Deadline (7 page)

Andrea Devern stood up as they came in. Mo
introduced Bolt to her and they shook hands
formally. Knowing that he couldn't let on that he
recognized her, Bolt sat down opposite Andrea.
Pleased that she made no sign of recognition
either, he explained that they were only talking
in such formal surroundings because their conversation
could be monitored and recorded. 'This
way, it'll allow us to go back over your statement
more easily. But don't worry. It's not an interview
under caution. We just want you to go through
everything from the beginning, trying not to leave
anything out, so we've got a full picture of what's
happened.'

This wasn't entirely true. Given that the truth of
her story had yet to be confirmed, making her
repeat it would give them an opportunity to check
for discrepancies later, should the need arise.

Andrea yawned, putting a hand over her
mouth, and Bolt noticed that one of her manicured
nails had been broken. 'I've already told
everything to the detectives in Welwyn Garden
City. I just want you to find my daughter.' Her
tone was weary, almost irritable.

'It's important for us to hear it from you. Just in
case there's anything you've forgotten. That way
it'll help us to get your daughter back safely.' He
gave her a reassuring smile.

'OK,' she said, meeting his eyes. 'I understand.
Can I smoke in here?'

'Well, this is a non-smoking building, and Mo
here has just given up a forty-a-day habit, but . . .
What do you think, Mo?' Bolt smiled. 'Will you be
able to concentrate?'

Mo didn't look too happy about it but he
nodded his assent. He'd only quit the dreaded
weed six weeks earlier and by his own admission
was still wobbling at the precipice, but Bolt was
one of those people who still believed in a
common-sense approach to how the law was
enforced, and it seemed churlish to deny Andrea a
small pleasure at a time like this. Big Barry would
probably have something to say about it, given
that he usually had something to say about everything,
but Bolt would worry about that later.

Andrea thanked him, removed a pack of
Benson and Hedges from an expensive-looking
handbag on the desk in front of her, drew out a
cigarette and lit it. She took a long drag, clearly
enjoying it, before blowing a thin column of blue
smoke skywards. And then she started talking. As
she spoke, Bolt listened carefully, taking notes, only
occasionally interrupting her narrative to question
her about points that needed clarification.

It's possible to tell a great deal from a person's
body language about whether or not he or she is
telling the truth. Liars tend to limit their physical
movements, and those they do make are towards
their own body rather than outwards. They touch
their face, throat and mouth a lot, and will often
turn their head or body away from their questioner
when they talk, so that they're not facing
him or her directly. Andrea exhibited none of
these tendencies. Hers might have been a highly
unusual story, but from Bolt's point of view she
was telling the truth.

There were three reasons for this. First, she
came across as genuine. Second, there was, in the
end, no real point in her lying, since it would take
very little time for him to verify the truth of many
of her claims. And third, and perhaps most importantly,
he knew her, or at least had known her
once, and didn't think she was capable of a
charade like this. Underneath a hard, occasionally
defensive exterior, she'd always been a good hearted
person.

It was why he'd once been in love with her.

Having no children of his own, Bolt couldn't
begin to appreciate the extent of the ordeal
Andrea was going through, but it was clearly
taking a terrible toll. She was still a very attractive
woman, with thick, shoulder-length auburn hair
and well-defined, striking features that would make
most people look twice, but today her face was
haggard and puffy from lack of sleep, with dark
bags under the eyes and a greyish, unhealthy tinge
to the pale skin. The eyes themselves, a very light
and unusual hazel that he remembered being so
pretty, now appeared haunted and torn, and more
than once when she looked at him as she spoke he
felt an urge to reach across the table and touch her.
It was an urge he fought down. There was no room
for personal involvement in something like this.

'I made one mistake,' she said when she'd
finished, looking at both men in turn. 'I trusted
them.'

'No, Andrea,' Bolt told her, 'you made two
mistakes. You trusted them, and you didn't come
to us first.'

'I thought I was doing the right thing.' She
sighed, stubbing out her third cigarette in the
coffee cup in front of her. 'I guess I was wrong.'

Mo looked up from his notes and spoke for the
first time. 'Do you have a picture of Emma we can
copy, Andrea?'

She nodded and produced a small colour photo
from her purse, handing it to him. 'This was taken
last year. I'd like it back, please. It's very precious
to me.'

'I'm sure it is,' he answered, his tone sympathetic.
He gave it only the briefest of glances, not
wanting to make the moment any more painful
than it had to be, before slipping it inside a small
clear wallet.

'Do either of you two gentlemen have children?'

