Ransomed, p.23
Ransomed, page 23
She had made a pinkie-promise, but in hindsight had never lived up to it. That would all change now. Today was her rebirth. Today was her chance to be the mother her daughter craved, and the daughter her father had wished for.
Her lungs bursting with fresh air, her soul rejuvenated, and the butterflies still fluttering, she marched purposefully back towards the house, the creative part of her brain seeing the large estate as less of a ball and chain around her neck and instead as somewhere she could turn into a proper family home. It was such an old-fashioned building, trapped in an era long forgotten, yet it had such potential to be so much more. Just like her. Just like that conker.
Richard was leaning against one of the pillars that framed the front door, one leg tucked beneath him, but standing proud on the other. A cloud of light grey smoke escaped his mouth as he exhaled the cigarette fumes. She’d known he had started smoking again – the smell on his clothes and breath was impossible to miss – but this was the first time she’d caught him in the act. She half-expected him to squash it under foot, but he didn’t seem to care that she’d caught him; at least it would be one less secret between them.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked as she approached.
‘I went for a walk,’ she responded, not breaking her stride. ‘I wanted to clear my head.’
He looked as though he could do with a clearer head, particularly with what was coming up, but then maybe it was easier for him to cope with the stress with alcohol in his system. Who was she to judge? God only knows how many times she’d sought solace in pills and alcohol that kept her mind shielded from harsh realities.
Not anymore, she thought, taking another deep lungful of air.
‘The detective and his team are inside,’ Richard said, instantly cutting through the positive energy she was trying to project. ‘They reckon the kidnappers will phone imminently, and they want to hear everything that’s said and attempt to run another trace on the call. They’re probably wasting their time, but who am I to argue. At least they’re trying.’
‘And the money?’
He took one more drag on the cigarette before flicking it away into the distance, creating a small trail of sparks as it danced across the gravel pathway. ‘All bagged up and ready to go. I never realised just how heavy that amount of money would be. It’ll take at least two of them to carry it.’
The weight and value of the money didn’t bother her at all; every penny would be well-spent to bring Cassie back safely. Right now, that was the only priority and she would have willingly given up everything – the house, the cars, the staff – just to hold her daughter again and breathe in her scent.
She stopped when she was no more than a foot away from him. ‘What you said the other night, about having a plan to save Cassie and the money… I want you to forget about it. Okay? I don’t want you doing anything to jeopardise her return.’
He glanced around nervously, as if the detectives inside were listening to every word. ‘Keep your voice down, will you?’
You don’t have to be the biggest or bravest to cut through your enemies, just the sharpest.
Fixing him with a hard stare, she shook her head. ‘I am asking – no, I’m telling you – don’t do anything to put Cassie’s life at risk. I don’t care about the money. I’d pay double to have her back. Do you hear me? Money can be replaced; our daughter can’t be. So, whatever foolhardy idea you’ve been working on, I want your word that you will forget all about it.’
She pictured her conker smashing the others over and over again.
‘I don’t care about anything else you’ve done up until now, Richard. I’m prepared to put all of that behind us and start over, but I swear to God, if you do anything that threatens Cassie, I will…’
She didn’t need to finish the sentence as he closed the gap between them, pulling her into his embrace and squashing her face against the rough woollen lapel of his overcoat. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll call them off. Okay? Just stop talking about it where people can hear.’
She wrestled her face free and looked up into his soft brown eyes. ‘Promise me.’
He met her stare. ‘I swear to you.’
Separating, she led the way back into the house, just as the phone began to ring in the drawing room.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Now
Uxbridge, London
I’m not in the best of moods when I finally arrive at Uxbridge police station and I’m frustrated that it’s almost half past eight. I hate being late for meetings. It literally makes my skin crawl. In my defence, it isn’t my fault that the tube I was on broke down just outside of Sudbury Town and had to be moved before they could put us on an alternative one. And then, as the rain threw itself down, my phone’s screen was blurry with water and it took me twice as long to get my bearings and follow the route to the station. Soaked to the bone – this supposedly waterproof jacket has not stood up to the challenge – I head into the station with a sense that today is not going to be my day.
Every passing minute is another chance to turn it all around, my dad would tell Anna and me whenever we were upset about something not going to plan. Peeling off the jacket, straightening my fringe in the reflection of the front door, I take a deep breath, clear my mind of negativity and approach the front desk.
‘Hi,’ I say, presenting my warmest and most self-assured smile at the officer behind the counter. ‘I’m here to see PC Jack Serrovitz. I’m—’
‘Oh, I know who you are, Emma,’ the girl replies, her brace making her jaw look as though it’s been mechanically wired. ‘I loved your book,’ she gushes. Her hair as red as fire.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, willing the impostor-syndrome voice in my head into submission. ‘That’s kind of you to say.’
She leans closer to the window. The lanyard she’s wearing identifies her as Constable Denier. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but when I read about how those boys’ allegations were ignored, and essentially covered up… well, let’s just say it’s not the first time I’ve heard of things like that happening in the force.’
She can’t be any older than me and it worries me that in her relative inexperience she’s already witnessed similar scenarios.
