Snatched

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  About the author

  Dreda Say Mitchell, who grew up on a housing estate in

  east London, is an award-winning novelist, broadcaster,

  journalist and freelance education consultant. For more

  information and news, visit Dreda’s website:

  www.dredasaymitchell.com

  Follow Dreda on Twitter: @DredaMitchell

  Also by Dreda Say Mitchell:

  Running Hot

  Killer Tune

  Geezer Girls

  Gangster Girl

  Hit Girls

  Vendetta

  Snatched

  Dreda Say Mitchell

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in eBook in Great Britain in 2015 by

  Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Dreda Say Mitchell 2015

  The right of Dreda Say Mitchell to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 473 61797 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London

  EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Enjoyed Snatched?

  One

  5

  4

  3

  The lead cop silently counted off the numbers on his fingers as his armed response team crouched around him.

  2

  1

  They went into action. Stun grenades fired through the windows at the front and back. The flash and bang of the grenades boomed and flash-lit backwards into the grey dawn. Two burly officers used a battering ram to break in the elegant Victorian front door that caved, buckled, splintered and finally crashed open. Firearms officers filed in quickly, waving guns and screaming, ‘armed police – nobody move!’

  They headed for the stairs towards the bedroom where they expected to find their suspect.

  Further down the street, Phil Delaney, commander of the Met Police’s Office Research Unit, watched his boys go in with satisfaction. Then he emerged from his car, accompanied by Joe Pick, a liaison officer from the FBI, who was there to observe the operation. Phil wasn’t convinced that any of these fireworks were actually necessary and thought a knock on the door followed by a quiet arrest would have worked. But he wanted to prove to his American colleagues that the British police knew how to do this Hollywood stuff the same way they did over the pond.

  The two men walked up the road and through the smashed front door. The lead officer was standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting for them.

  Phil asked, ‘Have we got him?’

  ‘Yes sir. He’s in the front bedroom. He was with a young woman.’

  Joe Pick whispered, ‘That figures . . .’

  Delaney and the man from the FBI walked up the stairs and went into the bedroom. The woman had squeezed herself back into the ruby-red cocktail dress she’d been wearing the night before and was putting on her sky-high heels.

  She was outraged. ‘No right! No right . . . You have – no right!’

  She was in her twenties, looked and sounded Latino, and Delaney could see she was going to be a handful. The suspect meanwhile was standing by the bed with as much dignity as he could muster in his boxer shorts and white vest. He was elderly with a paunch, grey wispy hair and a carefully trimmed moustache. He looked rather like a professor of Spanish caught with his mistress by an angry wife.

  Phil looked at Joe who in turn studied the suspect before nodding with approval. Phil stepped up to his suspect. ‘Felipe Garcia?’

  The man hesitated as if trying to remember what his name really was. ‘No. My name is Carlos Carreras. I’m a Venezuelan here to do business in London in connection with the oil industry.’

  The young woman shoved herself between Phil and the man claiming to be someone else. She carried on with her, ‘You have no right! You have no right!’ theme song before her former bed partner whispered gently to her in Spanish and then put his hands on her shoulders and moved her to one side.

  His watery eyes fixed on Phil. ‘There seems to be some misunderstanding. I don’t know any Mr Garcia. I have all my documents with me – they are all in order.’

  Standing behind them, Joe Pick was unimpressed. ‘Yeah, I bet they are . . . I hope this chick showed you a piece of heaven last night Garcia – you’re going to be in hell for the next ninety-nine years . . .’

  Both Garcia and Delaney turned and looked at the young American with disapproval. Garcia showed some steel. ‘This ‘chick’ is my wife and she has her documents too.’ He turned back to Phil. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Perhaps a conversation with my lawyer would help clarify matters?’

  ‘We have reason to believe that you are Mr Felipe Garcia. Mr Garcia is wanted by the American authorities in connection with money laundering for organised crime syndicates. We have an extradition warrant that your lawyer is welcome to examine if he wants clarification.’

  Garcia smiled with pleasure. ‘I’m sure my lawyer will look forward to it. There’s nothing he enjoys more than clarifying extradition warrants. His name is Stephen Foster. Do you know him?’

  Phil shivered inwardly. He knew Stephen Foster. Every cop in London knew Stephen Foster. While Garcia took his time getting dressed in a stylish grey suit with a silk shirt and tie, Phil looked nervously at the FBI man and hoped Joe’s superiors had got their paperwork right before Foster got his hands on it.

  He ordered his officers to redouble their search of the house in an effort to find something that would incriminate Felipe Garcia. But they found nothing. It was only as they were preparing to escort Garcia and his wife to the local police station that an excited officer upstairs called down to Delaney and asked him to come up for a moment as they’d found something ‘interesting’.

