps. She appeared in a dressing gown, pushing her hair out of eyes barely open.

  “I’m sorry. You were asleep.”

  “I was trying to get an early night. Is William okay?”

  “He’s sleeping. He’s stopped throwing up. But I have to . . .”

  I couldn’t bring myself to finish. She stared at me.

  “You’re going out?”

  “Could you possibly . . . possibly go and sleep in my bed, so you’ll be there if he wakes?”

  She looked at me, and I knew I had to tell her about the phone call so that she would know that this wasn’t nothing. She listened and she nodded. She tightened her dressing gown, pulled her bedroom door closed behind her, and padded down the stairs without another word.

  I parked in Morden. I leaned across to the passenger seat and picked up my bag. Inside I had a MiniDV camera, tape already inside. I’d had no time to check whether or not the battery was charged. I pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder and got out of the car. The street was deserted, the shops padlocked, windows barred. Revender’s warehouse was a large dark profile set just off the road. A bright security light was shining over its yard. It looked like a football stadium all lit up for the game.

  My route took me past a pub. It was chucking-out time, and one guy was chucking up in the gutter. He recovered enough to yell an obscenity after me. In my pocket I wrapped my keys around my knuckles and carried on walking. I pulled my mobile out of my pocket and called Veronica’s number, but an anonymous voice informed me the phone had been switched off. I swore softly. What was Veronica doing turning her phone off? I called the Sydenham police switchboard, gave my name, and asked for Mitford, but they put me on hold for so long that I lost patience.

  I circled the warehouse, looking for a vantage point. I settled, in the end, on an alley that ran along the side of the warehouse and opened onto wasteland at the far end. It wasn’t an obvious access point, because the alley ended in a pile of builder’s rubble. But I didn’t want access. I wanted to be able to see.

  I clambered up the pile of rubble and discovered that once on top I could see the warehouse yard, illuminated under a security light that bathed t
he concreted area in a sickly white glare. The gates, I saw, had been left open to the road. After a few minutes, a white SUV drove into the yard. It stopped at the northeast corner of the yard and switched off its engine. From where I was placed, I could see one figure inside. Where, I wondered, was Jacqui? I waited, settling the MiniDV camera into a position where, I hoped, its lens would not catch the light. I started to film. Wait until something happens, and it’s always too late.

  I filmed the man in the car waiting. I waited. There was silence. For the very first time, it occurred to me that this enterprise might end not in success or tragedy, but in sheer bloody boredom. Then, quite suddenly, I saw that someone else was in the car park. He or she—it was impossible to tell in the dark—had emerged from a low door in the warehouse. The person stood there, nothing but a dark shape against the dark metal of the building. The figure in the car also moved, emerging from the car and into the light, and then I could see that it was Darling.

  “Where is he?” In the still night air, Darling’s voice carried easily. He didn’t shout, just spoke, and if I could hear, then so could the person at the door to the warehouse.

  “Where’s the cash?” I’d have said the voice was male, but the night air and my nerves served as distortion.

  Darling raised a bag high over his head.

  The wraith slipped back inside the warehouse. Darling’s gaze never wavered from the door. After a moment it reopened and the figure reemerged. Now I could see that he or she was dressed in black from head to toe and that even the face was covered. The figure carried a baby against its chest.

  I swore softly. The tiny scrap of flesh had been missing for days, but he’d never seemed as vulnerable as he did now in the harsh glare of the searchlight, his fate in the hands of these two people.

  I forced my eyes to move away from the baby and to his father and tried to listen over the pounding of my heart. With sight of the baby, Darling assumed the authoritative voice of a soldier. “I put the money down. You take the money, you leave him.”

  Darling moved so that for the first time his back was toward me. I saw—although the figure at the warehouse could not have seen—the handgun strapped to the back of his thigh.

  Where were the police? If Justin had called them as he’d promised, they would be here now. They would have alerted a local patrol; no need to drive across London as we had. I cursed Justin under my breath. Why had he not kept his side of the bargain?

  Darling walked to the point he had indicated and placed the carry-all on the ground. When he had moved away some ten yards, the figure carried the child forward, coming to a halt by the bag and squatting to put him carefully on the ground. I could see the child more clearly now, eyes closed in sleep or something worse, small fists relaxed.

  Still squatting, the figure investigated the bag. Then, after picking it up, the figure moved away rapidly, leaving Christopher where he lay. As the kidnapper retreated, never turning his back on Darling, Darling approached the tiny sleeping form until at the last moment the figure in black finally turned and ran for the doorway.

  But Darling was already firing, shots bouncing off the metal door. Twice, three times shots rang out, the last two hitting the warehouse door with a metallic report as the figure disappeared back inside. It seemed to me for a moment that Darling would give chase, and I abandoned my camera and started to scramble down the pile of rubble toward the child.

  But Darling had wheeled around, and then he saw me, and he held the gun on me while I got to my feet and raised my hands. There was such contempt and fear in his eyes that for a long moment I thought he would kill me. I waited, paralyzed, forgetting to breathe, as he silently made his point, the gun trained at my chest. He could get rid of me if he chose. He would like nothing better.

