“To report a crime, dial eight,” she said.
A man immediately answered and listened patiently to her story, almost too patiently. She gave her details then Joe’s name, date of birth, and description. Then the man asked for the make and registration number of the maroon car. Annoyed at herself, Kate admitted she hadn’t noted it down.
“Are you all right? Do you need victim support?” he asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
He gave her an incident report number and told her someone would be in touch.
“Is that it?” Her frustration boiled over.
“Not sure there’s anything else we can do for now,” he responded calmly. “Try and recall the details of the car.”
Kate put the phone down and stared at it, willing the conversation to have been different. Eventually she tore herself away and staggered home.
The day went by and no one called. No Joe. No police. She telephoned the police station and was transferred to someone who, after patiently listening to her story and taking a note of her incident report number, confirmed that Joe was not a British national.
“American,” Kate explained. “So someone is going to come round and help me?”
The man spoke in a collected manner and said a constable would visit to take a full statement.
There was something typically low ranking about No-neck: a middle-aged sergeant with the type of face that said both don’t mess with me and I don’t care.
“He was abducted,” Kate said after the usual preliminaries.
No-neck sat opposite in the lounge and studied Kate as she drank tea and tried to choose her words carefully. She prayed there was no hysterical edge to her voice, although she thought No-neck was assessing whether she was a crank.
“So you say he was abducted.” His voice showed no such consideration or emotion as he wrote in a notebook. “You’re sure?”
Breathe. “Well, no—”
“Why would someone abduct him?”
What should she say? What could she say? Joe’s secret was not one she was willing to disclose, even to a policeman. Perhaps the two were linked. Before she changed her mind, the policeman spoke again.
“Let’s start at the beginning shall we, Ms Blakemore?”
“Kate.”
“And your boyfriend’s name?”
“Joe. Joe Rossini.”
“Italian?”
“American. I explained on the phone.”
The sergeant nodded as though this was significant. Maybe he was playing a game with her. Maybe this policeman knew something too.
“Appearance?”
“Six-one, short dark-brown hair, grey-brown eyes, sometimes look green.” She stopped herself from adding: good-looking and has a nice smile. Instead, she handed the policeman a photograph.
“Walk me through the events of the day.”
Kate gave him every detail she could recall, even down to the appearance of a lady who had helped calm her afterwards. No-neck wrote it down as though it were all important. Finally, he also asked for the car’s registration number. Kate described the car, guessing the make wasn’t top end. “Maybe a Vauxhall Vectra.”
“Definitely a Vauxhall then?”
“No, but it was maroon.”
“OK.” He tucked his notebook into a breast pocket. “I’ll see what I can find out.” As Kate saw him to the door, he added, “Someone will be in touch.”
That same easy phrase.
She doubted anyone would be in touch. She felt like she had just been through a process, a form-filling, target-meeting exercise. She let her irritation show: “What are you going to do about it?”
He tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket and smiled condescendingly. “If we hear anything, we’ll call.”
No one did call and, as the days became a week, the initial hysteria was replaced by a growing numbness. She called the police again, but couldn’t get past a receptionist. She left a message and said if no update was forthcoming she would go to the press. After jabbing the End Call button like a slam of the phone, she wondered what she would say to a reporter. What could she say? Nothing about Joe’s secret past, just the lack of action following the kidnapping. Would that be enough to get the media interested?
To clear her head she went out for fresh air and ambled around Windsor, stopped for a cup of tea at a café in the old station and then wandered through the arcade of boutiques, looking in shop windows. As she paused for a moment studying a quirky painting in an art gallery, she became aware of a man in a brown suit. He stood a little too close for comfort. She looked at his reflection. He was looking straight into her eyes.
Kate spun around. “Do you mind?” she said with a little more venom than intended. Then her eyes flicked from the man to another. The second man, in an identical brown suit, boxed her in. Was this what Joe had warned her about? Her mind screamed run!
“Kate Blakemore.” The second man said—a statement not a question.
She weighed her options: dart left, right, push between, and then realized the man was holding out something for her to see.
His voice was hushed, the accent mild-American. “We’re detectives, miss. Please come with us. We can talk.” He turned and headed towards a café. The other man followed.
Threat gone, Kate stood still, adrenaline pumping through her veins. Then, as though pulled by an invisible string, she began to follow the brown-suited men.
Later it would register that the café they entered was empty. No staff even. But for now she had tunnel vision. The first suit sat at a table away from the door and she followed. He looked up and her eyes locked on his.
Her brain started to work. “Sorry, you said you were detectives?”
The first man nodded and introduced himself as Special Agent Woodall and his colleague as Hurwitz. He held up ID and said, “FBI to be precise. You reported the disappearance of Joe—”
“Rossini,” she finished for him.
The man gave a slight nod, looked at her and said nothing for a while, thinking.
Kate’s palms began to sweat, her heart suddenly drumming in her chest. She forced herself to speak. “Do you have news?” She swallowed hard and breathed. “I think he was kidnapped by the people after him.”