  Phil found a group of his men in the large bathroom holding a sounding device and an instrument for measuring heat. The bathroom was decorated in a Victorian style with an antique bath, tongue and groove walls, and polished tiles on the floor. In niches on the wall stood various scented candles.

  Baffled, Phil Delaney looked around. ‘OK. It’s a bathroom – I’ve seen one before . . .’

  The cop with the devices went to the end of the room and tapped on the wooden panel. ‘There’s a space behind here boss.’ He raised his heat detection device and added, ‘We’re getting a reading from behind the wall that suggests there’s someone hiding in there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not unless we put a hol
e in the wall sir, I can’t be – no.’

  Delaney hammered on the wall and called out for an answer if anyone was in the space behind. But there was no answer.

  Phil went back downstairs and as soon as he saw his suspect asked, ‘What’s behind the wall upstairs?’

  ‘Perhaps your men have discovered the boiler?’

  It was only when a crowbar was ordered to be taken upstairs that the South American’s calm broke. ‘You can’t start vandalising this house; it’s a rented property. The landlord—’

  Phil Delaney took the crowbar upstairs to the bathroom. He did the job himself. One by one the tongue and groove panels came away. As light began to break in to the space behind, there was movement on the other side like a rodent was fleeing for cover. It was only when half the panels were removed and a torch shone inside that it became clear what the movement was. In what looked like a box room, a terrified middle-aged woman was backed up against a wall clasping a bundle of clothes against her chest. Delaney noticed that there was a door in the space, which led to one of the back bedrooms. When Delaney gently asked the woman whether she spoke English, he got no reply from her. And that’s when the bundle of clothes against her chest started to move.

  ‘Can you tell me who this little fellow is?’ Phil asked as he presented the apparently healthy boy for Garcia’s inspection.

  Garcia looked at the baby, then back at Phil and carefully answered, ‘He’s my son. And this woman is his nanny.’

  Delaney was unconvinced. ‘Are you sure about that? Only I would describe you as being of a typically Latino appearance while our little friend here has blue eyes.’

  Garcia shrugged his shoulders. ‘Mi Madre was European with the same eyes. Mother Nature can play funny tricks between the generations.’

  Phil replied with a slow, uneven smile. ‘I’m glad you raised the issue of genetics, because by tonight I’ll have DNA both from you and this baby. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to tell me who this child is?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘Just arrange for me to see Stephen Foster as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll be delighted to make that call. Of course, if it turns out that you’re not the parent of this baby and don’t have legal custody, you may well be looking at a charge of child abduction. I don’t think even someone of Stephen Foster’s undoubted talents will be able to help you out with that one.’

  Joe Pick, who’d been silently fascinated by the appearance of the baby, became alarmed. ‘Hey, you can forget that – our case takes precedence.’

  ‘We’ll let the lawyers sort that one out Joe.’

  The nanny only spoke a smattering of English. She claimed to be a Mexican citizen who had been hired by an agency to look after the baby of a professional couple from Venezuela who lived in London. She admitted that when the police raid had begun, she’d hidden as previously instructed by Mr Carreras. She fled with the baby through a secret door in her bedroom to hide in the space behind. Carreras had explained when she was employed that he had ‘enemies’ who might try to make ‘trouble’ for him at his house and that if anything happened, hiding behind the bathroom would ensure her and the baby’s security.

  Delaney checked the nanny’s bedroom and found the secret door which had been professionally designed and installed and had been missed by his boys on the initial search. The prime object of the raid had been to catch Garcia rather than look for anything else so he wasn’t surprised the room had been missed. Delaney then ordered the house sealed while his suspect, the ‘wife’ and the nanny were taken into custody. He also arranged for the baby to be taken into hospital for a thorough check-up. When he handed the kid over to a WPC to be taken in, he warned her, ‘I want this child kept under guard at all times. Tell the doctors I want a swab of his saliva taken to get his DNA. Get it straight down to the lab and then run it through the system to see if we can find a match. Alert me immediately if something turns up.’

  The WPC’s eyes melted slightly when she took the baby from Phil. ‘Beautiful isn’t he?’

  Phil didn’t smile back. ‘I know. That’s why we need to find his parents as fast as possible. They must be in pieces without him . . .’

  Two

  Detective Chief Inspector John ‘Mac’ MacDonagh sat at the desk in the Office Research Unit, staring out of the window. On his computer was a live feed from Garcia’s house as the raid took place. The speakers on his PC vibrated as information came in, orders were barked out at the scene and the unexpected discovery of the baby was relayed back. But Mac took no notice of any of it.

  Delaney had told him before the raid that his work as office coordinator for the operation was a vital role. But he knew that was a lie.