  Then he turned abruptly away from me. For a moment I just stood there, eyes closed, gathering myself, listening to my heart pound. I opened my eyes. Darling was kneeling by the baby.

  I dialed Veronica’s number again while Darling gathered up his son in his arms. Then Jacqui appeared from the gateway, running across the tarmac toward her father and brother. I listened to the ringing tone and watched the family huddle together, hugging each other tight.

  Veronica answered sleepily.

  “Your phone was turned off,” I burst out angrily. “You’re supposed to be here. The police are supposed to be here. Justin’s been trying to ring you, too.”

  “Hey, don’t you speak to me like that,” Veronica snapped back. “My grandmother had a stroke. Mitford knew exactly where I was. And I’ve got my phone right in front of me. The only calls I missed were from you. No one else tried to ring.”

  “Well, why . . . ?” I started to ask why she hadn’t rung me back, but I knew why. She would think I was calling just to hassle her for more information. And then slowly my brain picked up on what Veronica had said. “Is she all right?”

  “No. But she’s alive. What do you want?”

  I told her what had happened, and she muttered an expletive. Then she asked about Christopher.

  I turned to look. Christopher was in Jacqui’s arms as she climbed into the passenger seat.

  “He’s alive; it looks as though he’s sleeping,” I told Veronica.

  “Good.” Veronica heaved a sigh, but when she spoke she still sounded agitated. “Good. Look, I’m glad he’s alive. But because of what Mike’s done, a kidnapper is out there on a high, thinking he’s won.”

  As if he could hear what she was saying, Mike turned to me, his face suffused with victory. He raised his hand and made a fist, punching it into the air.

  “We got him back,” he crowed. “Tell her that. Left to them, he’d be dead.”

  He got into the driving seat and raised his hand to me as he switched on the engine. I stood in the middle of the yard under the spotlight, and I watched his taillights as he drove through the gates. I turned round and looked back at the dark warehouse, its metal doors swinging in the wind, no sign of life inside.

  “You have to send someone over here,” I told Veronica, “and a doctor to the house, to get him checked over.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” Her voice was uneven. I could tell she was getting dressed as we spoke.

  “Darling was shooting at the kidnapper,” I told her. “You might have someone dead or injured here, too.”

  I closed my ears to Veronica’s curses and ended the call.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I didn’t get home until dawn. A police patrol had arrived within seconds of my phone call to Veronica, not dispatched by her but answering calls from nearby residents who’d heard gunfire. I ended up going to the police station to give a statement, and while I was there I was given a long lecture on how I should have called the police before I set out with my camera. They were right, of course. I shouldn’t have left it to Justin. I didn’t argue. They also wanted to see the film, and I let them copy it. I couldn’t see why not. There was no secret.

  Carol woke up when she heard me come in and she told me that William had slept soundly. Still I didn’t go to bed. My head was spinning, but my synapses were still buzzing, random thoughts splintering and racing off at tangents.

  I rang Maeve. I got her at home, in bed, about to get up. I told her what had happened. I told her I had film of Mike Darling paying a ransom to a kidnapper and of Christopher being returned. I told her that as far as I knew, the child was at least alive, but more than that I could not say. I told her that Darling had shot at the kidnapper, and that as far as I knew the kidnapper had escaped unharmed.

  “What do I do with the film?” I asked.

  “I don’t understand why you’re even asking. Hand it over to News. Why didn’t you ring them there and then?”

  “The whole thing stinks, in my opinion.”

  “It’s a straightforward news story. Darling paid up, Darling got the baby back.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Robin, we could have been first with the story, and you
’ve been sitting on it like a bloody egg. The story is out there now. The film might as well be, too. Hand it over.”

  She was right, but I knew that showing the film would make a difference to the way people perceived what had happened; it would give the words substance. I couldn’t explain why I was uncomfortable about releasing it. I did not know what I had witnessed, I did not know what it meant, and I wasn’t sure what the value was of releasing a piece of film if we could not adequately describe it. But Maeve was determined. If I wasn’t going in to the office, she said, she would send a courier around for the tape.

  I said good-bye and hung up, still unhappy. I saw that Carol had appeared in her dressing gown and was making tea.

  “I heard,” she said.

  I shook my head and sat, exhausted, at the table, laying my head on my arms. She put a cup of tea in front of me.

  “The baby’s alive, that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”she reminded me.

  And of course it was.

  William carried on sleeping, worn out by his sickness the night before. Hannah woke up and behaved like an angel, delighted to have me to herself. I played for a while, but I felt almost sick with tiredness and couldn’t keep it up. I lay on the sofa, and Hannah came and stroked my forehead, her lovely face just above mine. Her eyes, so like her dead father’s, looked down at me with exaggerated concern. Carol urged me to go to bed, but I was too wound up to sleep. In the end I sat at the dining table, getting in Carol’s way, listening to radio accounts of what had happened the night before, and waiting for the courier to pick up the tape. The minutes ticked by.

  I thumbed through the newspaper and saw again the article reporting that Fred Sevi had been questioned for a second time by police. I wished I had some direct line to DCI Coburn, but all my information from the investigation into Melanie’s disappearance had come through Veronica or Finney, and I knew that it wasn’t the right time to call either of them.