Woodall nodded again. He paused as if assessing what to say, or maybe how to say it. As she waited for more of a response, she glanced from one to the other, thinking they seemed an uncomfortable pair. Woodall had pale skin and eyes, and sandy hair. He was clearly in charge. Hurwitz had warmer eyes and dark curly hair and acted like he was in the shadow of the sandy-haired agent or detective or whatever he was.
She said, “Sorry, but why are the FBI—?”
“Working with the British police?” Woodall said. “Joe wasn’t kidnapped. He has been taken into custody.” He looked at his partner, seemed to nod and then turned back to Kate. He said, “Only, Joe Rossini isn’t his real name. It’s Towers. His real name is Greg Towers.”
“What?” was all she could mutter. The anxiety started to transform into a discomfort in her stomach—a rodent gnawing at her guts.
Hurwitz said, “He’s British but passes himself off as an American. He was wanted for a number of ID thefts and impersonations both here and in the States.” Again he hesitated and looked into Kate’s eyes. “Mr Towers is also married. Married with two children in Charlottes-ville, Virginia.”
Virginia? Yes, that fitted the comment on the walk through the leaves, but then what about his secret? She made a decision. “He told me he was something to do with Special Forces,” she said quietly.
Hurwitz looked at her with pity.
“That’s one of his covers, I’m afraid, Ms Blakemore. In addition to suspected fraud, there is a charge of impersonating an army officer.” Woodall shook his head. “Apparently he bluffed his way in as a reservist.”
Kate said nothing.
“The US equivalent of your TA,” Hurwitz said.
Woodall studied her. “You look scept
ical,” he said. “May I suggest you look him up online.”
It wasn’t scepticism. She tasted bile and suppressed the urge to retch. When she stood, they didn’t stop her, just impassively watched her walk out of the café.
She didn’t recall walking home. She stood in front of her door and looked at her hand. It shook as she tried the key in the lock. Using the banister she walked slowly up one flight of stairs and then another. She staggered to her computer, switched on and googled “Greg Towers”.
Kate read news articles that froze her to the chair for the rest of the day. Some focused on Towers’ different identities, some on the plight of the women he had conned. There was no mention of the name Rossini.
For a time she felt a glimmer of hope. Could it be a coincidence? A mistake? She was grasping at straws until she read the most recent article, dated two years ago. Towers had been traced to the Czech Republic. As she read, she sensed a cold hand grip her heart and squeeze. Towers was believed to be working for a Czech mobile phone company. His live-in-girlfriend said he started to disappear for days at a time and then every weekend. He told her he was on covert missions in Iraq.
Three months earlier, the FBI with Interpol had closed in. Towers had fled.
That tallied with Joe coming to England and moving in with Kate.
EIGHT
Kate saw Lisa run along the corridor by the club lounge and waved. Lisa would be dashing to the boxercise class, Kate guessed, since Lisa had commented on how fit the instructor was. She’d already given up on personal trainer Julian, saying he was too demanding.
Lisa didn’t see her, but as she looked back, Andrew scooted a chair next to Kate and plonked his bulk down heavily with a sigh. “How you doing, kiddo?”
Kate put the newspaper aside and smiled at her friend. “Long day,” she said, and absently touched her right shoulder, thinking of the hours she’d worked—a day at King Edwards Hospital and a few hours in the evening at the Royal Berkshire club. “Naming no names, but my last patient is never happy. It’s as though his sports injuries are my fault. He goes back to training hard before he’s fully recovered and—”
“Katie!” Andrew was the only person who could get away with calling her that. Although he looked and had the posture of a silverback, he had the kindest heart she knew.
“Yes?”
Andrew creased his kind eyes. “I’m not talking about your work. I wondered how you’re doing. I know what day it is today.”
Kate shrugged. It had been a year to the day since Joe had gone. Andrew had been the only friend who had shown genuine sympathy. Unlike others, he never told her to get over her ex and he listened without judgement when she wanted to talk. He also had a knack of seeing right through her.
He reached forward and placed his paw of a hand on hers. “It’s all right to miss him.”
Kate turned so that no one else could see the tears that prickled her eyes. “I feel so stupid.”
“To miss him? That’s ridiculous. You were amazingly close. Some people go a whole lifetime without meeting a soulmate.”
“But I feel stupid for believing him.”
“You’ve been listening to your family again, Katie. Look, why don’t you find out where they took him? You could even visit him in prison—hundreds of women do it.”
Kate studied the concern on Andrew’s face and slowly shook her head. She knew it was a massive contradiction, but part of her needed to believe in Joe. And confirming what the agents had told her—by tracking him down to a prison—would shatter the illusion that kept her going.
When she cleared out Joe’s things, she’d asked Andrew to help. Everyone told her to dispose of them, but Andrew insisted they box it all up and he keep them in his attic. “Just in case,” he’d said. And he’d been right. Somehow it helped—or did it just perpetuate the illusion? She didn’t like to analyse too much.
She decided to change the subject. “How’s the software programming going?” When he wasn’t working as a masseuse, Andrew spent all his spare time either playing or writing computer games. A year ago he came up with what he said was a unique approach to encryption and was trying to sell the concept to the banks.