  There was nothing vital about this non-job he’d been given or any of the other non-jobs he’d been given in the previous eighteen months. He was a glorified office boy who Delaney usually got to do ‘file maintenance’. What Mac wanted – needed – was to be back in the field; undercover work ran deep in his blood. But every time he raised the issue with his superior the answer was always the same:

  ‘You’re lucky you’ve still got a job Mac. After what had happened a year and a half back, you should really be in prison or on the dole. You broke rule number one – never, ever get emotionally attached to someone you’re investigating. And that includes fucking them. But you couldn’t keep it in your boxers. Your gang-banger girlfriend ends up playing you like a violin, implicating you in murder after murder. Do you know how much fancy footwork it took to cover it all up? And believe me I don’t like dancing to anyone else’s tune. Do you know how many favours I owe to the likes of self-appointed super cop Rio Wray and that devil’s disciple Calum Burns for not breaking my balls over it? Lucky for you Elena Romanov fell to her death from a bridge; if she hadn’t it would be you who’d have had to play the fall guy.’

  He let Phil Delaney run his mouth, knowing his superior would blow to kingdom come if he knew the facts of the story that Mac was keeping from him.

  Fact 1: Elena had been pregnant.

  Fact 2: He suspected lying, murderous Elena was still alive.

  Fact 3: . . .

  He still wouldn’t allow himself to believe that fact 3 was really true. But the photo he’d received six months ago told another story.

  The phone on Mac’s desk went dragging him from the past and back to his present. The caller was Phil Delaney in a good mood. ‘Did you see the feed? We’ve got Garcia. And there’s a bonus. Garcia was hiding a kid in the house, so if our American colleagues have messed up the extradition warrants, we can get him for child abduction. So, a good day’s work – in which you played a vital role of course.’

  Mac sighed. ‘If you like . . .’

  It was Phil’s turn to sigh. ‘Come on, drum up some enthusiasm. We’re supposed to be professionals here.’

  ‘Sure.’ Mac hesitated for a moment before adding, ‘Listen Phil, I’ve got something I need to talk to you about . . .’ He felt an envelope in his jacket pocket. ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I’d prefer to speak to you in person.’

  ‘Well, it can’t be today, I’ve got all the Garcia paperwork to sort out and we need to start trying to trace the parents of this kid we’ve recovered, so there are DNA tests to run and checks to be made. Come into my office first thing tomorrow morning and we’ll talk then.’

  Mac wasn’t bothered about having to wait another twenty-four hours. He’d waited eighteen months already and knew another day wouldn’t make any difference.

  He was kept waiting outside Phil’s office for an hour the following morning before finally being allowed to go in. Delaney sat at his desk, arms folded flat on the table, one elbow touching a report file, staring into space. He took no notice when Mac smiled and wished him good morning, nor did he offer him a seat.

  Mac loitered in front of the desk before his boss finally seemed to notice he was standing there. With a stony gesture, he indicated wi
th his finger that Mac should sit. There was a long chilly silence before Mac pulled his envelope from his pocket and held it his hand waiting to give it to the man who had taught him everything he knew about undercover work. He could tell from Phil’s manner that he knew why he was there and what his letter said. His resignation had been a long time coming. He passed the envelope over to Phil but he didn’t take it. Instead his superior’s stare turned to something approaching hatred.

  Uncomfortable, Mac continued to hold the envelope out as he said, ‘You need to take this.’

  Delaney made no move for a few moments, then leaned across his desk and, whispering like an angry lover, said. ‘Never mind your fucking envelope. How about you answer a few questions for me?’

  Mac frowned. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Oh yeah, there’s a bloody problem alright.’ He picked up the report that was lying on his desk. He waved it in the air and asked, ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Mac didn’t answer. He wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

  Phil flipped the file open and explained, ‘That kid we picked up at Garcia’s house yesterday. We’ve taken him down the hospital and run some checks on him. He’s in good shape. He’s been well looked after, which is good news. But obviously, we need to track his parents down as fast as possible. So we took a swab of the little chap’s saliva and we ran his DNA through our records to see if we could find a match. And it’s more good news. We think we’ve found his mother and father. This is the report. Do you know what it says?’

  Mac knew this line of questioning. It was the method used by detectives to present damning evidence to a suspect. He grasped his envelope more tightly in his fingers before saying, ‘Phil if you’ve got something to say just—’

  ‘The baby’s mother is Elena Romanov.’

  Mac sucked in his breath as Phil continued. ‘No doubt you’ll recall the name? You certainly should. She was the communications officer in that arms trafficking gang – the one you got cosy between the sheets with. A woman who is meant to be dead in a very watery grave somewhere.’