H knows this already but there’s something about O’Keefe that seems to have got under his skin. I don’t think he likes being lectured, and he certainly hasn’t taken to O’Keefe.
‘So what do you put on the table?’ H asks.
‘We talk, Mr Prentice. We listen. We build a rapport. And then, in due course, we make them an offer.’
‘And what if they’re not having it? What if they stick at a mill? Make life tough for Clemmie?’
‘I suspect that won’t happen. These people are criminals, not terrorists. That makes them realists. They’re only interested in the money. There’s nothing else at stake.’
‘Like?’
‘Politics or, God help us, religion.’ He offers H a thin smile. ‘This is London, Mr Prentice, not the Middle East. Money talks louder than anything else and that, believe it or not, is to our advantage. This little episode has to be managed. And that’s my job.’
H nods but says nothing. I know he hates conceding control in any situation, but for the time being he has no choice but to listen.
Mateo asks about involving the police. O’Keefe shakes his head. ‘In due course, if things turn really ugly, that may become necessary, but not now. In the shape of Clem, the kidnappers have acquired a windfall gain. Quite how much remains to be seen. Best, therefore, to keep the negotiations tight. No third parties. No police.’
This, for me, is eye-opening stuff. I don’t doubt for a moment that O’Keefe has years of experience in these situations, but he seems to be framing the kidnap and its aftermath as just another piece of business. He has two clients. One of them is the kidnappers responsible for Clem’s disappearance. The other is the insurance company. His challenge is to bring the two sides together and conjure a happy result. Job done.
I’m thinking of Malo. And of Clem’s mother.
‘You used the word “ugly”,’ I say. ‘What might that mean?’
‘They might make threats. That would form part of the negotiation. They might also put pressure on Clemenza and then video the results. It normally comes in the shape of an appeal directly from the victim. It can be very hard to live with something like that. Raw emotion can put more money on the table.’
This report from the front line, however well intended, is chilling. I’m trying to imagine what it must be like to be Clem just now. What does she dream about – if she ever gets to sleep? How does she feel when she wakes up, not knowing what this bunch of crazies might do next?
Mateo wants to know how he should respond when these people next get in touch.
‘You don’t. I’ll give you a number. Ask them to call me. They’ll need to be sure I’m not police. The switch at Lockdown is manned twenty-four-seven. Once they’re happy we’re not stitching them up we’ll be negotiating on another number. If these people are any good, they’ll be familiar with the procedures.’
‘And if they’re not?’ H again.
‘Then we might have a problem.’
‘So what do you think?’ I ask H.
We’re sitting in the Range Rover, watching O’Keefe saying his goodbyes. Mateo has been joined outside the open front door by a middle-aged woman in designer jeans and a black T-shirt. A heavy gold bracelet catches the sun as she gives O’Keefe a stiff hug and then steps back. The tightness of her brief smile suggests that O’Keefe’s assurances about resolving this little issue have fallen on stony ground. Is this Clem’s mum? Almost certainly.
‘I think I feel bloody sorry for them,’ H says.
‘You mean Malo? Clem?’
‘Of course.’
I nod, wondering whether to share my doubts about our son.
‘You think he’s being straight with us? Malo?’
‘Of course he isn’t. He’ll tell us what he thinks we need to know. No more, no less.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘Not in the slightest. When the time comes, and he’s good and ready, he’ll tell us everything. Too much pressure now and we’ll lose him completely.’
There’s an edge of menace in H’s voice and I know it’s there for my benefit. Leave this to me, he seems to be saying. Everything will work out just fine.
‘You think he’s in trouble?’
H simply nods.
‘And O’Keefe?’ I’m staring out at the street.
‘He’s like the kidnappers. He’s in it for the business.’ H gestures round at the properties fronting on to the square. ‘Like every other one of these minted fuckers.’