'I'm afraid I don't,' answered Bolt.

'I have,' said Mo. 'Four of them.'

Andrea looked at him with new interest, as if he
was a kindred spirit in a way that Bolt could never
be. 'You're very lucky,' she told him. 'I hope what
happens to me never happens to you. You can't
imagine what it's like.' And in that moment, her
features, tight with tension and pain, almost
cracked. Almost, but not quite.

'I promise you we'll all do everything in our
power to help you and bring your daughter back,'
Mo told her. 'But you're going to need to help us
as much as you can. Now, there are some points
that need clarifying, and some questions that need
answering. Can I speak frankly?'

She nodded. 'Of course.'

'Your husband's missing, and he has been
since Tuesday, the same day that Emma was
kidnapped. Do you think he could be involved?'

She paused for several seconds. 'I've thought
about that a lot but I just can't see it. He's always
got on well with Emma, and he's not the sort to do
something like this to her.'

'Has he acted at all differently around you and
your daughter in the last few weeks?' asked Bolt.

'Not that I've noticed.'

'So, where do you think he might be?'

She threw up her hands. 'I honestly don't know.
Maybe they've taken him as well.'

Mo made a show of consulting his notes.
'According to what you've told us, you never
asked the kidnapper who phoned you whether he
was also holding your husband, or what might
have happened to him?'

'It's about priorities, isn't it? I've only had a few
very short conversations with the man holding
my daughter, and in all of them that's who I've
been focusing on: Emma.' She sighed. 'Look, the
thing is, I don't know whether Pat was involved
or not, but I'm pretty damn certain he wasn't.
He's not that sort of bloke. Besides, why would he
bother? He's got a pretty good life. He doesn't
have to do a lot. He drives a nice car, gets decent
holidays. Goes out when he wants. If he asks me
for money, I give it to him. I probably shouldn't
do, because I'm hardly motivating him to get off
his arse and get a proper job, but I do. So, why
would he put all that at risk? For a share in half a
million quid? I don't think so.'

It was, thought Bolt, a good point.

'Kidnapping a child for this kind of ransom is
highly unusual,' he said, 'and it's clear that you
weren't chosen at random. Is there anyone you
can think of, in either your personal or your business
life, who might have a motive for putting you
through this?'

Andrea was silent again, then shook her head
firmly. 'I can't think of anyone, no.'

But there was just the briefest flickering of hesitation
in her eyes when she spoke, and Bolt, who
was trained in such things, noticed it.

He looked at Mo. 'I think that's everything for
the moment, isn't it?'

Mo nodded. 'I haven't got anything else.'

'So what happens now?' Andrea asked, her
voice shaking.

'The kidnapper gave you forty-eight hours,'
said Bolt, leaning forward in his seat. 'There's still
nearly forty left until he makes contact again.
During that time we're going to be gathering what
clues we can as discreetly as possible in an
attempt to ID him.'

'If they find out about you, though . . . I mean,
these guys know what they're doing.'

Bolt fixed her with a calm stare. 'So do we,
Andrea, so do we. In the meantime, you'll be
supplied with a team of trained liaison officers.
They'll look after your day-to-day needs and
provide support until the situation's resolved.
We'll also house you in secure and comfortable
accommodation. Any calls to your home landline
will be automatically re-directed to you there, so
when the kidnapper makes contact you'll still be
able to speak to him and we'll be able to monitor
the conversation.'

'No. I want to go home.'

'That's not going to be possible,' said Mo. 'The
logistics would be too difficult.'

'I don't care. I want to go home.' Her voice was
panicky now. 'These people have been watching
the house. They must have been to know that
Jimmy was there. If they're watching it now and
they see that I'm not at home, they'll suspect that
I've gone to you. I can't risk it. They said they'd
kill Emma if I went to the police, and I believe
them.'

'It's very unlikely that your kidnapper or any of
his accomplices are watching your house,' Bolt
explained, knowing that Mo was right: letting her
back home would be a real problem. 'They won't
want to risk drawing attention to themselves, and
there won't be many people involved in this
either. Two, possibly three at most, so they won't
be able to spare the manpower to keep watch on
all your movements.'

'That's what Jimmy said,' Andrea countered,
'and look what happened to him. I'm sorry, but I
want to go home. That's all there is to it.'

Bolt sighed, knowing from the decisive expression
on her face that she wasn't going to budge on
this. 'All right, we'll see what we can do.' He
stood up, and Mo followed suit. 'Someone'll be
along shortly to take you to a more comfortable
room. But don't worry, I'll be giving you regular
updates.'

