Innocent Hostage (11 page)
She watched Breck as he dragged himself to his feet. She wanted to help him, dammit, even if he didn’t want her help. She steeled herself for rejection. “Breck, have you thought about applying for the detective division? Sure, there’d be shift work, but there’d be a roster, wouldn’t there? Or doesn’t it work that way?”
“
Me? A detective?
” He snorted. “Don’t wanna hurt your feelings, Ingrid, but that’s the best joke I’ve heard all day.” He gave a half-hearted laugh that turned into a sneer.
She swallowed her annoyance. “Why not? It makes sense.”
“It might make sense to you, maybe, but nobody who knows me could imagine me passing exams as tough as that.”
So she didn’t know him well, huh? And whose fault was that? She leapt to her feet and banged the dishwasher door shut.
“I don’t know what that bee in your bonnet is about, but you got into the police force and then into AOS. You must have passed a bunch of exams. What’s different about applying to the detective division?”
The words seemed to be forced out of him. “I had help passing those exams. I’m no good at paperwork.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How did you get to be a senior constable?” Then she realized she’d given herself away. Would he notice she’d been checking up on him?
But he was too depressed to notice her slip. “Fourteen years’ experience and a superintendent’s approval is all it takes.”
“
Fourteen years?
And you’re worried about a measly bunch of detective exams! For God’s sake, Breck, surely they’d take that into account?”
“Dunno. Never thought about it. Actually, it was only eleven.”
“So you got promoted on merit.” Before she could control her mouth, she offered, “I’ll help you with your application if you want.”
He looked at her out of weary, disillusioned eyes. “Sometimes help is not enough, Ingrid. I’m very, very grateful for the offer, but it’s all so…unachievable.” He leaned against the kitchen counter. “It’s a pipedream, Ingrid. I think I told you I couldn’t read until I was eight years old. Well, you can imagine how hard study is for someone like me. But hey! I’ll get by.”
His arms hung loose but his fingers clenched. God, the big lunkhead was
ashamed
. Like not being able to read until he was eight actually counted in the great scheme of things.
“Good heavens, Breck! The world is full of people who have dyslexia or are barely literate or are late bloomers. It hasn’t stopped them from becoming valuable citizens! Erin Brokovich, Steve Jobs, Orlando Bloom—”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, sweetie. I’ve got the picture.” Then he propped his hands on the kitchen counter behind him and looked down at his feet. He and Kit had taken their shoes off at the door as if her apartment was a luxurious penthouse. She loved them for it, but it wasn’t necessary. Then her brain caught up with what he’d said, why he was looking at his feet. He’d called her ‘sweetie’ without thinking. A little bubble of anticipation fizzed away inside her. Breakthrough!
“If only Kit had grandparents who lived nearby,” she commented.
And ruined their closeness just like that. The drawbridge came down with a wallop.
“Well, he doesn’t have and he never will have. Tania’s parents are dead and mine are”—he paused while he sought for a suitable word—“impossible.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. Pity she hadn’t done that before.
Breck straightened up and looked through the kitchen doorway to check on Kit. “Time to go!” he called.
“Oh
gee
, Dad. I’m just—”
“Kit,” Breck warned.
“I know you don’t think so, but it’s great that he’s improved enough to argue with you,” Ingrid whispered.
For the first time tonight he laughed genuinely, his head tossed back. “Ingrid! Only you could see that as positive. Pollyanna.” He ruffled her hair as he walked past her to unglue Kit from the laptop.
She reached up a hand and sleeked her hair back into place, her hand lingering, unsure about that careless gesture.
And when they’d gone and the apartment was sunk in its habitual quiet, she sat down and tried to think of a way she could help Breck and Kit. There must be
something
she could do.
Breck grinned. He’d already read The Pirate from Mepomallawalla three times. He didn’t have to
read
it. He could recite it off by heart. So could Kit. He fingered the fair hair, many shades lighter than his own. He’d seen the same colored hair in a couple of photos that Natasha had taken years ago. He, too, had had wheat-fair hair at the age of four; by the time he was six it had darkened several shades. By the time he was eight it was closer to black than brown.
