The Vanishing Point (29 page)

The next morning at ten, Pete Matthews’ street was as close as Kentish Town got to tumbleweed. Nick had been parked fifty feet away from Matthews’ flat and had hidden behind his
Indy
when the sound engineer had emerged at a trot half an hour before. Nick watched Matthews hurry in the direction of the tube, but waited to make sure he hadn’t just nipped out for milk and a paper.

Nick pulled on a pair of leather gloves then got out of the car and grabbed a holdall from the back seat. He walked confidently to Pete Matthews’ gate and put the holdall down. Out with the heavy-duty bolt cutters, a matter of seconds and he managed to catch the chain before it clattered to the ground. He hustled down the stairs and readied the Enforcer, sixteen kilos of tubular steel designed to generate maximum impact with minimum expenditure of energy. Declan had warned him to be careful with it. ‘We don’t call it the Big Key for nothing. It can deliver three tonnes of kinetic energy,’ he’d said, as if he understood what that meant.

‘You mean it’s a bloody big bang?’

‘I mean it’s a helluva wallop. Do it wrong and it’ll knock you off your feet.’

Nick braced and balanced himself, each hand gripping a handle. The door looked solid, but it was only wood. Even an amateur like him should be able to crack it open in a oner. He drew the ram back then let its own momentum carry it forward.

There was a dull crack and thud as the steel plate hit the door just above the lock. The door swung lazily open as if it had never been latched, never mind locked. ‘Fuck me,’ Nick said, admiring his handiwork. He packed the ram, the cutters and the broken chain in the holdall and took it back to the car. Still there was nobody on the street, not so much as a twitching net curtain to suggest there were any witnesses.

He walked back to the flat and this time he went in. The smell of coffee hung in the stuffy air. Nice place, Nick thought as he did the tour. Gig posters on the walls, vinyl and CDs shelved everywhere. High-end hi-fi system with slave speakers in every room. The furniture looked functional but comfortable. A dirty mug sat in the sink, an Italian Moka Express pot beside it. It seemed a shame, but it was time to give Pete Matthews a taste of his own medicine.

Nick began with the kitchen. He did what Stephanie had described to him. Emptied the cupboards and the drawers. Dragged his feet through the mess, trailing it through the house. He didn’t deliberately break stuff, simply let it fall where it would. He moved into the living room, sweeping CDs and albums from their shelves, walking over the resulting piles and relishing the bullet-crack sounds from the shattering CD cases. In the bedroom, he strewed Matthews’ clothes all over the floor, and in the bathroom he tossed the few toiletries into the toilet bowl.

Finally, he called Declan and said, ‘All systems go.’ It was the cue for Declan to call Matthews on his mobile and impersonate a bored copper telling a citizen that his neighbours had reported a break-in.

Matthews hurtled in twenty-five minutes later to find Nick sitting in his armchair reading the paper. He skidded to a stop like a character in a cartoon, all big eyes and open mouth and freeze-frame body. ‘What the fuck?’ was all he could manage when he recovered the power of speech.

‘In my business, we call it restorative justice,’ Nick said calmly, getting to his feet. ‘This is a taster. You go anywhere near Stephanie Harker in the future and this will feel like spring-cleaning by comparison.’

Matthews looked around wildly, spinning from side to side, struggling to take it in. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘It’s no more or less than you did. But if there has to be a next time, I won’t hold back.’

‘I’m going to report you,’ he shouted. ‘You broke into my house, you trashed it. You bastard.’

There was no kindness in Nick’s smile. ‘Try it and see how far you get. There’s a small matter of evidence. And you’ve got none. Anybody asks, I was in the area and saw someone running away. Looked suspicious so I investigated.’ He shrugged and picked his way through the detritus to the door.

He heard footsteps coming for him and quickly sidestepped, throwing out his arm in a back-handed swipe that caught the sound engineer in the throat. Matthews gave a choking gasp as he staggered backwards. He crashed into an empty set of shelves, his temple catching the corner of the unit. A starburst of blood blossomed on his cheekbone. ‘I warned you,’ Nick said. ‘Stay away from her or I swear to God, I will hurt you. And you won’t see it coming.’

