Deadline (10 page)

'They've called.'

'When? Just now?'

'Yes. On the mobile.'

'What did they say?'

'He asked if I was getting the money together
for tomorrow night. I said I was, and he told me to
turn my computer on and check my emails.'

She took a deep breath, and Bolt could tell she
was using all her strength to hold things together.

'They said they've sent me a warning.'

While Andrea fetched her laptop and turned it on,
Matt Turner called in to HQ and asked them to
run an urgent trace on the last number to call
Andrea's mobile. 'They'll get back to us in five,' he
said as he and Bolt followed Andrea through the
hallway and into a large, spacious study at the
back of the house.

Andrea set the laptop down on a desk at the far
end of the room which faced out on to the back
lawn, and sat down to wait while it booted up.
Bolt and Turner stood behind her while Marie
Cohen remained further back, in the doorway.
The desk itself was expensive mahogany and
scrupulously tidy. There were two framed photos
on it: one of Emma as a toddler, dressed in a pink
swimming costume and playing with a hosepipe,
laughing at the camera; another more recent one
of mother and daughter smiling.

'What do you think they mean by sending me a
warning?' asked Andrea, turning round in her
seat and looking up at Bolt.

'Let's just see,' he said calmly.

'That's easy for you to say, isn't it?' she
snapped, turning back and double-clicking on her
internet icon.

Bolt didn't answer. The problem was that he
wasn't very good around victims of crime. He
never had been. He much preferred the process of
detective work, of breaking up criminal enterprises.
Of identifying targets and hitting them. He
might have suffered his own private tragedy but
the fact remained that he wasn't trained for this,
and being intimately acquainted with this particular
victim wasn't helping either. He looked over
at Marie Cohen, wondering if she was going to
intervene with soothing words, but she remained
silent, motioning him just to leave it.

Andrea's homepage appeared on the screen
and she clicked on her emails. There were a dozen
or so unread messages but it was the one at the
top, sent from a numbered hotmail account,
which was the one they wanted. The word
WARNING was written in block capitals in
the subject column, and there was an mpeg
attachment.

Without speaking, Andrea opened it. The
message said simply WATCH THE FILM.

'Oh God,' she whispered.

Bolt tensed. 'Maybe it's best if we watch it first,
Andrea,' he told her, putting a reassuring hand on
her shoulder. He didn't add 'just in case', but he
knew he might as well have done.

She took another deep breath. 'No. She's my
daughter. I've got to watch it.'

'It might not be a good idea, Andrea,' said
Marie, moving into the study.

'I am going to watch it. End of story.' Her words
were loud and decisive, cutting across the room.

She clicked on the mpeg file and waited the
twenty seconds while it downloaded. The room
was silent, with just the peaceful sound of birdsong
coming from outside. With trembling
fingers, Andrea pressed play.

Immediately the screen was filled with the top
half of a person sitting against a wall in a darkened
room lit by a bulb somewhere off camera.
The quality of the recording was very good, and
Bolt knew that he was looking at Emma even
though she had a black hood over her head. The
arms beneath the black T-shirt she was wearing
were pale and skinny – kid's arms.

Andrea let out an audible gasp.

For two or three seconds Emma sat there,
absolutely still, then very slowly she lifted a copy
of
The Times
until it was in full view. The main
headline was about the run on the Northern Rock
bank. The camera panned forward until it was
fixed on the date in the top right-hand corner. It
was today's.

'See, Andrea, she's alive,' said Bolt, trying to
sound positive. 'And it's in their interests to keep
her that way.'

Andrea didn't reply, but her shoulders were
shaking, and he realized she was crying silently as
she stared at the screen.

The camera panned back so that Emma's upper
body filled the screen again, and then the camera
suddenly jerked as the cameraman reached
forward with a gloved hand and roughly
removed the hood, revealing the pretty teenage
girl with the dark blonde hair and blue eyes
whose photo was all over Andrea's house.

Her face was terrified and wet with tears as she
stared uncertainly at the cameraman. He
appeared to give her some sort of off-camera
prompt because she started to speak slowly and
carefully, her voice shaking with fear. 'Mum, they
say that if you get the money, they'll let me go
tomorrow night.' There was a pause again while
she appeared to get a second prompt. 'But Mum
. . . they said that if you don't pay, or you call the
police . . . they said they'd hurt me really bad.' As
she spoke these last words, the tears began
streaming down her face again.

Then she gave a short, tight gasp. She was
staring at something they couldn't see, her eyes
widening.

'Oh God, Emma,' whispered Andrea, her own
voice cracking under the strain. 'My darling.'

And then they all saw it. The long, gleaming
blade of a hunting knife, held in a black-gloved
hand, moving slowly across the screen from right
to left, mocking the viewers with its presence. It
belonged to the cameraman. His camera shook
very slightly as he moved it. The knife then
changed direction as he leaned forward, pointing
the tip of the blade at Emma's neck. His arm
beyond the glove was covered by a black sweater.
There was no flesh showing, nothing that might
even hint at a possible ID.