Would Kit’s hair be the same? He knew very little about Tania’s family or his own. His father’s parents had died before he was born, but his mother’s parents, though very elderly, were apparently still living in a small country town some miles to the north of Auckland. When he was in his early teens, he’d raised the courage to ask Mother why he had no aunts and uncles or grandparents. To his shock she had admitted that he had grandparents who still lived in the town his mother had left at seventeen, never to look back. But when he’d asked if he could contact them, she’d thrown a hissy fit of humungous proportions. Usually it was his father who engaged in histrionics. Breck had been startled when she’d snapped, “Leave it alone, Brechon. It’s none of your business.”
He’d waited until they were away lecturing to search through their study and find out what his mother’s maiden name had been. No luck. His parents’ private papers were locked in their safe. It was as if Mother had only been born when she’d married his father.
Years later, just prior to joining the AOS, he’d searched through the National Intelligence Application as he updated his active files. He’d found nothing whatsoever on the police computer about his parents. Nothing. They’d apparently committed no crimes, instituted no court cases, and defended no court cases.
But now he had Kit to think about. Oh, Natasha. If only I knew where you were. I miss you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. A boy needed relatives. He needed an anchor to make him feel secure. Someone like Natasha. One thing was for sure; he wouldn’t approach Tania’s relatives because if they were anything like Tania, Kit would be better off without them. He must protect Kit from the knowledge that his mother was a blackmailer. And a few other things. What the hell had Tania got herself into?
He leaned down and nuzzled Kit’s neck. A sleepy sigh was his son’s only reaction as he slid into sleep.
Breck straightened up and went over to his desk. He made notes. Marty’s brother. His own grandparents. Number plate AC2431. A woman named Angela. For a moment he sat and stared into space, thinking. Then he opened up his laptop and went hunting.
He’d get someone in Car Registrations to look up AC2431. He wasn’t able to access those records from home.
He had delved into his mother’s background but could turn up nothing useful. There might possibly be something in her university records. He’d search there tomorrow.
Breck grinned. “Now let me see—” The doorbell pealed. Damn. He hoped it wasn’t old Mrs. Raynor from downstairs complaining about the noise.
He flung open the door. “Sorry—”
The last two people he expected to see stood on his doorstep. His heart jolted. Clenching his hands, he stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. No way were they coming inside.
“Mother. Father. Hullo.”
“Come, come, boy. Is that all you’ve got to say? It’s been ages since we’ve seen you!” boomed his father. Jeremy Marchant was, as usual, wearing a tweed suit with leather elbow inserts. Very much the university professor. He looked lean and tanned. Must have had another skiing holiday at Granada. Definitely not Whistler. “Too many damned kids there,” Jeremy had once complained.
His mother had aged since he’d seen her last. The sculptured waves were no longer tinted a strawberry blonde but had been allowed to go grey. She wore another of her interminable two-piece suits with a trailing scarf but she no longer looked as vital and spry as she had a few years ago. She looked—faded. Living with his father was not easy, Breck could attest to that, but it was hard to feel sorry for her. For her the sun rose and set on Jeremy Marchant. She’d always taken his father’s side in any disagreement, dismissing their son as if his opinions were worth nothing.
“We’ve come to check up on young Christopher. Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Jeremy Marchant did not appreciate being kept standing on the doorstep.
“What d’you mean—check up?” Breck demanded. He stood four square like the Colossus of Rhodes guarding his doorway.
“Had a phone call. Hear you’re having difficulty coping with Christopher.”
Hot anger boiled up so quickly he couldn’t keep a lid on it. “What the hell are you talking about, Father? Have you come to stir?”
His mother looked anxiously right and left, checking to see if the neighbors were about. “Ssh, son. We’re just trying to help.”
“No you’re not. You want to use Kit the way you used me. And I’m not going to let you. Get out of here.”
“We’ll be back with a court order,” Jeremy Marchant said, his suave expression marred by a crease of anger between his eyes. “We have reason to believe our grandson is not being cared for properly.”
The door opened behind Breck. “Daddy?”
“Go inside, son. I’ll be there in a minute.”
