Before It's Too Late

by Jane Isaac

“What about the drop location? Was that changed again at the last minute?”

  Keane scratched his chin. “Doesn’t seem so. I asked the father if the people that made the drop saw anything, but he said the location was too open. They were afraid to hang around in case the kidnapper might see them and be scared off.”

  It was a risky move to keep the drop location the same as in the ransom note. If Mr Cheung had contacted the authorities they could have staked out the place, or watched from a distance. Jackman thought back to his conversation with Ken yesterday. How suspicious the Chinese were of their own authorities, how they preferred to police themselves wherever possible. “So, we have two students taken from the same college. Same method of contact, both ransoms met and nobody released. Where are they? Did they know each other?”

  “Could be a love pact they cooked up to enable them to elope?” Russell said.

  Jackman considered this. “At least that gives them more chance of still being alive.”

  “I’ve already sent a request to the Embassy for information on the family,” Russell said, “although I’m not holding my breath. If past experience is anything to go on, we’ll hear back by the end of next week.”

  “Have you tried International Liaison?” Jackman said. “They might be able to help us speed things up a bit. They don’t have a presence for China, but they might still have a desk for Hong Kong. If not, they might have some old files or contacts. See what you can find out. We need to know if the parents’ businesses are linked in any way. And see what you can dig up on the Cheung family.”

  “Any news on tracing Min’s uncle?” Janus asked.

  “He’s very elusive,” Jackman said. “We know he’s still around the Chinese Quarter. He was spotted in the supermarket a few days ago, and he’s been in the casino. We’re still working on it.”

  Jackman thanked his team and glanced around the room as they retreated to their desks. His eyes landed on Reilly who was stood at the back beside the window. He’d been conspicuous in his silence during the briefing. Jackman was just wondering why Janus had brought him in when he felt a presence beside him and turned to see her staring up at him.

  “Will, I… ”

  “We need to decide how to handle the media with this one,” he interrupted. “Take it national. That way we can appeal for witnesses at the drop locations.”

  “Sir?”

  Jackman looked across to see Russell calling him. “Excuse me,” he said, but Janus caught his arm as he moved forward.

  “Meet me in the conference room in ten minutes,” she said, then walked out of the room.

  A mixture of frustration and fatigue pummelled into Jackman as he climbed the stairs to the conference room. He couldn’t understand the need to meet in there when they could easily have discussed the press strategy in the incident room downstairs. He knocked on the door and waited several moments before he pushed it open to find Janus sitting alone. He glanced around the empty room. “Where is everyone?”

  “Sit down, Will,” Janus said. She opened her arm to indicate the chair beside her, although there was a definite tightness in her voice.

  Jackman sat gingerly. “What’s going on?”

  Janus rubbed her lips together before she spoke, “Will, I’m a little concerned for your welfare.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve missed your last three counselling sessions.”

  “We spoke about this the other day. I’ve got one tonight.”

  “Good. But I’m very aware that this is a high-profile case and you’ve had a lot on this past year with Alice’s illness. I want you to take some time off. We can call it compassionate leave.”

  “I don’t need compassionate leave. I just need to do my job.”

  “Well, take today at the very least. Go home, rest up, attend your counselling session and come back tomorrow when you’re fresh.”

  Jackman could feel his patience dwindling. “It’s not… ”

  She raised a hand to silence him. “That’s an order,” she said, and then her voice softened. “Will, take a look at yourself. You’re unshaved. You look like you’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

  “I’ve been up all night staking out Min’s uncle. Of course I’m unshaved. He’s still our best lead.”

  Janus shook her head, gave a short cough. “Anyway, I have to go away for a few days. Back to Aberdeen. My father is ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Janus nodded. “Now that Reilly has charged on the Readman case, he can leave his team to build the file for the CPS which frees up his time. So I’ve asked him to chip in and give us a hand.”

  “I don’t need a hand.”

  “Look,” Janus removed her glasses. “Nobody is doubting your ability to do your job here, Will. It’s just, with another kidnapping we could certainly use the help. And the powers that be feel that Reilly has the confidence of the press.”

  “I don’t believe this. Are you saying I don’t?”

  “I didn’t say that, but we do need to change strategy. And some of the decisions you’ve made over the past few days have been questioned.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s felt that by not releasing details of Min Li’s kidnapping, other students were put at risk.”

  “It’s felt? By who?”

  Janus rubbed her forehead, but didn’t answer.

  “I was following protocol! Preserve life. Shut down the press. Isn’t that what we’re taught?”

  Janus took a deep breath. “It’s a judgement call. You made the decision you felt was right at the time.”

  “The kidnappers were explicit – no police involvement. You can’t say that decision led to another kidnapping!”

  “Maybe not. But sharing the details may have made the college students more aware, more vigilant… ”

  “They were all told to be extra careful, to go out in pairs, look out for one another. You were at the press conference with me when we pushed that one home.”