It had been harsh and contrary to his nature, but it had done the trick. When he called Stephanie a couple of weeks later, she reported that she’d heard nothing from Matthews. And in due course, they had their lunch in Brighton. Stephanie was struggling with the advent of Jimmy Higgins in her life and clearly felt protective of the kid, but it was also obvious that she was enjoying him too. Nick thought the pair of them were going to be OK, and he didn’t mind the notion of having a relationship with a woman that also included a child. He liked Jimmy well enough, though he thought the kid had been spoiled. Stephanie, however, seemed intent on gently changing that.

In spite of his excitement, they’d taken it nice and easy. Now, Nick thought they were almost at the point where they could call themselves an item. He was pretty clear that he loved Stephanie. He just wasn’t sure if he was ready to share his space. How much room would there be for the music if he had a live-in partner and a kid?

Nevertheless, he was totally committed to recovering Jimmy. And right now, he thought he had a better chance of blagging Pete Matthews’ whereabouts out of a Detroit recording studio than Vivian McKuras.

Nick fired the engine into life and pointed the car towards his office. He wanted the quiet and security of a landline for this call, and work was closer than home. If it was up to him, this whole case would be tied up by breakfast. And Stephanie would be correspondingly grateful.

48

S
tephanie looked down at her hands, her shoulders slumped. The colour had drained from her face. No more English rose now. It looked to Vivian as if the events of the day had finally caught up with her witness. There was only so much adrenalin the body could pump out. Realistically, she was going to have to decide what to do with Stephanie pretty soon. There was no reason to keep her in custody. There was no question that she was a material witness, but there was also no reason to suppose she would flee the country and refuse to give her testimony at any future proceedings. Vivian did not have Stephanie pegged as someone who would go on the run the minute she was a free agent.

Nevertheless it was clear from her story that there was going to be a media storm around her, even if it was only on behalf of the British media. Vivian wanted to provide Stephanie with protection on that score. Since taking her into custody would be an extreme overreaction, it might be best to book her into an airport hotel under an assumed name.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

Stephanie shrugged. ‘Drained,’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted, but I’m too wound up to sleep.’ Not that she felt like trying. The last thing she wanted was to open the door to the nightmares Jimmy’s disappearance might provoke. Her waking imagination was bad enough.

‘Why do you think they chose to abduct Jimmy here? At an airport in the USA?’ Vivian asked. ‘I’m still curious. It seems unnecessarily complicated. Surely there must have been easier options back in the UK?’

Stephanie ran a hand through her hair. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to draw attention away from themselves.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Jimmy had been snatched in the UK, the authorities would have focused on a tight circle of suspects. Who knows him? Who hates me? Who had access to him? Over here, you’re forced to consider a wider picture. It makes you think, “No, wait, it can’t be as straightforward as it seems, otherwise why not do it in the UK?” ’

Before Vivian could respond, a tap at the door was swiftly followed by Don Abbott’s head and shoulders. ‘Sorry to interrupt again,’ he said. ‘Can we have a word, Agent McKuras?’

Vivian raised a finger at Stephanie and scrambled to her feet. As soon as the door closed behind her, she raised her eyebrows in a question. ‘News?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Kind of,’ Abbott said. He rubbed his eyes. ‘I tell you, the one thing I’m not going to do when I finally get home is watch TV. My eyes are fried.’ He produced a tired smile. ‘We’ve made a little bit of progress. We now know where he changed his clothes. The control room are sending a clip of CCTV footage to your computer. They eventually found the bathroom the perp comes out of in his TSA lookalike outfit. Then they had the pain-in-the-ass job of pairing up every guy who went in with the image of him coming out. I tell you, Vivian, you might think you got a tough assignment today, but you should be down on your knees thanking God that you haven’t been staring at CCTV footage till your eyes bleed.’

‘I’m grateful. Trust me. Did you get anything?’

He nodded. ‘Guy comes in wearing a black tee and black trousers, ball cap, carrying a lightweight nylon backpack. But get this. He’s got a beard and moustache. Doesn’t look like the kidnapper worth a damn. And he never comes out again. It’s our man, Vivian.’

She felt a bubble of excitement in her chest. ‘That’s terrific news! We need to get that image out there. Somebody must have sat next to him on a plane. We’re on his trail now. What about the backpack? Where does that go? Have we got someone going through the trash from that bathroom?’

Abbott gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You’re right that he left the backpack behind. The bad news is that the bathroom was cleaned two hours after the perp was in there. The trash bag is somewhere in a mountain of crap. Assuming we had the bodies and the will to sort through it, and assuming we found it, the chain of custody’s already up in smoke. We can’t do anything worth a damn with it. It’s gone, Vivian.’