But the damage was done. Anna Marchant crouched down to Kit’s level and tried to peer around Breck’s legs. “Hello, darling. You won’t remember me, but I’m your-your Grandma.” The words seem to stick in her throat. Breck presumed her lifestyle didn’t allow for ageing.
“And I’m your Grandpa,” boomed Jeremey.
Kit backed away, frightened by the big voice. Breck remembered how he’d done the same thing. His father always behaved as if his life was one big act. Everything was louder and bigger and brighter for Jeremy Marchant. Breck had felt like a pale imitation of his father, even when he was grown up and taller than Jeremy. Then again, he had no desire to go through life drawing attention to himself.
His cellphone and beeper rang simultaneously. Call-out.
“We gotta go, Kit. Get your bag!”
He slammed the door in his parents’ faces and rushed to the wardrobe to grab his gear. At the same time Kit grabbed his backpack and scooped up the car keys.
“Ready!” they both yelled at the same time and rushed for the door. His parents were still standing there.
“Out of the way, please!” Breck shoved past his parents and slammed the door shut. “Bye!” he yelled at them. Then he and Kit were racing towards the SUV.
Breck thumbed Ingrid’s number on his cellphone as he swung out into the traffic. “You wanted to help?” he greeted her. “How about right now?”
“Okay. Where shall I meet you?”
Breck was taken aback at her matter-of-fact tone.
It was Sunday and the traffic was light. But somewhere a man had decided that Sundays weren’t his favorite day if he had to spend it with family. All Breck knew was what the text on his cellphone said. “Family disturbance. Two people armed. Proceed to HQ.” He chose a place close by HQ to drop Kit off. It was a long way from Ingrid’s place, but he was through suiting Ms. Rowland. The bitch hadn’t been able to leave well alone. She’d contacted his parents, damn her.
“
Me? A detective?
” He snorted. “Don’t wanna hurt your feelings, Ingrid, but that’s the best joke I’ve heard all day.” He gave a half-hearted laugh that turned into a sneer.
She swallowed her annoyance. “Why not? It makes sense.”
“It might make sense to you, maybe, but nobody who knows me could imagine me passing exams as tough as that.”
So she didn’t know him well, huh? And whose fault was that? She leapt to her feet and banged the dishwasher door shut.
“I don’t know what that bee in your bonnet is about, but you got into the police force and then into AOS. You must have passed a bunch of exams. What’s different about applying to the detective division?”
The words seemed to be forced out of him. “I had help passing those exams. I’m no good at paperwork.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How did you get to be a senior constable?” Then she realized she’d given herself away. Would he notice she’d been checking up on him?
But he was too depressed to notice her slip. “Fourteen years’ experience and a superintendent’s approval is all it takes.”
“
Fourteen years?
And you’re worried about a measly bunch of detective exams! For God’s sake, Breck, surely they’d take that into account?”
“Dunno. Never thought about it. Actually, it was only eleven.”
“So you got promoted on merit.” Before she could control her mouth, she offered, “I’ll help you with your application if you want.”
He looked at her out of weary, disillusioned eyes. “Sometimes help is not enough, Ingrid. I’m very, very grateful for the offer, but it’s all so…unachievable.” He leaned against the kitchen counter. “It’s a pipedream, Ingrid. I think I told you I couldn’t read until I was eight years old. Well, you can imagine how hard study is for someone like me. But hey! I’ll get by.”
His arms hung loose but his fingers clenched. God, the big lunkhead was
ashamed
. Like not being able to read until he was eight actually counted in the great scheme of things.
“Good heavens, Breck! The world is full of people who have dyslexia or are barely literate or are late bloomers. It hasn’t stopped them from becoming valuable citizens! Erin Brokovich, Steve Jobs, Orlando Bloom—”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, sweetie. I’ve got the picture.” Then he propped his hands on the kitchen counter behind him and looked down at his feet. He and Kit had taken their shoes off at the door as if her apartment was a luxurious penthouse. She loved them for it, but it wasn’t necessary. Then her brain caught up with what he’d said, why he was looking at his feet. He’d called her ‘sweetie’ without thinking. A little bubble of anticipation fizzed away inside her. Breakthrough!
“If only Kit had grandparents who lived nearby,” she commented.
And ruined their closeness just like that. The drawbridge came down with a wallop.
