Kidnapped: BookShots (A Jon Roscoe Thriller)

by James Patterson

  By the time he reached the departure gate for his overnight journey back to London, his flight had already been called. He joined the line for a final security check before handing his boarding pass to the waiting attendant. Ahead of him, he saw Emily and Wyatt Lee standing together in silence. And then bypassing those around them, as they headed to the first-class cabin, came Matteo and Cal Ginevra.

  Never able to sleep on long flights, Roscoe planned to catch up on a couple of movies on his journey home. Finding his seat, he opened the overhead storage to load in the assortment of gifts he was taking back for his family. With space at a premium, he slipped one bag inside another. As he did so he noticed a single sheet of paper folded inside one of his bags.

  Taking his seat, he opened the paper up and, with a shudder running down his spine, he read the handwritten message:

  ‘PLEASE HELP BEFORE HE KILLS ME.’

  PART 2

  Christmas Eve

  CHAPTER 9

  St Barnham, London

  MARIKA ROSCOE LAY in her bed and stared into the darkness. She had lain for over an hour, hoping sleep would overtake her, but her mind refused to rest. Looking at the clock beside her, she saw the time had ticked past 1 a.m. and yet she felt as awake as she had when she’d said goodnight to her parents a little after eleven.

  Being back in her parents’ house wasn’t easy.

  She had been raised in a home that had found a balance between traditional Japanese culture and modern living in a city as metropolitan as London. Her parents had supported her through university and medical school, always encouraging her to find her own strong path in life.

  The day she had married Jon, nine years earlier, had been one of the most wonderful days of her life – and the happiest of theirs.

  She loved her parents dearly and they had never ceased to want the very best for her. And in their eyes that meant a happy marriage to Jon. They now found it impossible to accept or understand that she and Jon were separated; at times she found it almost impossible to understand herself.

  In the years they had built their family together, never had she imagined that one day she and Jon would be apart. She had always looked upon herself as one of the lucky ones. While her friends might have complained about their husbands or their lack of a career, Marika had felt she had it all. She had treasured her life as a family doctor in London and had loved Jon in a way she had never thought possible.

  But over time, Jon and the life he led had become increasingly difficult. His work took him away for days or even weeks at a time. He couldn’t tell her when he would be home and, worse than that, she knew he never backed away when his life was in danger. Eventually she’d told herself she couldn’t keep living that way.

  With her daughters growing older she had known she needed to provide stability in their lives. Jon loved his job and while she’d never wanted to take that away from him, she hadn’t been able to live night after night waiting to hear from him and hoping he would return home safely. Her daughters needed more than that. She needed more than that.

  Marika turned over in her bed and found herself watching the digital numbers on the clock as the minutes slowly ticked by. She counted sixty seconds for each minute and on her eleventh attempt found she was as accurate in counting a minute as the red-numbered clock. Finally, at one forty, she told herself that lying in bed counting seconds was ridiculous and she pushed back her covers.

  She walked to the window and cracked open the blinds. Looking out upon the picturesque village of St Barnham, she realised how much she loved her childhood home. Standing tall in the centre of the village was a Christmas tree illuminated by lights, casting a warm glow across the charming scene. The Victorian street lamps threw light across each of the red-brick homes, and the ancient church by the side of the village pond – where records dated back to the thirteenth century – still reminded her of her childhood singing in the choir.

  As a white frost laid itself upon the stone sidewalks, Marika treasured the scene. A shooting star raced across the clear night sky and she made a wish that her own daughters would grow up with the same cherished memories of their home – even if their home was four hundred miles away in the Scottish city of Edinburgh.

  About to pull the blinds back down, she spotted a figure crouching in the garden of the neighbouring house. She watched as the shape moved through the shadows, seeming to squat beside the gold Jaguar convertible belonging to Dame Annabel Montgomerie. Marika edged up the blinds a little further and as she did the darkly dressed figure moved quickly from the front of the Montgomerie house, around the pond and across to the opposite side of the village, where it disappeared into the night.

  Marika Roscoe wasn’t the only inhabitant of the village of St Barnham unable to sleep.

  As he walked into his bedroom and peered out through the small window, Julian Templeton was feeling a great sense of anticipation. Today he was preparing for the arrival of a very special guest.

  Later, he would walk through the crowded village and observe its inhabitants making rash last-minute Christmas decisions. He never made any rash decisions; for him preparation was everything. He had made a list of required purchases and he would follow it precisely. When he passed the coffee shop, the woman who served him each morning would wave in expectation of his entrance. Today he would move quickly by, holding up his shopping basket to indicate there was much to be done. He knew nothing must appear out of the ordinary.

  Everyone would be planning their celebrations. But not him; he had his own festivities to plan. He mustn’t let his excitement distract him.

  Everything had to be perfect for the arrival of his little guest.

  CHAPTER 10

  THIRTY-EIGHT THOUSAND FEET above the Atlantic, Jon Roscoe sat upright in his chair in the darkened aircraft cabin. All around him his fellow passengers slept. But with his mind racing around the Ginevra family, he hadn’t relaxed for a single moment since leaving Chicago. Even the action in the latest Hollywood blockbuster had failed to distract him.