  Janus ignored his interruption. “All I’m saying is that the chief constable feels if we’d been a little more transparent with the media, there is a possibility that parents would have been alerted and more cautious.”

  “No.” Jackman shook his head. “I’m not with you. I’m sorry to hear about your father. I really am. But we’re never transparent with the media. We tell them what we want them to report, what we feel can help us progress a case.”

  “Look, Will, I’m getting pressure from above. They seem to think it’s likely that if Lonny’s father had known about the other kidnapping he might have come to the police when he received the ransom email, given us a chance to monitor the drop and try to find out who’s behind this.”

  “That’s just speculation. So I’m your scapegoat now?”

  Janus sighed. “Nobody is a scapegoat. You did what you thought was best. But now we need to make some changes, to bring the press back on side.”

  Jackman clenched his teeth.

  Janus reached forward and gathered up the papers in front of her, feeding them into a pink envelope file. “Right, we’re in agreement then.” She stood. “I’ll see you after the weekend. You’ll need to work with Reilly until then.”

  The door clicked shut behind her. Jackman stood up and walked to the window. If they were so concerned for his welfare, why did he feel like he was being stitched up?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a babble of raised voices outside. He peered down and recognised a few members of the local press gathering outside the staff entrance below. That was all he needed, an encounter with the media. If they were gathered for a press conference, he certainly didn’t want to catch Reilly mid-flow. He’d have to find another way out.

  He scooted past the incident room, down the stairs and along the corridor until he found the door that linked the station to the neighbouring Magistrates Court building. Relieved to find it unlocked, he moved through the corridors until he reached the entrance and cast a cursory gl
ance towards the steps outside. Empty. He slipped out, walked across the adjacent gardens and over into Chestnut Walk.

  Jackman marched down the street, past numerous parked cars and an overflowing skip, but he didn’t really see any of them. Right now he wanted to get as far away from the station as possible. He needed time to think.

  He passed the preparatory school and continued into Old Town. He could see the spire of the Holy Trinity in the distance. A car whizzed past, followed by a cyclist in fluorescents.

  As he entered the wrought-iron gates that led into the churchyard, a squirrel scurried past him, stopping him in his tracks. He glanced up at the imposing stone building. Jackman wasn’t a religious man. He’d attended church years ago; Alice had thought it would be good to introduce Celia to Christianity when she was young, ‘so that she could make her own mind up about religion’. But there was something about the ancient stonework of this particular church that he found strangely calming.

  He skirted around the perimeter of the churchyard and paused at the bottom. This was one of his favourite spots. The vista looked across the River Avon and into the open fields of the recreational ground beyond with its trimmed willows. A couple of ducks quacked noisily as they moved across the water in front of him.

  Jackman sat on a bench beneath the yew tree and allowed his mind to wander. How dare Janus express concern at his decisions. She would have done the same in his shoes, he was convinced of it. But then he remembered her words, ‘The powers that be feel… ’

  This was the first case he’d managed alone. Janus was covering her back by ordering him to take the rest of the day off, inviting Reilly to step in. If the investigation took a turn for the worse, if the two students were found dead, or the case management was criticised by a review team she and Reilly would turn this on him.

  He considered them both for a moment. They made a good team, their shared obsession with budgets, management meetings and figures dominating their careers. Neither of them concerned for the welfare of anyone but themselves.

  Jackman thought back to the homicide unit before Reilly. His former DCI, Ernie Stiles, had been an old-school, hands-on detective. He had a wealth of experience behind him, but was always willing to listen to the views of others. When he retired, Jackman applied to the board to take his job.

  He’d filed the papers, attended the assessment day, not because he was ambitious in the traditional sense, more because he knew that he would never be able to completely manage his own homicide team as a DI. The role of senior investigating officer, heading murder and major incident enquiries, was given to DCI and superintendent rank and it largely depended on which SIO you had, as to how much freedom you were given.

  But then Alice had the accident.

  The interviews came a month afterwards and although he attended, he would be the first to admit that he wasn’t himself. But what really stuck in his throat, what riled him to the core, was that Reilly had attended the same board. And passed.

  Chapter Forty

  The light was fading slightly, evening was drawing in. “You hungry?”

  Lonny nodded.

  It didn’t matter so much that all the meals were the same, more that they were eaten regularly. Not just for me, but for the baby too. By now I recognised when the sun was at its brightest as lunchtime, and when it dulled in the evening as tea time. The routine served to break up the day, provide intervals in between the long stretches of boredom. And right now I needed that.

  I pulled a slice of bread out of the bag, balanced a biscuit and apple on the top and offered them to Lonny. The tiny ration looked unappetising and dry, something we’d have dressed up with meats and condiments in the real world. But down here, it was all we had.

  I passed him a bottle of water and was suddenly reminded of playing house as a child. Being seated beneath a table covered with a cloth whilst my friend served me pretend meals on plastic plates.

