by Jaime Raven
His cowardly response had been to tell her that he was smitten with her too. In truth, though, he wasn’t yet ready to commit and was reluctant to get too involved too quickly.
He had spoken to Helen earlier on the phone while Sarah was with her parents, and he’d told her then what had happened. She’d been shocked and sympathetic and had offered to fly home so she could be with him. But he’d told her not to because he was confident that Molly would soon be found, which of course was a lie.
He decided now that it wouldn’t be prudent to have another conversation with her tonight. At best it would exacerbate the guilty feelings that were stirring inside him. At worst it might cause him to lose his temper, because right at this moment he regarded her as an unnecessary distraction.
So he replied to the text, saying:
Sorry can’t speak. With the police. Will call you tomorrow. A x
Adam sagged against the wall, feeling sick. Through the slightly open window he could hear the voices of the reporters and photographers downstairs in the parking area and it ignited a hot rage inside him.
He’d always had a low regard for the British press. Through experience, he’d come to view them as insensitive vultures who didn’t give a shit for the people they wrote about.
He’d had more than a few run-ins with tabloid tossers over the years and had once punched a Sun newspaper crime reporter in the face.
To them this story was like manna from heaven. He’d seen the excitement on their faces as Sarah poured her heart out to them earlier. They hadn’t been thinking about how much she was suffering, only about how they would write up what was turning into the juiciest human interest tale of the year.
He still couldn’t quite get his mind around the fact that this story was all about his own daughter. His baby. The little girl who gave meaning to his life.
In trying to stay strong for Sarah, he had so far succeeded in delaying the full shocking impact of what was happening. But it was there all the same, bubbling below the surface like a raging volcano.
After composing himself he went back inside to find Sarah. He thought she’d be lying on her bed, but instead she’d retreated to Molly’s room where she was sat on the floor with her back against the wall and her legs stretched out.
Just being in the room sparked a series of images in Adam’s head: his daughter crawling across the floor, the way she giggled as he tickled her ribs, then sobbing because he was leaving her to return to his flat in Mitcham.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trapping the tears, and when he opened them Sarah was looking up at him, her face illuminated by the flickering night light on top of the chest of drawers.
‘I’m trying to imagine that Molly is sleeping in her cot,’ she said, her voice weak and strained. ‘And that the last fifteen hours didn’t happen.’
‘Do you want me to sit with you?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather be by myself if that’s OK.’
He was a little hurt but he hid it by flashing a faint smile.
‘Of course it is. I quite understand.’
She turned to face the cot again and he wondered if she was able to sense their daughter’s presence. He couldn’t himself, but if Sarah could then he hoped that it was in some small way comforting for her.
Stepping out of the room, he gently closed the door behind him. Then he went to the bathroom, emptied his bladder and washed his face. He found an unused toothbrush in the cupboard above the sink and used it to clean his teeth. To say that it felt strange going through the motions again in the flat that used to be his home would have been a gross understatement. It felt positively weird, but he was sure that being back in his own flat right now wouldn’t have felt right either.
The spare room was sparse but comfortable, with a double bed and a stand-alone wardrobe. The walls had been given a fresh coat of magnolia paint since he’d moved out and there was a new patterned rug on the floor.
He closed the curtains and switched off the light. Then he took off his shoes and stretched out on top of the duvet without taking his clothes off. He didn’t for a single second believe that he would be able to sleep, so he wouldn’t even bother to try. He just stared up at the shifting patterns on the ceiling and wondered where his daughter was and what she was doing. He prayed that she was asleep and recovering from the beating she had taken. He tried not to dwell on other nightmarish scenarios, including the possibility that she was being sexually abused. The thought of it made his chest hurt and his eyes water.
He had to force his mind to move in another direction and found himself reviewing the events of this terrible day, starting with the shock on Sarah’s face when he first saw her in the neighbour’s kitchen. Then the text messages from the kidnapper, that ghastly video and finally talking to Brennan about who might be behind it.
It didn’t seem possible that so much had happened in such a short time. Was it really only fifteen hours?
When his daughter was snatched, he was at the Old Bailey waiting for the jury to return a verdict on Victor Rosetti. And Brennan broke the news to him over the phone just after Rosetti was whisked away in his Mercedes having been found not guilty of drug trafficking.
Adam hadn’t thought about the Romanian gangster since that moment. But now, suddenly, he was reminded of the brief conversation he’d had with him through the Mercedes window.
‘We may have lost the battle, scumbag,’ he’d said to the man. ‘But not the war. It won’t be long before I collar you for something you won’t be able to wriggle out of.’
‘Don’t waste taxpayers’ money,’ Rosetti had said. ‘It will never happen. Besides, I should be the least of your worries.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough – word is, you’re in for a nasty surprise.’
Adam let out an involuntary gasp and sat bolt upright on the bed. Rosetti’s words rang in his ears and sent blood pulsing through his veins. He hadn’t thought about that conversation before now because he’d been trying to concentrate his mind on who might have a grudge against his ex-wife – not on who would want to punish him. But what Rosetti had said suddenly seemed hugely significant.