A torturous wail came from Andrea. 'No, Jesus,
no. Please. Don't hurt her.'

Bolt felt his mouth go parchment dry. This was
total sadism, something that, thank God, was rare.

In twenty years of law enforcement he'd only seen
something similar once before when he'd been
forced to watch an old amateur videotape
showing the sexual abuse and torture of a three-year-old
child by her father. That was a long time
ago now, yet he could still remember every single
moment of it. It was etched on his brain, like a
hideous tattoo, for ever. This was similar, and in
a way all the more painful in that the victim's
mother was someone he'd once cared so much for.

'Let's turn it off, Andrea,' he said. 'We can
watch it again in a minute.'

She shook her head angrily. 'No. I've got to see.
I've got to.'

On the film, Emma pushed her body back into
the wall, craning her head away from the blade,
her pale blue eyes never leaving it.

Andrea's moaning grew louder. It stopped
abruptly when the point touched Emma's neck.
Ever so gently.

No one moved a millimetre. It was as if they'd
been frozen to the spot, staring hypnotized at the
screen. Waiting.

The blade traced a slow path up the contours of
Emma's jawline and on to her cheek, brushing the
pale skin but not breaking it, stopping at the fold
of skin just below her left eye. Half a centimetre
more and it would be caressing the eyeball.

Bolt steeled himself for what might be coming
next. He prided himself on being a hard man, able
to take some of the worst experiences the world
had to offer, but this was tearing him up inside,
and he wondered how many times this scene
would be revisiting his dreams in the coming
months.

The knife jerked suddenly to the side, moving
like a flash. Disappeared from view.

Emma cried out. Andrea gasped. Bolt stopped
breathing.

The camera panned inwards. Emma's face filled
the screen. Terrified, but unmarked. Then it
panned slowly outwards as Emma crumpled into
a fetal position on the bed she'd been sitting on,
dropping the newspaper to the floor. She was
wearing handcuffs, and there was a chain
attached to her ankle by a metal loop.

Something dark rose up from the bottom of the
screen, blocking out everything else, and the
camera took several seconds to focus on it. It was
a piece of paper. Five words were written on it in
bold capitals: NO POLICE OR SHE DIES. The
camera stayed on it for a full three seconds. Then
abruptly the film ended and the screen returned to
Andrea's homepage.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Bolt was just
about to open his mouth to tell Andrea to be
strong, that this was just a method for the kidnappers
to cow her into submission so that she'd get
them the next tranche of the ransom money – even
though he wasn't at all sure he still believed it –
when in one ferocious movement Andrea swept
the laptop off the table, sending it crashing to the
floor, and jumped to her feet. She grabbed the
photo of Emma as a toddler from the desk and
hugged it to her chest. Pushing Turner out of her
way, she swung round to face Bolt, her tearstained
face a twisting combination of torment
and rage.

'They're going to kill her, aren't they? That's it.

They're going to kill her.'

Bolt put a hand on her arm, trying to calm her.
'No, Andrea, they won't. They're far better off
keeping her alive.'

'They told me not to involve the police, and
now look at you all here.' She yanked herself free
and swept an arm dismissively round the room.
'Standing around while my daughter's tortured
by these bastards. Oh God. If they kill her . . . if
they kill her, it's all going to be my fault!'

'You can't think like that, Andrea,' said Bolt, but
she was no longer listening. She strode rapidly
past them and out the door, leaving behind only
grim silence.

Marie went after Andrea, and Bolt heard them
both going up the stairs, Andrea shouting at
Marie to leave her alone. He stood staring at the
upended laptop, wondering how Andrea was
ever going to recover from this. Finally he broke
his reverie and turned away.

Turner was speaking into the phone. When he
hung up a few seconds later, Bolt asked him if
they'd got a trace.

'He called from a mobile on a back street in the
N18 postcode. But he switched off straight away
so we can't follow him.'

'So he knows what we can do with mobile
phones.'

'Looks that way, doesn't it?'

'Any chance of getting anything from the email
he sent?'

'We won't get much out of the email address
itself. Anyone can set up a hotmail account anonymously.
But we should be able to locate the
computer he sent it from. It might take some time.'

'Get the team on to it straight away. We've just
got to hope this guy makes a mistake.'

'He hasn't made any so far.'

Bolt might have liked Turner, but his occasional
habit of accentuating the negatives could grate at
times. Especially times like this. 'Just do it,' he
said, turning away and pulling out his own
mobile. 'And get the local cops down the street
where the call was made from, just in case he's
still there.'