  Leaning forward, he reached for the anonymous note left inside his bag at O’Hare Airport. The handwritten note simply read: ‘PLEASE HELP BEFORE HE KILLS ME.’ He had read it over and over since leaving the United States. He couldn’t help but think of the desperate look on Cal’s face, as she was led away first by the two Chicago police officers and then by her brother Matteo.

  Roscoe knew exactly what Ginevra was capable of. He had seen the consequences of the man’s sadistic behaviour with his own eyes. Roscoe was certain that Ginevra belonged behind bars and was determined he would be the one to put him there.

  But what, he wondered, had made Cal so fearful? Was her brother threatening her? Was that why she had run? Roscoe remembered the petrified look on her face as she’d stood at the edge of the airport road, ready to jump the hundred feet to her death. What would have happened if he hadn’t been there?

  Closing his eyes, he could still see the terror in hers.

  He had to talk to her.

  Lying awake throughout the flight, he had waited for his opportunity to speak with her – and now his opportunity had come. Through the semi-darkness, he watched as she walked silently down the aisle, gently brushing against him as she passed his seat and continued towards the bathroom.

  Ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder as he pushed himself up, he slipped the note into his back pocket and followed her down the aisle.

  Looking ahead, he could see she had stopped outside the bathroom. Aware her brother might see them both, he glanced back down the aisle but the cabin remained silent. He stepped forward until he was standing directly behind her.

  ‘I can help you,’ he said, ‘but I need you to tell me how.’

  Cal was silent.

  ‘I know you’re frightened,’ he said, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, ‘but I can’t help you unless you tell me more.’

  ‘I want you to,’ she said, turning to look at him in the shallow light, her arresting
eyes looking directly into his. Seeing her again, he realised she must be around seventeen or eighteen years old. ‘Come in here.’

  She opened the bathroom door.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Roscoe, surprised. ‘You know that.’

  As the light from inside the bathroom lit up Cal’s face, Roscoe could see tears start to well in her eyes. Dropping her head and turning away, she stepped inside the tiny space.

  Roscoe hesitated. He thought of the horror Matteo Ginevra had inflicted upon the two construction workers and their families. He knew the evil the man was capable of. Could Cal offer a way of ensnaring him?

  After a moment, he followed her into the cramped room and she locked the door behind them.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE METALLIC SCREAM of an ear-piercing alarm smashed through the night-time silence in the village of St Barnham. Back in bed, Marika Roscoe was instantly awake and, quickly looking at her clock, she saw time had ticked forward to 4 a.m. The ferocity of the alarm, coming from the neighbouring Montgomerie house, sent a pulse drumming through her head.

  Going straight to the window of her room, she opened the blinds once more and discovered the lights inside the Montgomerie house were fully illuminated. But within seconds the alarm was extinguished and the village returned to its silent slumber. As it did, Marika watched Dame Annabel Montgomerie emerge from the front of her home and stand alone in her garden.

  Grabbing a sweater from beside her bed, Marika slipped on her pumps and headed out of her room. Meeting her mother on the stairs, she asked her to check her daughters were still sleeping before making her way downstairs.

  The cold, thin winter air momentarily took her breath away as she stepped outside her parents’ house. Hurrying towards the neighbouring garden, she called out to Dame Annabel, ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ replied Annabel as Marika entered her garden. ‘Someone has thrown a brick through the glass door at the back of my house. It sent the alarms into an absolute frenzy. It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. I’m just so sorry if it has woken you all.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Marika, reaching for Annabel’s arm to reassure her. ‘I’m just glad you’re okay. It was such a terrifying noise. Who would want to do something like that?’

  ‘Sadly, I’m used to it. With my writings and lectures I’ve made myself a bit of an easy target, particularly at this time of year. I’m afraid not everybody wants to see someone on television telling them there is no real Christmas.’

  A renowned scientist, author and controversial atheist thinker, Dame Annabel Montgomerie was known the world over. Her writings had made her a wealthy woman but her views on religion had turned her into a contentious and sometimes hated figure.

  ‘The police will be here any moment. The alarm registers directly with them and a squad car is sent straight over,’ she continued. ‘The alarm is so sensitive I end up living in lockdown between the hours of eleven p.m. and seven a.m. Any movement downstairs and the alarm is triggered. It is almost always nothing but I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry.’

  Marika smiled, but she wondered if voicing such strident views was worth the price Dame Annabel paid in sacrifices to her liberty.

  And was a brick smashing into your home in the dead of night really nothing?

  Dame Annabel steadfastly refused her offer of a cup of tea. Marika saw a police car enter the far end of the village. Once again Dame Annabel assured her she would be fine, so Marika said goodnight and turned to leave.

  Walking back past the vintage E-Type Jaguar, parked proudly in the driveway, Marika noticed the damage she had failed to see when she’d hurriedly made her way into the garden. Calling Annabel across, the two women stood by the car, illuminated by the lights from the village Christmas tree.

  Sprayed in red paint across its length were the words:

  ‘JESUS LIVES. YOU DIE’.

  CHAPTER 12

  INSIDE THE CRAMPED airplane bathroom Roscoe felt trapped.