‘It’s why I wanted to become a police officer,’ she adds, straightening. ‘I figured it would be better to change attitudes from the inside. You know what I mean?’
Her outlook is refreshing and my frustration at a poor night’s sleep is quickly forgotten.
‘I know I probably shouldn’t ask this,’ she adds, ‘but I’ve got my copy of your book in my locker; do you think you could sign it for me?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I’d be happy to. I should be here most of the day so just stop by and I’ll sign it for you.’
‘Great! Who did you say you were here to see again?’
‘Jack Serrovitz.’
Her smile is replaced by a heavy frown. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ve seen him yet this morning. Give me a second and I’ll phone downstairs and see if he came in the back way.’
She picks up the phone and places the call, leaving my gaze to wander around the small reception area. I take in the variety of coloured posters with warnings about pickpockets in the town centre, cyber bullying, and fraudulent telephone calls. Where are the warnings about keeping your children safe from predators who will look to destroy family bonds?
‘Emma? It seems Jack hasn’t arrived yet,’ Constable Denier tells me, hanging up the phone. ‘He should have been in at eight but no sign so far, I’m afraid. I guess he might be off sick. Did you have a meeting arranged with him?’
I grind my teeth at the possibility that I’ve just traipsed across West London and through driving rain for no reason.
Taking another deep breath, I am determined to keep my frustration in check. ‘He told me to meet him here at eight. We’re reviewing an old case, you see. Is there anyone else I can speak to? It’s really important that I crack on with the review as I have deadlines and things.’
I don’t want to mislead her, but the thought of being stuck in London for any longer than necessary is filling me with dread.
‘I can see if anyone else is available. Is Jack the only person you’ve been working with or do you have any other contacts I can reach out to?’
The only other name I have is DCS Rawani, and I’m sure he has better things to do than babysit me, but perhaps he can at least grant permission for me to work alone in that room with the file. Ultimately, I’m not expecting to learn anything I don’t already know, and as far as I’m concerned, this is a tick-box exercise.
‘Can you check if DCS Rawani can sign me in? I’m sorry, he’s the only other person I’m aware of connected with this particular case.’
Her face pales at the prospect of having to place the call to someone so senior. ‘Give me a second,’ she says, disappearing through the door behind her. Through the frosted glass, I can see her consulting a man in a crisp white shirt who’s sitting behind a desk. I can’t hear a word of what’s being said, but I’m guessing she’s checking with her colleague whether she will get in trouble for disturbing Rawani.
Denier and her colleague return to the counter a few moments later. The three stripes on the man’s lapel tell me he is a sergeant of some kind. He has a thick silver moustache, which contrasts with his red cheeks. He asks me to repeat the purpose of my visit and so I tell him about the Cassie Hilliard case, Fitzhume’s request, and Jack’s support. He considers what I’ve said before telling Denier to escort me to one of the interview rooms and arrange for the papers to be brought down to me.
I’m relieved they haven’t turfed me out. The sergeant returns to his desk while Denier leaves her room and buzzes me through the secured door, out into the corridor, and along to the room where Jack and I spent Saturday afternoon. She brings me a beaker of coffee from the vending machine and it’s not long before I have the boxes in front of me once again. I sift through to find the file I stopped at.
There is a transcript of an interview with Gerry Connors, undertaken in the hours after the failed exchange. The notes in the preamble to the transcript highlight that Connors has a criminal record as a result of a conviction for larceny when he was eighteen. It seems he was spotted fleeing the scene of the botched exchange and the investigative team were checking his story against the one fed to them by Richard Hilliard who was picked up at the same time. I locate a copy of the transcript of Richard’s interview and compare the pages. Whilst both interviewers ask what the two men were doing so close to the scene despite being ordered to stay away, there is a noticeable difference in the tone of the questions. Richard’s interview focuses on whether he’d had any involvement in the firefight that ensued between the kidnappers and the Albanian gangsters who arrived on the scene unannounced. Connors’s interview, by contrast, focuses on his time in Northern Ireland, and whether he had any affiliation with the two kidnappers identified at the scene.
Both men protest their innocence and when pushed about what they were doing at the exchange, their accounts are almost word-for-word identical. Richard said he was there to watch that nothing happened to the bags of money prior to Cassie’s return, and Connors confirmed that was why he was asked to drive Richard there. A cynic would argue collusion between the men, but two honest accounts of the same event would also bear trademark similarities. Regardless, this isn’t news to me; Penny has already said that Gerry was asked to drive Richard to oversee the exchange.
Voices outside the door catch my attention and I’m sure I can hear Jack. Standing, I move closer, opening the door a crack to check.
‘Nice of you to join us, PC Serrovitz,’ I hear the silver-moustachioed sergeant saying sarcastically. ‘Hope we didn’t drag you away from anything too important?’
‘Sorry, Sarge,’ Jack says, just out of sight. ‘I won’t let it happen again.’
‘What was it then? A heavy night?’
‘You know me better than that, Sarge,’ Jack replies jovially. ‘I’m always in bed by ten on a school night.’