He unlocked the French windows in the living
room and went out into the back garden, dialling
his boss's number. When Big Barry answered, he
explained to him what the kidnappers had done.
'These guys are good, sir. They know exactly
which buttons to press. But there's something else
too. The way they're tormenting her – this is
personal. I'm sure of it. Someone really wants
Andrea Devern to suffer.'

'Well, let's hope you're right, because that
might help lead us to them. The woman can't
have that many enemies. In the meantime,
though, I've had authorization for us to set up a
sting. Looks like the ladies and gents upstairs
agreed with you about negotiation. It's pointless
with people as ruthless as this.'

'It's definitely the right move. This way we'll be
the ones in control.'

'We'll use bundles of counterfeit notes fitted
with trackers.'

'These people are professionals, sir. They're
going to spot something like that.'

'We'll be right on their tails. By the time they
realize the notes are fake it'll be too late and they'll
be in custody.'

Bolt wasn't convinced. 'But it also might be too
late for Emma. If they pick up the money, then
check the notes in the car, see that they're not real,
they'll know we're involved. In that case, they
might never lead us to her.'

'Come on, old mate, how am I going to get
authorization to use half a million pounds of real
money? And where am I going to get it from? The
Christmas kitty? Think about it.'

'You said we're not going to lose them.'

'We're not.'

'So we can afford to use the real thing, surely?'
Bolt thought of the photo of Emma as a toddler,
playing with the hosepipe in her pink swimming
costume. 'This is a young girl's life we're talking
about.'

'Let's not get sentimental, Mike.'

'I'm not. But if we use fake money and it all goes
wrong, it's not going to look good for any of us, is
it? That we thought the money was more important
than our kidnap victim.' He resisted adding 'heads
will roll', but the point was a valid one. Bolt was
appealing to Barry's innate arse-covering instincts,
knowing that there lay his greatest chance of success.

And it seemed to be working. 'I'll talk to them
upstairs, but I can't see them going for it.' Barry
sighed. 'Look, this whole operation needs to be
well planned, so I want you back here so we can
discuss the details. As soon as poss. Keep Turner
and the liaison there with Mrs Devern, just in case
they make contact again.'

Bolt hung up, and looked at his watch. It was
ten past one. His stomach was growling and he
realized that he hadn't eaten a thing all day. He'd
grab some lunch on the way back. He took a deep
breath. One way or another, he was going to get
these bastards. And get Emma back for Andrea as
well. The hunt was on now, and on the ground at
least, he was the one in charge. This was the part
of the job he loved, when the battle lines were
drawn and it was all about you and them.
Pushing the images of the video aside, he felt a
renewed sense of determination.

He became aware of a presence behind him. It
was Turner, looking vaguely sheepish.

'Everything all right, Matt?'

'Mrs Devern wants a word with you upstairs.

Alone. She doesn't want to talk to Marie.' There
was a vague disapproval in his tone.

'OK, thanks.'

Bolt walked back into the house through the
French windows. Marie was standing at the
bottom of the stairs, looking concerned.

'She's in the first room on the left,' she said
wearily.

Bolt smiled, feeling sorry for her. 'Thanks. I
don't see there's much I'm going to be able to do
either, but I'll give it a try.'

Andrea was in the master bedroom, sitting in a
white leather armchair and staring out of the bay
window, a cigarette in her hand. She turned as he
came inside and shut the door behind him. Her
face was set hard, the tears wiped away now.

'You've got to get her back, Mike.' She spoke
the words firmly.

'And we're doing absolutely everything we can
to bring that about. I know how hard it must be,
but you've got to try to sit tight and be patient.'

'Did you never want children, Mike?'

She watched him closely, waiting for an answer,
the cigarette burning, forgotten, in her hand. He
sighed, wondering how he was going to extricate
himself from this conversation.

'The opportunity never arose. Maybe one day.'

'Have you ever been married?'

'I was. Once.'

'What happened?'

'She died. In a car crash. Five years ago.'

Five years. It felt like such a long time, yet in
truth it had gone fast. He could still picture
Mikaela perfectly, could still hear her voice. But
she was someone he didn't like to be reminded of
by other people. He liked to keep his thoughts
and memories of her to himself.

'I'm sorry,' she said, sounding like she meant it.

'It's OK.'

Silence. He sensed there was something she
wanted to add, so he waited for it.

And it came.

'Listen, Mike, I don't know how to say this,
but . . .'

She noticed the cigarette then, and flicked the
ash into an ashtray on the windowsill before it
spilled into her lap.

'What is it, Andrea?'

'I told you about Jimmy Galante, didn't I?
About the reason I involved him.'

'Because you needed his help.'

'Yes, and because he was her father as well.'

'That's right.'

'The thing is, I was lying.'

Bolt tensed. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean I was lying when I told Jimmy he was
the father. He wasn't.'

She looked him squarely in the eye. 'You are.'