He turned to go.

'Mike?'

Bolt flinched at her sudden familiarity, and Mo
looked at him. He turned back, avoiding his
colleague's gaze. Andrea's hazel eyes were full of
anguish.

'Promise me you'll get her back. Please.'

Bolt felt his mouth go dry. This was hard, far
harder than he was used to. He wanted to promise
her but knew that there was absolutely no way he
could. It would be a dereliction of duty. Emma's
kidnappers had already killed once; it was
entirely possible they could kill again. If he said
one thing, and then another happened . . . well, it
wouldn't look good.

'I can't provide a cast-iron guarantee on
anything. I'm sorry.'

She turned to Mo. 'You've got children. You
must have some idea of the pain I'm feeling.'

'I do,' he said softly. 'I really do.'

'Please . . .'

'We'll do absolutely everything in our power to
get Emma back,' Bolt told her firmly. 'Absolutely
everything.'

She gave a slight nod and reached for her cigarettes
with shaking hands, ignoring a single tear
that ran down her cheek.

For the moment, there was nothing more to say.

When he first started out as a nineteen-year-old
probationary constable, having failed to secure
the A Level results needed to get into the universities
and polytechnics he'd applied for, Mike
Bolt's first posting was Holborn Nick in the heart
of central London, directly between the West End
and the City. Having grown up on a diet of 1970s
cop shows from
Z Cars
to
Starsky and Hutch
, he'd
always quite fancied the idea of joining the police,
but in an abstract way, like someone wanting to be
an astronaut or a jockey. Had he made university,
his life would probably have taken a completely
different turn.

He'd spent five and a half years at Holborn, the
first three in uniform, before joining the station's
CID. One of his first cases as a detective was the
death of Sir Marcus Dallarda, a fifty-eight year old
City financier who'd made a fortune in the
late 1980s developing rundown inner-city brown field
sites and turning them into blocks of luxury
flats. Sir Marcus was one of the few people to
foresee the end of the property boom and had sold
virtually all his property holdings before the great
crash, and as interest rates soared, he'd lent his
profits to the money markets where the returns
were suddenly enormous. To some people Sir
Marcus was the worst kind of capitalist, a man
who created nothing and simply sat on a growing
pot of money that had been gained through other
people's sweat. But the media loved him. He was
a good-looking, flamboyant figure with a ready
stream of amusing one-liners, and he exuded the
kind of unashamed joie-de-vivre that made him
difficult to dislike. With two divorces, more than
one love child, and a string of mistresses under his
belt, he was tabloid heaven, and he possessed that
strange upper-class ability of creating an affinity
with the masses that someone middle-class could
never dream of achieving.

So when he was found, after an anonymous tipoff,
naked and dead in the penthouse suite of a
renowned five-star hotel in the Strand, with
several thin lines of white powder on the table
beside him and a condom hanging rather
forlornly from his flaccid penis, it was always
going to be big news. Although a DCI was made
the senior investigating officer in charge of the
case, it was Bolt and his boss at the time, DS
Simon Grindy, a world-weary forty-year-old for
whom the term 'half-empty' could have been
invented, who'd been given most of the legwork.

'Dirty old bastard,' Grindy had mused, with a
gruff mixture of admiration and jealousy, as he
and Bolt stood in the opulent bedroom looking
down at Sir Marcus's rather spindly body. 'If
you've got to go, I could think of worse ways.'

Bolt wasn't so sure. He always felt sorry for
those whose deaths had to be investigated by the
police. There was a certain indignity about being
inspected by various people while you lay helpless,
and in Sir Marcus's case in a somewhat
humiliating pose. Like most people at the time,
Bolt had enjoyed reading about Sir Marcus's
rakish antics, and he remembered thinking at the
time how powerful death was that it could crush
even the most larger-than-life characters. It was
something that had remained with him ever since.

It hadn't taken long to determine what had
happened in this particular case, though. The
post-mortem concluded that he'd died of a
massive and sudden heart attack, at least partly
brought on by the cocaine in his bloodstream. If
he'd been indulging in intense physical activity
before his death this could also have been a
contributory factor.

Since Sir Marcus's friends and colleagues
insisted he would never normally touch drugs, it
was concluded by the media that whoever had
been with him that night, and had made the
anonymous call, had also supplied him with the
illegal contraband. There was an appeal for
witnesses and it turned out that two young
women had been seen leaving the hotel in a hurry
shortly before the call to the police, which had
been made from a nearby phone box. At the same
time, a search of the room and Sir Marcus's
possessions turned up a business card in the name
of a 'Fifi' who provided 'relief for all your tensions'.
On it was an east London telephone number.