  I collected my own food and sat down beside Lonny. We ate in silence, first the biscuit, then the bread, which clung to the top of my mouth, and finally the apple to wipe my teeth clean. The acidity probably did them more harm than good, but at least they felt fresher.

  The memory of playing house faded, replaced by a picture of home. Meal time. Sitting around the table together when there were no visitors and it was just the three of us. These were rare moments I cherished. My father would fill our minds with stories from the factory. My mother would smile, her face fulfilled and wholesome at sharing a meal with her family.

  A sudden pang of homesickness hit me.

  Lonny crunched into his apple. “What you thinking about?” he said, his words muffled through the food.

  “My parents.”

  “You miss them?”

  I faced him and nodded. “I didn’t too much. Not before. Life at the college was so busy. But now they feel so far away.”

  He pressed his hand on my wrist and stared at me with such sincerity that it startled me slightly. “Must be nice to be so close.”

  “You’re not?”

  He withdrew his hand, finished his apple and slung the core into the rubbish corner. I watched it nestle down into the leaves.

  Lonny shook his head. “My father was always at work.”

  “So were my parents really. My mother taught at the local school, my father spent most of his time at the factory. My grandmother was the one who took me to school, helped me with my homework when they weren’t around. What about you?”

  “Nannies mostly.”

  A bird was singing in the distance, something we probably wouldn’t notice in the real world, but down here senses were heightened. It made me realise what a beautiful sound it was. My eyes caught a kink in the corner of the blanket and as I reached forward to straighten it, I felt his eyes glance behind me.

  “What’s that?”

  I turned. He was running his finger along my name carved into the stone. “Oh, just wanted to do something.” I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks.

  “It’s a good idea.” He moved in closer and squinted at my name written first in English and then in Chinese.

  A shower of powdered concrete scattered across the edge of the blanket as he brushed his hand across the wall. I cleared my throat. “I just thought it might be a clue, you know, for someone.”

  He nodded, although his eyes didn’t leave the words. Slowly he turned to face me. “It’s missing a date.”

  “What?”

  “There’s always a date. Think about it. We don’t know who will discover it and when it will be discovered. If there’s a date, they can link it together with your disappearance.”

  I stared at the writing. He was right, but the prospect of a date made it seem all the more like an epitaph. Like we were carving out our own gravestones. I drew a sharp breath, pushed the notion to the back of my mind.

  “What date should we use?”

  “Monday, I suppose. The date you disappeared.”

  “What about you?”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Let’s get this one finished first. Do you still have the stone?”

  “It was a nail.” I reached down and passed it across to him. “It’s a little blunt now.”

  Dust skipped into the air as he pulled back the blanket, leant forward and began to grind the nail into the wall. The sound of the metal working into the old concrete, going over the same area time and time again was strangely comforting. Like those noises that emit from apartments nearby while you are sitting around the dinner table or watching television.

  As I watched him, I was struck by how lucky I’d been. In spite of them both working, my parents still seemed to make time for me. Even at the age of five or six my father would sit on the floor and play with me. My mother and I would cook together. I was never showered with material items, but I always felt loved.

  “It must have been hard,” I said.

  His head twitched, but he didn’t face me. “What?”

  “To have been brought up b
y nannies.”

  “No choice. My mum died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Was a long time ago. I was only nine.”

  “What was she like?”

  The air thickened between us. It was a while before he spoke and when he did his voice sounded distant. “My memories are a bit vague.” He sat back on his heels and scratched the side of his neck. “I remember cuddling up with her on the sofa, I must have been about five I guess,” his mouth formed a gentle smile, “and she would read to me. Peter Pan and The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Stories by great British authors, she called them. We used to have picnics in the park, huge picnics with every type of food you could imagine… ” His words trailed off.

  “Was it sudden?”

  His face tightened. “I found her in the kitchen, sitting in a pool of blood.”

  “She killed herself?”

  “Slashed her wrists. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Apparently she’d suffered from depression. Nobody told me that though. Took me years to work it out.”

  I wanted to say something more, something comforting, but the words caught in my throat.

  “I didn’t speak for months afterwards. And when I finally did, it was in English.” He turned to face me. “My mother was English so my father hired British nannies to encourage me. As time passed I did speak in Cantonese too, but I’ve always preferred English.”

  “That’s why your accent is so good.”

  His mouth formed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “So you can stay here as long as you want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “British mother. Chinese father. You get the best of both worlds.”

  “No such luck. My passport says Chinese. Don’t you know, we’re not allowed dual citizenship?”

  A shiver slipped down my spine. It reminded me of Lauren – she always said that happened when someone walked across your grave. Suddenly I felt very sad. “Do you think they’ll fly us back?”

  “What?”

  “We’re Chinese citizens. If we die down here, do you think they’ll fly our bodies home to our families?”