I nod. H, when it comes to the more troubling consequences of the way we live now, is generally right. He has a dark view of human nature, which probably accounts for most of his wealth. Among his many business interests are a couple of insurance companies which, he once assured me, earned him serious money for doing sod all. The fact that Mateo carries kidnap insurance, and that H won’t be obliged to contribute to whatever sum Clem finally commands, has clearly pleased him but he’s still out on patrol, looking – in his phrase – for the next shit storm.
‘Blokes like O’Keefe get paid by the day,’ he says.
‘How much?’
‘A grand? Two grand? There’s something else, too. He’s probably on a success bonus of some kind. The smaller the ransom he negotiates, the bigger his bung at the end. That’s called an incentive. The more money he saves the insurance people, the more he’ll walk away with.’
‘And?’
‘Like the man says, these things take time. Which probably means that Clemmie won’t be back for a while.’
‘Not Monday, then?’
‘No chance.’
H, like me, is watching O’Keefe strolling away down the square. He pauses beside a sleek, new-looking car and then lifts his face to the sun. All the time in the world, I think, while the meter ticks on.
‘Jaguar XJ,’ H grunts. ‘Sixty-five grand. At least.’
TEN
I get H to drop me at Clem’s place. He says he’d come in with me to see Malo but he’s late already and he needs to get back to Flixcombe for a meeting. I knock on Clem’s door, wait, knock again. Nothing. I check in case anyone’s watching, then squat and yell his name through the letterbox. I can hear a purr from the fridge and the ticking of a clock, but there’s still no response. Worried now, I try his number but his phone’s switched off. Earlier, during our brief conversation, he was going to make up for a lost night’s sleep. Maybe he’s still in bed, I think. Maybe the last thing he needs is his mother at his door.
I’m about to head back down to the main road when I remember his car. Malo is still driving a brand-new blue Audi convertible, a present from his grateful father after our clever son had masterminded an ambitious expedition to the Normandy D-Day beaches with a bunch of paying guests. Normally, he keeps the Audi at a parking spot at the top end of the mews. I walk the thirty metres but there’s no sign of it. An oldish woman emerges from the last house.
‘You’re looking for the young lad? The one with the blue car?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a friend?’
‘I hope so. I’m also his mum.’
She studies me a moment, amused. Maybe there’s some family resemblance. The gene pool, as Pavel recently assured me, never lies.
‘He went this morning,’ she says. ‘Around eleven.’
‘You saw him?’
‘I did. I was in the front there. Rearranging the flowers. He wasn’t alone, either, that boy of yours.’
‘No?’ I’m staring at her.
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Another fella. Older. And black.’
I press her for details. She frowns with the effort of memory. Dreadlocks, she says. And a strange mark on his face.
‘What kind of mark?’
‘Dark blue. Just here.’ She touches her cheek under her right eye. ‘It’s hard to tell but it looked like a speech mark or maybe a bubble.’
Black. Dreadlocks. And a strange tattoo. I’m back at home in the safety of my flat. To my knowledge, which
is far from complete, Malo doesn’t know any black people. On the other hand, here is a witness who is telling me different. Maybe this is a friend of Clem’s. London is famously multicultural and Clem must run into black people all the time. Either professionally as she zips from delivery to pick-up to delivery, or maybe in the handful of pubs where she often gigs.
Should I start there? Should I somehow compile a list of likely pubs and visit them one by one, a middle-aged actress and mother with a fuzz of hair where my poor mutilated scalp is still fighting the side effects of chemo? Should I offer photos of Clem and enquire about any black companions she might have acquired? Or should I simply await Malo’s return and hope that he’s in the mood to answer a direct question or two?
You have a missing girlfriend. Her kidnappers want a million pounds. And you’re keeping strange company. If you love me, please explain.
Pavel gets in touch in the early evening, a favourite time for him to call. He can sense at once that I’m upset. Without any prompting I explain why. Malo. The missing Audi. And the stranger in the passenger seat. If I’m right to trust Pavel, he’ll do his best to help me. If, on the other hand, I’ve got him wrong the nightmare can only get worse.