‘Shit. Are the guys in the control room backtracking to the gate he came into?’

‘Even as we speak. But don’t hold your breath for any substantial leads coming from that. This has run like clockwork. He’s not going to have flown on his own ID. He’ll have a fake driver’s licence. Or something stolen.’

‘I know. But it’s all we’ve got.’

‘Nothing to go on from the witness?’

Vivian shrugged. ‘A couple of possible leads. But nothing that would hold up in a high wind. I’ll let her take a look at the new CCTV material, see if she recognises anyone. Don’t hold your breath, though.’

49

N
ick Nicolaides was willing to bet he had one crucial advantage over his American counterparts. He did not believe any of them could have his degree of familiarity with the inner wheels of the music business. He was a good enough guitarist to have been enlisted several times by professional musician friends as a backing player on recordings, and he’d spent a fair few long nights sitting in studio control booths watching producers and sound engineers at work. He was at home in their world. He understood how to communicate with them. How to avoid pissing them off and how to win them over.

Nick fitted a hands-free phone headset and laid out notebook and pen. A few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse and he had a phone number for South Detroit Sounds. It was early evening there. Chances were the band was still working. Time to find out whether Pete was there or not. Nick keyed in the number and held his breath.

The phone was answered by a man with a slow drawl and a friendly tone. ‘South Detroit Sounds, we are here to make music for you. How can I be of assistance?’

‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ Nick said in the sort of clear and polite English voice that makes Americans swoon. He was never going to sound like a TV toff, but after all these years in London, he could draw a veil over most of his Northern vowels when he had to.

‘That would be my pleasure, sir. What can I do?’

‘I believe one of my friends is running the desk for the Style Boys. Pete Matthews?’

‘Sure, I know Pete. He’s not here right now. They’re taking the day off. He’ll be in tomorrow, you want to call back then.’

Strike one for Pete Matthews, Nick thought. ‘You’re kidding me? I’m only in Detroit for one night. I’ve got a flight to St Louis in the morning.’

‘That sucks. Maybe you can call him, fix up to get together.’

‘I tried that first. But he doesn’t seem to be using his UK cell. It’s not even going to voicemail. Have you got another number for him?’

‘Sure. Hold on, I’ll be right back.’

Nick finger-picked the desk silently, listening to Bert Jansch in his head. In a few moments, the American was back on the line, reading out a mobile number. Two strikes. So far, so good. Now it was just a question of whether Nick could pull off the final finesse. ‘That’s brilliant, I appreciate it. Now, can I be really cheeky? My phone’s getting low on juice, and if I can’t get hold of Pete straight away, I’m worried he won’t be able to get back to me. I don’t suppose you’ve got an address for him? Then if I can’t get through, I can go and check if he’s home. If he’s not around, at least I can leave a note.’ There was no immediate reply. ‘It seems a pity to be here and miss the chance to see him. Look, I totally get it that you don’t want to hand out his address. If I can’t get hold of him, I’ll swing by the studio and leave a note.’

‘No, you’re OK. Let me see what I got.’

This time, the wait was longer. And the voice on the phone was different. More authoritative. ‘You looking for Pete, yeah?’

‘That’s right. We’re old pals.’

‘How do you know Pete?’

‘I did some fill-in guitar on the last Pill Brick set,’ Nick said as nonchalantly as he could manage. But his spirits were sinking. ‘We kind of knew each other before, but that’s when we really became mates. Look, if it’s a problem, I don’t want to put you on the spot.’

‘It’s OK, you sound like the real deal,’ the man said. ‘And I don’t think Pete’s hiding out from anybody. You got a pen?’

And there it was. Strike three. An address for Pete Matthews. Something concrete to pass on to the people on the ground.

Vivian ended the call and tamped down the desire to jump out of her seat and do a little dance. It wasn’t generally considered an appropriate response to positive news in the FBI, where high-fiving was barely acceptable. Stephanie had perked up during the conversation, even though Vivian had done her best to keep her end non-committal. Now she smiled. ‘Detective Nicolaides is quite the operator,’ she said. Seeing Stephanie’s blush, she added, ‘I’m talking professionally, of course. Stephanie, he’s come up with a very exciting piece of information for us. Pete Matthews is not in London. He’s not even in the UK. He’s here, in America. Not only is he in America, he’s in Detroit.’ She sat back, a picture of determined delight.