‘Yeah, yeah, and the rest, Jack. I still remember what it was like to be young, free, and single, and in my twenties. I won’t ask whose bed you were in last night.’
‘Seriously, Sarge, it wasn’t like that. The alarm didn’t go off, and then it was a nightmare getting a certain someone out of bed, that’s all.’
‘Oh I see…’ came the knowing reply. ‘Blonde or brunette?’
I close the door, having heard enough. Returning to my seat, I pick up the interview notes but even though my eyes dance across the words on the page, I’m not taking them in.
I start as the door opens and Jack ploughs in, apologising for his late arrival and promising me he won’t allow it to happen again.
‘Good, I can see you’ve made a start with the files,’ he says. ‘How was the rest of your weekend?’
‘Fine,’ I reply through gritted teeth, keeping my eyes on the page I’m pretending to read.
‘Good, good,’ he says, failing to stifle a yawn. ‘I’ll just grab a drink and then I’ll join you. You want anything from the machine?’
I tap the top of the beaker and shake my head. I don’t look up until I hear the door close. This just won’t do. What’s wrong with me? I’m being childish, and for no reason whatsoever. I think of my father’s words again and it is enough to rebalance my mind-set.
Maddie’s name appears in the display of my phone and I answer.
‘Morning, Emma. How is my favourite client this morning? Not still cross about yesterday, I hope?’
After much consideration during my tempestuous night’s sleep, I can understand why Maddie leaked the story to Ken Johnson, but I do wish she’d asked me first. That way I could have told her that the story is dead in the water and there is every chance this will not become book two in the publishing contract. It feels like her actions have brought unnecessary attention.
‘I’m fine, Maddie. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I thought I should phone and let you know straight away.’
I check my watch but it isn’t even nine o’clock yet, so she can’t have already had her meeting with Reflex Media about the optioning of Monsters Under the Bed.
‘You’ll never guess who I’ve just spoken to,’ she continues.
‘Unless you’re about to tell me that Ryan Gosling wants to meet me, I’m not sure I want to know.’
‘Ryan Gosling’s too old for you, Emma. No, better than that anyway. I received a call from the prison governor at HMP Portland, and one of the inmates has asked you to come and visit him.’
HMP Portland stands on Portland Bill, overlooking Weymouth, and serves as a constant reminder that despite the idyllic scenery, there is a darker world out there.
‘I don’t know anyone in there,’ I reply, shifting uncomfortably, my voice too bright.
‘Maybe not, but someone knows you. It seems my work with Ken Johnson may yet bear fruit. A Mr Leroy Denton has told the governor that he has more information about the case and is finally ready to share it but will only speak to you. There’s a chance he’s about to reveal exactly who was behind the plot to abduct Cassie Hilliard.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Now
Uxbridge, London
‘No way, absolutely not!’
DCS Rawani hasn’t stopped pacing his tiny office since Jack and I knocked five minutes earlier and informed him that Leroy Denton wants to meet.
‘You know what it’ll be,’ Rawani continues, no let-up in his pace. ‘He’ll have seen the stories in the press about you reviewing this case and he’ll be thinking, here’s my chance for fifteen minutes of fame, or some kind of cash pay-out. That’ll be his motivation for suddenly coming forward. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?’
At first, I’m not sure which of us he’s addressing. I look to Jack for support but he’s hunched over, his gaze fixed on the almost bare carpet between his loafers.
‘That’s as may be,’ I finally respond, when Rawani turns his attention to me, ‘but I’ve not made any new progress just reading through the file. So far, your investigation turned over every stone looking for the truth, but you drew a blank when it came to discovering why Cassie was taken. What harm can it do to go and listen to what Denton has to say?’
‘You mean apart from wasting time and generating unnecessary false hope?’
I’m not surprised there are so many threadbare patches in this carpet if pacing is Rawani’s response to stress triggers. I can’t really understand why Jack thought it necessary for us to come up here and ask for Rawani’s permission. As far as I’m concerned – and based on what Maddie told me – the prison governor has agreed for Denton to see me. As Denton has already been convicted, I’m free to speak to him without police intervention. I could have not told Jack about the call and simply headed to HMP Portland alone tomorrow; part of me wishes I had done that instead. Out of professional courtesy, I thought it only right to tell Jack, but I didn’t know this is where we would end up.
‘He had ample opportunity to speak during the investigation,’ Rawani continues. ‘He was cautioned, offered legal representation, and asked open questions at interview. We asked him how he’d become embroiled in the kidnapping and ransom exchange, but he refused to say a dicky bird. The only two words he said throughout the process were “no comment”… and he said them a lot. Have you read through the transcripts of the interviews with him? We even suggested he might want to engage his solicitor to prepare a statement on his behalf but he refused even that. I don’t think waterboarding would have got him to speak!’
It’s always amazed me how common a ‘no comment’ interview is in the British justice system. I’ve always thought that if I was facing charges for something I hadn’t done, I’d be fighting my way to prove my innocence rather than clamming up and allowing them to believe my silence represented guilt. What had happened to people being open and honest?