‘You think this guy is somehow related to what’s happened?’
‘To be honest, yes.’
‘So what did he look like?’
I explain about the dreadlocks. The woman put him in his early thirties. Then I remember the way she described the tattoo. Pavel doesn’t respond and for a moment I think he’s hung up on me for some reason, but then he’s back in my ear, alert and freshly curious.
‘Say that again?’
‘She said it looked like a speech mark. Or maybe a bubble.’
‘You mean an elongated bubble? Like a teardrop?’
‘Not me, her. She didn’t say teardrop but maybe that’s what she meant.’ I pause. I’m frowning. ‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it bloody does. Just tell me.’
Another silence. Then Pavel announces he’s coming over. I’m not altogether sure this is such a good idea. My absolute priority is Malo. Once he’s got in touch I need to find him, to be with him, to settle us both down and have a proper chat. No interim distractions. None.
Pavel takes the news badly. For whatever reason I seem to have offended him.
He asks me whether I remember those little swastikas fighter pilots used to paint under their cockpits during the Battle of Britain. I tell him I do. It formed part of Going Solo.
‘And you know what each of them meant?’
‘Of course. They were enemy planes they’d shot down. They were kills.’
‘Exactly. These days a teardrop on the cheek does the same job. It’s a way of keeping score.’
‘It means you’ve killed someone?’
‘I’m afraid it does.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly. Stay there. I’ll call a cab.’
Within half an hour, Pavel is at my door. By now I’ve been thinking far too hard about the implications of what he’s told me. Malo appears to have fallen into the worst company imaginable. Maybe that’s what he’s hiding, why he’ll barely talk to me. H is right. The boy’s in deep trouble, up to his neck, and this has to be linked to Clem’s disappearance. Maybe he’s offered himself in her place. Or maybe they’ve seized them both and it’s our turn to receive a ransom demand. Both possibilities, to be frank, are terrifying. H, as far as I know, isn’t insured against kidnapping. I suspect he’d scarcely notice a million-dollar dent in his fortune but that wouldn’t be the point. No way would he part with a cent on the say-so of – as he’d put it – a bunch of lowlifes.
I tell Pavel we have to go to the police.
‘We?’
‘Me. I have to go to the police. This is out of control. This is really serious.’
‘There may be another way.’
‘That’s what the guy said this morning.’
‘What guy?’
I explain about Frank O’Keefe, the K&R negotiator. Listen to this man for half an hour and there’s no reason your blood pressure would rise by even a flicker when the phone began to ring.
‘You mean he’d handle it all?’
‘Everything. Every last call. Every move on the chess board. He says it all boils down to money and once you understand that, your problems are over.’
‘He might be right. Has that occurred to you?’
‘Of course it has. And equally he might be talking bullshit. I’m walking into a script I don’t much like here. Maybe he’s picked up a thing or two about acting, about being Mr Confident, Mr Leave-It-To-Me. Relax, he’s telling us. Chill out. Let someone else do the heavy lifting. We’ll get her back and that’s a promise. You might not like the size of next year’s insurance premium but – hey – you’re all still in one piece. This is hopeless, Pavel. This is just letting events take over. That’s not my way. And it’s certainly not H’s.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘I just told you. I’ll go to the police. That’s what they’re for. Last time I checked, kidnapping was a crime. Have I got that bit right?’
Pavel joins me on the sofa. For once, I shrink from his touch, something he senses at once.
‘And you really think they’ll sort it? Get Clem back? Malo, too, if he’s really gone off with someone linked to the kidnapping?’
‘I’ve no idea, but they must know where to start because that’s their job. Me? I’m helpless. This is another big fat tumour. In fact, it’s worse because it affects other people, people I love. I don’t want all this stuff in my life. I’ve had it with losing control. Anything. I’ll do anything to get those kids back.’
‘Money would sort it. Do you happen to have a million dollars?’