“Breakthrough!” Andrew beamed. “I didn’t understand that banks will only deal with companies with a track record. So I’ve done a deal with an intermediary.”
“That’s great news. We should celebrate.”
“Well, we’re only at the preliminary stage—NDAs exchanged and talking about terms—but they have a number of small financial service companies who will jump at it. Mainly in the peer-to-peer sector, because regulations are tightening up—oh sorry, I’m being boring.”
“Let’s celebrate once you’ve signed the agreement then.”
“Deal. It’ll be my treat.”
They talked about options and Andrew made her agree to a meal at the Delauney—his favourite London restaurant.
In the car park, as they were leaving, Andrew surprised her by saying, “Two things: firstly, you need to relax, so I insist on giving you a free massage. I’ll email you my schedule for next week.”
“That’s kind. What’s the other thing?”
“I’m going to dig out that cute photograph of you and Joe in Prague.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Kate said, fishing in her bag for her car keys.
Andrew gave her a hug. “Well, let’s see, shall we?”
Kate knew there was no point in arguing with him, although all the talk of Joe made her think about her ex even more. The full moon hung low over the trees as she drove her red Mazda sports car home past Ascot race course and then Windsor Great Park. Since the night was so fresh and clear, she decided she’d go for a run through the park when she got home. That would empty her head of pointless memories.
She turned the key and began to open the front door. The door jammed half-open as post and a local free newspaper scuffed against the hallway matting. Tolkien padded down the stairs mewing as he went, a critical expression in his intense eyes.
She shrugged off her mood and smiled at him. “Well, good evening to you, my man. Let me sort out all this post and then I’ll feed you.”
Among the usual fliers for pizza takeaway and Indian restaurants was a collection bag from a charity, three letters—probably junk mail—and a small packet. Great! She had ordered a Pulsar heart monitor from eBay and here it was, already.
As Kate mounted the stairs, Tolkien skipped enthusiastically to the top, his criticism forgotten. She went to the dining table, put down the mail—except for the parcel—and tore it open. The monitor was in its original packaging and looked new—just as described in the listing.
Tolkien sat looking expectantly towards the kitchen. She pretended to carry on opening the packaging as she took a step towards the lounge. Tolkien dashed around her legs and complained loudly.
“Just teasing you!” she said, laughing.
Once he was fed and happy, she cut open the plastic packaging around the monitor, put on the watch and connected the heart monitor strap around her chest. She looked at the display to check her heartbeat.
Nothing.
“I’m dead!” she said to Tolkien, but he didn’t find it funny. Instead, he jumped onto the table and studied her. The watch told the time but the little heart outline at the top of the display wasn’t flashing. She pressed random buttons and changed the display, managed to mess up the date and time—but still no flashing heart. Inside the box she spotted a thick instruction booklet. “There’s a gender stereotype that says men don’t read instructions. Well I’ve got news for you,” she said to her cat, “in my experience no one likes reading complicated instructions.”
Disappointed and mentally preparing to return the monitor as faulty, she made herself some Earl Grey tea. In throwing away the tea bag she must have moved the watch close to the monitor and there was a beep. Of course, the monitor needs to be initialized!
Beep… beep… beep.
Sixty-one bpm. Not ba
d at the end of a hard day.
She jogged on the spot and felt a childish thrill as the beats per minute leapt up to one hundred. When she stopped she was pleased that it came down again fairly quickly: a sign of her fitness.
Tolkien wasn’t impressed. He jumped off the table and onto the sofa’s arm and implored her with his big blue eyes. “OK, Tolk,” she said, “you can have a cuddle and then I’m going out for a short run.”
Kate was about to sit when her phone rang. Andrew.
“Hey, Katie. Sorry to disturb you.”
That made her smile—always so polite. “You know I’ve always time for you. You’re practically one of the girls!” She expected a witty response, but instead there was a hesitation before he spoke cautiously.
“Kate?”
“What’s up?”
“It’s about Joe. I went up into the attic to get the box of his things.”
Andrew hesitated, but Kate couldn’t speak, her mouth was open, her short breaths amplified by the receiver.
“Well, something in the box… a little light is flashing.” His tone was deadly serious. “Can you come over, right now? You need to see this.”
NINE
The man calling himself Nanninga sat in a coffee bar in Las Ramblas, Barcelona, and waited for Christopher Martens to walk by. The man was easy to spot as he checked on his appearance in a window and then seemed to smile at himself.
Nanninga knew him well and had come to understand, even admire, the scams he’d pulled, recently netting himself over eight million dollars in a matter of months. Nanninga had investigated him and then tracked him down in Barcelona, moving from the Czech Republic and with plans to hit London next.
Martens’ first fraud had been in the US, swindling a mortgage company: a federal offence which forced him to change his identity and move on. First he travelled through Europe before moving on to Asia, getting as far as Hong Kong. On his travels he must have discovered that the legal and valuation systems of Europe were more restrictive than the US, and then worked out a new scheme—one less likely to upset the criminal investigators. He had decided to target rich individuals rather than companies.
I Dare You: A gripping thriller that will keep you guessing (A Kate Blakemore Crime Thriller Book 1) Page 4