A call to BT had provided a name and address
for the number in Plaistow, and so it was on a grey
drizzling afternoon, three days after Sir Marcus
had shuffled off his mortal coil, that Bolt and
Grindy knocked on the door. The address itself
was a small 1950s grey-brick terrace on a lonely
back street in the shadow of a monolithic tower
block. 'This girl ain't going to be pretty,' was
Grindy's less than deductive take on things. 'If she
was making money there's no way she'd be
cooped up in a shithole like this.'

But Simon Grindy had not been the best of
detectives, the accuracy of his predictions never
likely to be giving Mystic Meg cause for concern,
and this one was no exception. The girl who
answered the door was a very attractive willowy
brunette in her early twenties, wearing a pleasant
smile, a black negligee and not a great deal else.
The smile disappeared the moment she saw the
two men in suits and raincoats standing on her
doorstep.

'Whatever it is, I'm not buying,' she'd said
dismissively in a strong east London accent.

'I can see that, Fifi,' Grindy had replied with a
leer. 'If I was a betting man, I'd say you were
selling.'

She'd pulled a face. 'Not to you, mate.
Everyone's got to have minimum standards.'

Bolt had almost laughed but managed to stop
himself. He hadn't been working with Grindy
long and had no wish to fall out with him. But he
liked this girl. She had balls.

'We're police officers,' he'd told her, pulling out
his warrant card, 'and we want to speak to a Miss
Andrea Bailey. Are you her?'

She seemed to notice him for the first time then,
and gave him a quick appraising look that would
have made him blush if he'd been five years
younger before reluctantly opening the door and
leading them into a cramped living room. She
motioned for them to take a seat on a threadbare
sofa while she put on a dressing gown and asked
them what they wanted.

Andrea Bailey was a cool customer. When
Grindy told her harshly that they knew she was
the woman who'd been with Sir Marcus Dallarda
and demanded that she tell them who her
companion was, she'd sat in the chair opposite
and flatly denied it, and for the next ten minutes
batted off their questions with a quiet confidence
that Bolt couldn't help but admire. When asked
how her business card had got into Sir Marcus's
wallet, she'd replied that she had no idea. 'I've got
hundreds of business cards. I give them out.
That's what they're for. I can't keep track of where
they end up.'

'And what exactly is your business, Miss
Bailey?' Grindy had growled menacingly.

'Read the card. Massage, of course.'

And so it had gone on, with Grindy's attempts
at intimidation failing dismally.

'We can get a warrant to search this place,' he'd
said at last.

'I'm sure you can,' she'd answered with just the
hint of a smirk. 'You're a policeman.'

'In fact we've got it here,' he'd added,
producing it from his raincoat pocket with a
flourish, as if this would throw her off-balance.

It didn't. She remained casually impassive,
even giving Bolt a cheeky wink.

Bolt knew she was trying to embarrass him, and
didn't rise to the bait.

'Have you got something in your eye, Miss
Bailey?' he'd asked her coolly.

'Just a twinkle,' came her answer, and he'd
always remembered that. Cool and witty. It made
Bolt wonder what she was doing in such a dump
when there was a whole world out there she could
have conquered.

They'd searched the house from top to bottom,
supposedly looking for the same kind of drugs
that had killed Sir Marcus, and Bolt had had to
go through her underwear drawer while she
watched.

'I don't enjoy doing this, you know,' he'd told
her as he rummaged through the various lacy
little numbers.

'Course you don't,' she'd said with a chuckle.
'But ask yourself this: how many other blokes get
into a pretty girl's knickers as part of their job?'

They'd bantered on and off throughout the
search. Andrea was a terrible flirt but there was
something hugely engaging about the way
nothing seemed to faze her, and Bolt was pleased
she hadn't taken offence to them turning her
house upside down.

There hadn't been any drugs – there hadn't
been anything illegal anywhere – and Grindy was
in a horrendous mood when they left. 'Cheeky
bitch,' he'd complained bitterly. 'You want to keep
away from women like her, Mike. They're trouble.
Take it from me. I know.'

Grindy had never struck Bolt as an expert on
women, but in this case his boss was right.
Andrea, however, had definitely got under his
skin, and he'd thought about her often afterwards.