‘… word is, you’re in for a nasty surprise.’
What had the bastard meant by that? Had it simply been an idle threat? Or had he known that something bad was going to happen?
The air seemed to disappear from the room suddenly, as a series of alarming questions pummelled his brain.
Was it conceivable that Rosetti had instigated the abduction? Was it him or one of his heavies who had smacked Molly on the video? And was he just pretending that it was an act of revenge against Sarah so that the police wouldn’t make the connection?
The mere thought of it caused Adam’s heart to flip over and, as he leapt off the bed, he realised that he was struggling to breathe.
22
Sarah
I was in the middle of yet another prayer when Adam burst back into the room. He was in a state of high agitation and could barely get his words out.
He gave me a hurried account of his brief encounter with Victor Rosetti outside the Old Bailey and what the Romanian had told him. I experienced a flash of anger and frustration, but it was quickly replaced by a ray of hope that this might turn out to be a genuine lead.
‘Why didn’t you mention this to Brennan?’ I said.
‘Because I pushed from my mind everything that happened before I heard that Molly had been snatched,’ he said. ‘I just failed to make the connection until just now.’
‘Then you need to tell Brennan.’
‘I will and he’ll have to take it seriously. Rosetti is an evil bastard and he has it in for me. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something like this.’
He tried ringing Brennan straight away but got no answer on his mobile phone.
‘Shit.’
He rushed down the stairs and I followed him into the living room, my breath coming in loud, shallow puffs.
> Sergeant Palmer was still awake, sitting on the sofa watching one of the news channels.
‘I’ve just remembered something that happened this morning,’ Adam told her. ‘It could be relevant and you need to check it out.’
She muted the TV and listened to what he had to say. Then she urged him to calm down and called the incident room.
A minute later she was through to Brennan and the DCI asked to speak directly to Adam.
‘Shall I make you something to drink?’ Palmer asked me after she had handed over her phone. ‘Tea or coffee perhaps?’
But I shook my head, too hyped up to provide a coherent response.
I paced the room instead, my heart a heavy weight in my chest.
When Adam hung up he told us that Brennan was going to move swiftly and organise a raid on Victor Rosetti’s home in Fulham, West London.
‘He’s taking Rosetti’s remark seriously,’ he said. ‘And he’s liaising with my lot at the NCA. We have a file on all the Romanian’s criminal associates.’
I could tell that Adam was frustrated and he instinctively wanted to go looking for Rosetti himself. But Palmer persuaded him to sit down and insisted on making him a cup of tea.
He complied, albeit reluctantly, and then at her request he wrote down exactly what Rosetti had said to him.
I didn’t know what to make of it myself. It was easy to believe that Victor Rosetti was capable of getting one of his gang members to abduct Molly, but harder for me to accept that he would take the risk, especially as he was acquitted by the jury.
When I put this to Adam, he said, ‘When Molly was taken, Rosetti was still waiting for a verdict. He might have decided that the outcome was irrelevant and that he was going to punish me whatever the result. So he could well have got his people to act around the time the jury were due to deliver.’
It struck me as an improbable scenario, but as a detective I’d learned long ago never to rule anything out, especially when the motive is revenge.
However, despite Adam’s reasoning, I didn’t share his fervour for Rosetti being the new prime suspect. I was convinced from what the kidnapper had written in the text messages and email that it was me he wanted to punish, not Adam.
I was about to ask Sergeant Palmer what she thought when I caught sight of myself on the TV. I grabbed the remote control from the coffee table where she’d placed it and turned the volume back on.
‘I want to appeal to the man who has taken my daughter to please let her go. She’s just a baby and I miss her so much.’
I almost didn’t recognise myself and it sounded to me like someone else’s voice.
The coverage of my impromptu appeal was being screened unedited and as I watched it I couldn’t help wondering what the kidnapper would think and if he’d be encouraged to respond.
The sequence ended with a close-up of my face after the reporter revealed that a man had been detained.
I looked like someone who’d had the blood drained from her body. My skin was pale and stretched and there were new, deep lines across my forehead.
I was reminded for a moment of all the other distressed mothers who had appeared on TV over the years to beg for the safe return of their children.
And I wondered just how many times their emotional appeals had actually brought about a happy ending.
My mother called within minutes of my appearance on TV, despite it being nearly two in the morning. She was distraught and demanded to know why I hadn’t told her about the video. She broke down on the phone and my father came on and I had to go through it all again for him.
Afterwards, I left Adam and Sergeant Palmer downstairs and went upstairs to lie on my bed. But I came nowhere near to falling asleep. I was coiled like a tight spring, hounded by the unendurable terror that someone was harming my baby.
Adam came in several times to inform me that there had been no further developments and that my phone – which he was holding onto – had received several text messages but only from friends and well-wishers.
By the time daylight filtered into the room I’d shed so many tears that my pillow was soaking wet.