It’s a good question. If we don’t want to leave Clem’s fate in the hands of O’Keefe and Mateo’s insurers then it might be wise to find out.
I get up and find a pad and a pen. I’m doing the sums, angry as well as lost. My divorce from Berndt is still a work in progress. I’ve generated most of the assets in what used to be our marriage – my apartment, my car, my savings, my investments – but my ex-husband has found a clever lawyer in Stockholm and is fighting for every krona he can get his hands on. My own solicitor keeps assuring me that no court of law would entertain his claims for a moment, but that’s not the point. Berndt, if I’m to believe him, has lost more or less everything. Split my estate down the middle, subtract a million dollars, and I’d be living in the street. My mum once told me I was reckless with money. Easy come, she warned me, easy go. Now, looking at the bare figures on the notepad, I realize that she was right.
‘A million dollars?’ I look up. ‘Not a prayer.’
‘H?’
‘He’d kill these people first. He’d put them down like the animals they are.’
‘That’s fighting talk.’
‘Of course it is. And you know what? I’m not sure I’d blame him.’
‘So why go to the police?’
‘Good question. This is black and white, isn’t it? This is one of those plot points that keep you and me in business. An eye for an eye? Fight fire with fire? Any of that stuff sound familiar?’
‘Of course. But who, exactly, are you fighting?’
This, of course, is the crunch. All I have in hard evidence is a thirty-second conversation with Malo’s neighbour, a woman I’ve never met before. There must be a million black guys in London. So just where would we start?
I’m exhausted. I’m close to tears. I feel a headache coming on. I’ve run out of options and Pavel’s presence, for once, is no help. I lie back on the sofa, my eyes closed, fighting to control myself. Then, very dimly, I hear my mobile. Tina fucking Turner. ‘Simply the Best’. I’m going to change the ringtone, I tell myself. Something by Bach, maybe.
Pavel passes me the phone. I put it to my ear. For a second or two I think I’ve stepped into some fantasy script. It sounds like Malo
. It sounds like my son.
‘Mum?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside. In the car.’
‘Outside?’ I’m crying now, trying to choke back the tears.
‘Yeah.’ I think I hear him laughing. ‘You mind if I come up?’
ELEVEN
Malo has never met Pavel. I’m not at all sure this is the moment to make the introductions but there’s no time to get him out of my apartment. More to the point, he has definite views on how I should handle the next couple of minutes.
‘Tell him nothing about the black guy,’ he tells me. ‘Pretend the conversation with the neighbour never happened. Trust me.’
I have a choice, of course I do, but deep down I think I sense his logic. Let Malo do the talking. And see where that takes us.
Seconds later, Malo is at the main entrance, buzzing the video phone to be let in. I take a cautionary look at the tiny screen beside my front door. Anticipating this, he gives me a little wave. Very odd.
I open my front door and wait for him to emerge from the lift. He has a bright smile on his face and bends to give me a hug, which is unexpected and more than welcome. Hard as I look, I can see no visible signs of damage.
‘This is Pavel,’ I say as we step into the lounge.
The sight of a stranger in my apartment brings him to an abrupt halt.
‘You’re the blind guy? The writer?’
‘I am.’
‘Dad told me about you. Schemes and dreams, eh?’
Neither Pavel nor I have any idea what Malo is talking about, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He circles the living room as if he wants to check that nothing’s gone missing. He has a slightly brittle gleefulness, everything overloud, over-emphatic. Pavel will later liken this to a sports car on full beam careering into corner after corner and he’s right. Finally, after I get him to sit down with us, I realize why Malo’s here. He wants money.
‘Why?’ I ask him.
‘I’m skint. Something to eat would be good, too. D’you mind, Mum?’
I shake my head. It would be a pleasure to feed my son, but first I need to know why he finds himself so broke. H has given him a generous monthly allowance since way back when he first moved down to Flixcombe. I’m not sure of the exact sum, but I’m fairly certain Malo can rely on more than four thousand a month.
Sight Unseen Page 5