  He was beginning to doubt his decision to follow Cal in, but, as her intense, dark eyes stared up at him, he remembered there were no depths to which her brother would not sink. He was determined he would be the one to provide her with the help she needed – even if he didn’t yet know how.

  ‘What made you so frightened at the airport, Cal?’ asked Roscoe.

  Cal laced her fingers through Roscoe’s. ‘Do you really think Matteo was guilty of killing those men?’ she asked. ‘You were meant to testify against him, weren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s guilty – I know he’s guilty,’ replied Roscoe. ‘I saw the men’s bodies after they’d fallen. I know what it’s done to their families. They’ll never recover. Is that what this is about? You have to tell me.’

  But Cal had turned away.

  ‘You do know something, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Cal. ‘I don’t know anything.’ She sighed. ‘Matteo is a boy wanting to be the big man. He wants to be the papa of the family. Maybe one day he will be.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Roscoe. ‘He doesn’t belong in any kind of business. He belongs in a jail cell.’

  ‘I don’t know, perhaps he does,’ said Cal, turning back to look at Roscoe. ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t want to go to London, don’t want to see my father, my stepmother or their spoilt child.’

  ‘Tell me why not?’ For a moment Roscoe wondered if Cal was the spoilt child and he pulled his hand away. ‘Who are you scared of? Your father? Your stepmother? You have to tell me or I can’t help you.’

  ‘Nobody can help me.’

  Roscoe was becoming frustrated. He turned to leave.

  ‘I would’ve jumped if it hadn’t been for you,’ she said, with greater urgency. ‘You saved my life once. Would you do it again?’

  ‘You’re playing games with me, Cal,’ said Roscoe, turning back to face her. ‘I need you to tell me what you’re scared of, or you’re right: I can’t help you.’

  Cal dropped her head into her hands. ‘If I do I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me.’

  Roscoe reached for her hand. ‘What will he do?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’ll kill me.’

  CHAPTER 13

  WALKING DOWN THE stairs of her parents’ home soon after eight o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve, Marika Roscoe felt drained after her broken sleep during the night.

  She entered the kitchen and found her daughters, Aimee and Lauren, already eating breakfast with their grandmother Umi. Kissing both girls on the cheek, she was pleased to hear neither of them had been woken by the alarm.

  ‘That horrendous noise cuts through me every time it goes off,’ said her mother. Marika crossed the kitchen and poured herself a mug of coffee from the freshly brewed pot. ‘I simply don’t understand why it has to be so loud. It seems pointless to me.’

  ‘I guess they hope it might scare someone away.’

  ‘Perhaps so. But as far as I can make out, half the time it goes off it’s a false alarm.’ Umi busied herself at the sink. ‘Did they catch anyone this time?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I left Annabel with the police,’ replied Marika. ‘But I know I wouldn’t want my door smashed through in the middle of the night or my car vandalised.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that,’ said Umi with greater interest. ‘What did the great dame make of that?’

  ‘I’m sure she was scared, Mama,’ said Marika, ‘although she didn’t really show it.’

  ‘She never does,’ said her mother. ‘She’s always so controlled. I do wonder, though, how much she brings it on herself.’ She put two slices of toast on the table in front of Marika. ‘If I was her I’d think about keeping my mouth shut, especially at this time of year. You’d think she didn’t know it was Christmas.’

  Marika smiled. ‘Everyone is entitled to their views,’ she said.

  ‘She’s never off the television,’ said Umi. ‘She was at
the Barbican giving a lecture yesterday evening and from what I understand she’s on another programme today. It’s Christmas Eve. She should be at home. You do know her daughter arrives from America today?’

  ‘I did hear,’ said Marika. ‘I remember Emily.’

  ‘I thought you’d remember her,’ replied Umi, and Marika saw the relish in her mother’s face as she began her story. ‘She went off to university in America, hailed by her mother as the next great scientist. Instead she dropped out after a year, got herself pregnant and married a real down-and-out with no job and no prospects. She had a little boy and called him Brayden. What kind of name is that?’

  Marika sighed. ‘As long as they’re happy.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing – according to Dame Annabel, they’re not.’

  ‘I didn’t know Annabel confided in you.’

  ‘Occasionally,’ said Umi with a smile. ‘Anyway, all I’m saying is she should keep her opinions to herself, and perhaps if she stayed home more her daughter wouldn’t have got herself into the mess she’s in.’

  ‘Everyone has to work, Mama,’ said Marika.

  ‘Call that work? You work; Jon works. She doesn’t work. She talks. And a little too much for my liking. But enough about her.’ Umi took a seat at the table next to her daughter. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, a day of great romance.’

  ‘Mama …’ said Marika, knowing immediately what was coming next.

  ‘In Japan, Christmas Eve is a day of great romance, especially for you young people. A day to dine with your loved one, to make them feel special.’

  ‘I’m glad you still see me as one of the young people. But your point is?’

  ‘You haven’t even seen Jon’s wonderful new hotel and I hear it has some of the very best restaurants in London. The two of you should have dinner together tonight. Your papa and I can look after the girls.’