It was three years before he saw her again. He
was still living in Holborn but had joined the
Flying Squad, and was walking down the Strand
one afternoon when he heard a woman's voice
call out, 'Mr Bolt, are you ignoring me?' He'd
turned round to see a woman with jet black hair, a
good suntan and big sunglasses coming out of a
designer clothes shop. She was dressed in a white
sleeveless top, figure-hugging jeans and high heeled
black court shoes, and was carrying
several bags. There was something familiar about
her, the voice especially.

She smiled. 'Plaistow, 1989. My knickers
drawer.' Then she removed the sunglasses and it
came back to him in an instant.

'Andrea Bailey?'

She shook her head, coming forward. 'No,
Andrea Bailey's dead. Meet Andrea Devern.' She
put out a manicured hand, and they shook. 'I'm a
married woman now,' she added, just in case he
hadn't noticed the wedding band and diamond encrusted
engagement ring.

'Congratulations. You've dyed your hair.'

She shrugged. 'I fancied a change.'

'It's good to see you again,' he told her, and it
was. 'You look well.'

'Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself. Still a
copper?'

He nodded. 'Yeah, but not at Holborn any
more. I'm in the Flying Squad these days.'

She raised her eyebrows. '
The Sweeney
? Very
glamorous. So' – she looked around – 'you fancy
buying me a drink, or are you too busy?'

Bolt was single at the time. It was a Saturday
afternoon and he'd just been wondering about
doing a bit of shopping without any real plans.

'Sure,' he answered, 'why not?'

So they'd found a wine bar round the corner,
got themselves a nice quiet table and proceeded to
demolish a bottle of Chablis.

It was one of those occasions when everything
just clicked. They'd only met that one time years
earlier, and hardly under ideal circumstances, but
even so they talked like old friends. Andrea told
him about her upbringing in a council flat, the
middle of three daughters brought up by a single
mother; how she'd left school at a young age with
no qualifications and got herself a job in a local
corner shop which she really enjoyed, before a
friend turned her on to drugs. 'I got in far too
deep, far too fast. Problem was, with my wages, I
couldn't pay for them, so my mate told me a great
way of earning big money.' She rolled her eyes. 'I
was young, and I suppose it seemed like a good
idea at the time. I didn't want to work for some
pimp, though, so I set up on my own, got business
cards printed, and worked through recommendations.
I didn't enjoy it, but . . .' She shrugged. 'It
got me money. My idea was to kick the coke, raise
a couple of grand and put myself through college.
I wanted to do a business course.'

'But you never made it?'

'Oh, I made it all right,' she told him with a
smile. 'I kicked the gear, but I took a quicker route
to the real money and married it.'

'Always a good move,' he said.

'He's a nice guy,' she told him, her expression
suddenly serious. 'He looks after me.'

But on that day at least, Andrea hadn't been in
a hurry to get back to him, and with one bottle
consumed she'd asked Bolt if he fancied sharing
another. He knew it wasn't right to fool around
with married women, but he was twenty-four,
and the sad truth of the matter was that he was
never going to say no.

And so the afternoon drifted lazily on, the
conversation veering here and there, covering
both their lives. Andrea now lived in Cobham
with her husband, a businessman twenty-five
years her senior who was, she claimed, one of the
nicest guys she'd ever met. 'Present company
excepted, of course.'

'Of course,' said Bolt with a smile.

Eventually they got round to how they'd
originally met, and with the case of Sir Marcus
Dallarda now firmly set in the past, Andrea
admitted that she'd been with him that night. 'I'd
never met him before but a girl I knew in the business
had and she said he was a decent bloke and
a good payer, so I went along with her. I never
normally did threesomes – I'm not that kind of
girl, believe it or not.'

Bolt wasn't sure that he did believe it, but as a
trained detective he preferred to listen rather than
pass immediate judgement.

'Well,' she continued, 'to cut a long story short,
there we were, doing the business, and he conked
out. Just like that. Grabbed his chest and keeled
over.' Her eyes widened as she recalled the events,
and although she was clearly trying to stop
herself, a small smile appeared. 'It was comical
really, the way it happened. Like something off
the TV. I know I shouldn't say that, but it just
didn't seem real.

'Anyway, we didn't know what to do. My
friend was panicking. She thought we might get
the blame for it, especially as he was a bit of a
celebrity as well. So I said, let's just get the hell out
of here. And that's what we did. But obviously we
didn't want him to get found by the cleaner the
next day, so we phoned the police and told them.
I didn't want to bullshit you when you came
round to interview me, but I didn't actually think
I was doing anything wrong, you know.' She
paused, fixing him with an expression of mild
amusement, her eyes twinkling. 'So, what do you
think of me now?'