Stephanie looked as if she hardly dare hope. ‘I’m not very good on American geography. How far is that from here?’

‘About five hours’ drive up the interstate,’ Vivian said, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. She glanced at her watch. ‘If it was Matthews who snatched Jimmy, he’s had plenty of time to make it back to Detroit and send out for pizza by now.’

‘I can’t credit it,’ Stephanie said. ‘A few minutes ago, I felt like I was in the middle of a nightmare. A completely baffling mystery. And now . . . It could really come down to that evil bastard? All this, because I said no to a bully?’

Vivian assumed a gentle expression and softened her voice. ‘It’s not your fault, Stephanie. You did the right thing in all of this. He’s the one who carries the blame.’

‘What now?’

‘Detective Nicolaides really delivered the goods. He got us a cell phone number, and the address where Matthews is living. Now, what I propose is that we get on the road. I want you to come with me, because if we recover Jimmy tonight, as I hope we will, it’s important that you are there to make him feel safe and secure again.’ She made a scooping motion with her hands, indicating that Stephanie should get up and prepare to leave. ‘Lia, I know Stephanie and Jimmy’s bags have been scanned and searched. Can you have someone bring them to my office? We need to get going as quickly as possible.’

Lopez scowled. Clearly she didn’t appreciate being treated like a bag handler. But there was no time to lose. A child’s life could be at stake. She grunted and picked up Stephanie’s carry-on then tramped out of the office, her feelings clear from the set of her shoulders.

‘Follow me,’ Vivian said, heading out the door and down the hallway. Her phone was already at her ear. ‘Abbott, we’re rolling. I’ve got an address for our prime suspect . . . Detroit. Meet me at my office. I need you to drive us, I’m going to be making calls . . . Sure. Thanks.’

Until this point, Vivian had only been able to demonstrate her people skills. And she had plenty of those. But what she loved was when events started to unfold and she could follow her instinct for action. Now, there were people to be organised, directives to be issued, a quest to be followed to its natural outcome. And kudos to be won along the way. That wasn’t why she did her job. But it didn’t hurt.

They’d barely made it to the office when Abbott appeared, rumpled and cheerful like a kid on the brink of a promised outing. Vivian walked Stephanie to her car then they drove back to the terminal kerbside, where Abbott was waiting with the luggage. He threw the bags into the back of the SUV, evicted Vivian from the driving seat and roared off towards the highway. ‘We should have missed most of the traffic,’ he said, gunning the engine and flashing the car in front to pull over.

‘Just so long as you keep missing it,’ Vivian said, phone in her hand again. Her first call was to her boss. Succinctly she outlined what they had and where they were going. ‘I’m going to need local law enforcement to check out the scenario ahead of our arrival,’ she said. ‘And local tech support. We need to know if Matthews is there and, if so, whether he’s alone. We might need listening devices . . . Yes, sir. Five hours, maximum. I have the mother with me.’ She ended the call and let out a huge breath. Turning to look at Stephanie through the gap between the seats, she said, ‘My boss is talking to the local FBI office and the local cops. They’re going to check out whether the house is occupied. If there’s anybody home, they’ll use listening devices and thermal imaging to see how many there are and where they are in the house. And if we think Matthews is there with Jimmy, we’ll have a SWAT team mount a rescue.’ Vivian spoke quickly, brimming with confidence. She could see her assurance leak into Stephanie, buoying her up and bringing her hope.

‘Did you say we were headed for Corktown?’ Abbott said, not taking his eyes off the road.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘If we need a rendezvous, there’s a great barbecue restaurant there.’

Vivian rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not always about your stomach, Abbott.’

‘I’m just saying.’

Stephanie cleared her throat. ‘I’m sure the barbecue in Detroit is lovely and I don’t want to be difficult, but if we’re going to be driving for five hours, I could use something to eat. It’s been a long time since I ate anything other than a cold cheeseburger.’

‘It’s not an unreasonable request,’ Abbott said. ‘Soon as we hit an exit with some fast-food joints, we’ll swing through and get supplies.’

‘I’m sorry, Stephanie,’ Vivian said. ‘I should have been more considerate.’

‘She gets carried away,’ Abbott said. ‘In a good way, I mean. We’ll get you fed and watered, and with luck, we’ll have your boy back in your arms tonight.’