I went over to the window and peered through the curtains. The sky was a fragile blue, and in the parking area the reporters and paparazzi were still gathered.
I hauled myself into the en suite and my stomach twisted at the sight of myself in the mirror. My eyes were rimmed with purple shadows and my hair looked as though it had been flattened with a heavy coat of wallpaper adhesive.
I spent a long time in the shower, hoping the hot jets of water would make me feel more able to cope with the day ahead. But I felt just as lifeless after I got out and towelled myself dry.
I applied a minimal amount of make-up to cover the blotches and shadows and then put on a pair of jeans and a light brown crew-neck sweater. Finally I scraped my hair back in a tight bun and went downstairs.
Adam and Sergeant Palmer were waiting for me and I discovered that they had both been up all night watching the rolling news channels. Neither of them had showered and Adam told me he would soon shoot home to shave and get changed.
I was handed a mug of steaming coffee and some toast. The coffee I was desperate for, but I forced down the toast because I knew I had to eat something or risk collapsing.
It was a strange feeling being in the flat with Adam and a police officer I didn’t really know. I was so used to it being just Molly and me. The mornings were always such a rush as I prepared for work and got Molly ready to go to her grandparents’ house.
The fact that she wasn’t here hit me hard suddenly. I felt the sting of tears in my eyes as I pictured her sitting in the high chair and making a mess of herself as she dug into her cereal.
But I managed somehow not to break down and took a couple of deep breaths to regain my equilibrium.
Then Sergeant Palmer updated me as I drank the coffee. Brennan and his team had been at it all night and two hours ago Victor Rosetti had been taken in for questioning.
‘But I regret to say that there was no sign of Molly at his house in Fulham,’ she said. ‘They’re now searching the place and checking out any other properties he’s connected with.’
‘It doesn’t mean it wasn’t him,’ Adam said. ‘Why else would he say that he’d heard I was in for a nasty surprise?’
My mind conjured up an image of Victor Rosetti, one of the most notorious of the Eastern European gangsters who had muscled in on the drugs and prostitution rackets in London in recent years. I had never met the man, but I knew all about him and his fearsome reputation. Like most detectives within the Met, I’d followed his trial with interest and found it astonishing that the jury had seen fit to clear him.
Palmer was now telling us that preparations were under way for a press conference to take place at noon at the Yard, and Brennan wanted us both to attend.
‘There have been scores of calls overnight in response to your appeal,’ she said to me. ‘Most are from people claiming they think they’ve spotted Molly, but as you yourself know, a fair number will be cranks and time-wasters. However, every call will be followed up.’
It was what made this case different to most. Adam and I both knew what to expect and just how difficult it was for the investigating officers.
A huge amount of information would be flooding into the incident room. Dealing with all the interviews, the computer searches, the CCTV footage and the door-to-door inquiries would be enormously time-consuming. Making progress would be slow-going unless they got a lucky break. And that was what everyone would be hoping for.
I drank a second cup of coffee with my first smoke of the day. I hoped it would help me to relax, but it didn’t.
Time moved on as though in slow motion and it wasn’t until just after ten that there came another chilling development.
A fourth text message from the kidnapper arrived on my phone. I experienced an almost paralysing panic as I opened it up and read it.
Morning Sarah. Molly had me up at the cra
ck of dawn. She was upset when she realised that her mummy wasn’t here. But she’ll get used to that in time. I’ll be sending you another video clip later so be prepared. And btw I enjoyed your little performance in front of the cameras. Very touching. It even made Molly smile.
23
DCI Brennan
‘I have done some very bad things during my forty-three years on this planet, but stealing a child is not one of them.’
Victor Rosetti spoke with a deep, heavy accent, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes.
He had a round face, low brow, fleshy lips. He was wearing an open-neck shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a spider’s web tattoo on his right arm just below the elbow.
Brennan gave him an assessing look across the table in Interview Room One. The Romanian was sitting next to his solicitor, a cocky individual in his thirties named Mark Finn, who sported a smart grey tapered suit and oversized glasses. The fourth person in the room was DC Foster.
Rosetti had refused to answer any questions until Finn arrived ten minutes ago. Now he was claiming to have no knowledge of Molly Mason’s whereabouts, which was not unexpected.
‘So what were you referring to when you told Detective Boyd that you’d heard he was in for a nasty surprise?’ Brennan said.
Rosetti sucked a breath through his teeth and shook his head.
‘Boyd is lying. I didn’t say that to him.’
‘So are you denying that after you left the court building you crossed over the road and spoke to Detective Boyd through your car window?’
‘Not at all. We pulled over and I told him to cheer up, that he had to accept that you win some and you lose some. I can remember the exchange word for word. He wasn’t happy and so we drove off because I could see he was about to lose his temper. I’ve given you the names of my two friends who were in the car with me. They heard what was said.’
Brennan did not believe a word of it. This was his first encounter with Rosetti, but he knew him to be a slippery customer from reputation, and the fact that he had just managed to avoid a long and well due prison sentence was proof of that.