“Well, he doesn’t have and he never will have. Tania’s parents are dead and mine are”—he paused while he sought for a suitable word—“impossible.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. Pity she hadn’t done that before.
Breck straightened up and looked through the kitchen doorway to check on Kit. “Time to go!” he called.
“Oh
gee
, Dad. I’m just—”
“Kit,” Breck warned.
“I know you don’t think so, but it’s great that he’s improved enough to argue with you,” Ingrid whispered.
For the first time tonight he laughed genuinely, his head tossed back. “Ingrid! Only you could see that as positive. Pollyanna.” He ruffled her hair as he walked past her to unglue Kit from the laptop.
She reached up a hand and sleeked her hair back into place, her hand lingering, unsure about that careless gesture.
And when they’d gone and the apartment was sunk in its habitual quiet, she sat down and tried to think of a way she could help Breck and Kit. There must be
something
she could do.
Chapter Eleven
Breck grinned. He’d already read The Pirate from Mepomallawalla three times. He didn’t have to
read
it. He could recite it off by heart. So could Kit. He fingered the fair hair, many shades lighter than his own. He’d seen the same colored hair in a couple of photos that Natasha had taken years ago. He, too, had had wheat-fair hair at the age of four; by the time he was six it had darkened several shades. By the time he was eight it was closer to black than brown.
Would Kit’s hair be the same? He knew very little about Tania’s family or his own. His father’s parents had died before he was born, but his mother’s parents, though very elderly, were apparently still living in a small country town some miles to the north of Auckland. When he was in his early teens, he’d raised the courage to ask Mother why he had no aunts and uncles or grandparents. To his shock she had admitted that he had grandparents who still lived in the town his mother had left at seventeen, never to look back. But when he’d asked if he could contact them, she’d thrown a hissy fit of humungous proportions. Usually it was his father who engaged in histrionics. Breck had been startled when she’d snapped, “Leave it alone, Brechon. It’s none of your business.”
He’d waited until they were away lecturing to search through their study and find out what his mother’s maiden name had been. No luck. His parents’ private papers were locked in their safe. It was as if Mother had only been born when she’d married his father.
Years later, just prior to joining the AOS, he’d searched through the National Intelligence Application as he updated his active files. He’d found nothing whatsoever on the police computer about his parents. Nothing. They’d apparently committed no crimes, instituted no court cases, and defended no court cases.
But now he had Kit to think about. Oh, Natasha. If only I knew where you were. I miss you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. A boy needed relatives. He needed an anchor to make him feel secure. Someone like Natasha. One thing was for sure; he wouldn’t approach Tania’s relatives because if they were anything like Tania, Kit would be better off without them. He must protect Kit from the knowledge that his mother was a blackmailer. And a few other things. What the hell had Tania got herself into?
He leaned down and nuzzled Kit’s neck. A sleepy sigh was his son’s only reaction as he slid into sleep.
Breck straightened up and went over to his desk. He made notes. Marty’s brother. His own grandparents. Number plate AC2431. A woman named Angela. For a moment he sat and stared into space, thinking. Then he opened up his laptop and went hunting.
****
He’d get someone in Car Registrations to look up AC2431. He wasn’t able to access those records from home.
He had delved into his mother’s background but could turn up nothing useful. There might possibly be something in her university records. He’d search there tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
“I got you, Dad!” Kit popped up from behind the sofa as Breck jogged past. Their games of tag were curtailed by the smallness of their apartment, but Kit reveled in them. Breck had come to realize that like himself, Kit did not have a lot of experience playing the simple games other kids took for granted. Knowing he was unwanted by the Kerrs had forced him into the background, and at preschool he’d been too withdrawn to participate. But now he was eager to join life. Amused, Breck realized he’d graduated—or been demoted—from “Daddy” to “Dad.”
As he took another turn at being the seeker, his mind churned with the details of whether he should divulge his visit to the Kerr house to the arrogant Moffat. He’d learned that AC2431 did not belong to any pickup truck. It belonged to a very old mini owned by a Miss Albertine Reynolds. Miss Reynolds had no criminal record. The only thing Breck could find on the police computer was Miss Reynolds’ birth date. Miss Reynolds was closer to ninety than eighty. She sure hadn’t been driving the blue pickup.
“Rrright, where is Captain Kit, I wonder?” he muttered as he poked through the kitchen cupboards. “Not here. Hmm. Perhaps in the bedroom.”
Breck grinned. “Now let me see—” The doorbell pealed. Damn. He hoped it wasn’t old Mrs. Raynor from downstairs complaining about the noise.
He flung open the door. “Sorry—”
The last two people he expected to see stood on his doorstep. His heart jolted. Clenching his hands, he stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. No way were they coming inside.
“Mother. Father. Hullo.”
“Come, come, boy. Is that all you’ve got to say? It’s been ages since we’ve seen you!” boomed his father. Jeremy Marchant was, as usual, wearing a tweed suit with leather elbow inserts. Very much the university professor. He looked lean and tanned. Must have had another skiing holiday at Granada. Definitely not Whistler. “Too many damned kids there,” Jeremy had once complained.
His mother had aged since he’d seen her last. The sculptured waves were no longer tinted a strawberry blonde but had been allowed to go grey. She wore another of her interminable two-piece suits with a trailing scarf but she no longer looked as vital and spry as she had a few years ago. She looked—faded. Living with his father was not easy, Breck could attest to that, but it was hard to feel sorry for her. For her the sun rose and set on Jeremy Marchant. She’d always taken his father’s side in any disagreement, dismissing their son as if his opinions were worth nothing.
“We’ve come to check up on young Christopher. Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Jeremy Marchant did not appreciate being kept standing on the doorstep.
“What d’you mean—check up?” Breck demanded. He stood four square like the Colossus of Rhodes guarding his doorway.
“Had a phone call. Hear you’re having difficulty coping with Christopher.”
Hot anger boiled up so quickly he couldn’t keep a lid on it. “What the hell are you talking about, Father? Have you come to stir?”
His mother looked anxiously right and left, checking to see if the neighbors were about. “Ssh, son. We’re just trying to help.”
“No you’re not. You want to use Kit the way you used me. And I’m not going to let you. Get out of here.”
“We’ll be back with a court order,” Jeremy Marchant said, his suave expression marred by a crease of anger between his eyes. “We have reason to believe our grandson is not being cared for properly.”
The door opened behind Breck. “Daddy?”
“Go inside, son. I’ll be there in a minute.”
But the damage was done. Anna Marchant crouched down to Kit’s level and tried to peer around Breck’s legs. “Hello, darling. You won’t remember me, but I’m your-your Grandma.” The words seem to stick in her throat. Breck presumed her lifestyle didn’t allow for ageing.
“And I’m your Grandpa,” boomed Jeremey.
Kit backed away, frightened by the big voice. Breck remembered how he’d done the same thing. His father always behaved as if his life was one big act. Everything was louder and bigger and brighter for Jeremy Marchant. Breck had felt like a pale imitation of his father, even when he was grown up and taller than Jeremy. Then again, he had no desire to go through life drawing attention to himself.
His cellphone and beeper rang simultaneously. Call-out.
“We gotta go, Kit. Get your bag!”
He slammed the door in his parents’ faces and rushed to the wardrobe to grab his gear. At the same time Kit grabbed his backpack and scooped up the car keys.
“Ready!” they both yelled at the same time and rushed for the door. His parents were still standing there.
“Out of the way, please!” Breck shoved past his parents and slammed the door shut. “Bye!” he yelled at them. Then he and Kit were racing towards the SUV.
Breck thumbed Ingrid’s number on his cellphone as he swung out into the traffic. “You wanted to help?” he greeted her. “How about right now?”
“Okay. Where shall I meet you?”
Breck was taken aback at her matter-of-fact tone.
It was Sunday and the traffic was light. But somewhere a man had decided that Sundays weren’t his favorite day if he had to spend it with family. All Breck knew was what the text on his cellphone said. “Family disturbance. Two people armed. Proceed to HQ.” He chose a place close by HQ to drop Kit off. It was a long way from Ingrid’s place, but he was through suiting Ms. Rowland. The bitch hadn’t been able to leave well alone. She’d contacted his parents, damn her.
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