"I know, but it's almost six hours since they were last seen."
"Let's not be melodramatic," Sullins unwisely commented. "We're not dealing with a mine disaster."
"Melodramatic! This is a missing child."
"Possibly."
"Have you alerted the airports and the main line stations?
"Alerted them to what? A mother slapping her child's leg? Let's keep this in proportion. And now you're going to tell me that we don't know if she's the mother."
"We don't."
"But she produced a photograph, Mr. Diamond."
An eruption was irnminent. Only a buzz on the intercom prevented it.
Sullins touched a switch. "Yes?"
The voice was female. "Sir, we're taking a call from a taxi firm in Hammersmith called Instant Cabs."
"Put it on," Sullins ordered.
A man's voice was saying, "… went off duty at twelve, and we've only just been able to trace him. He's your driver, all right He picked up a Japanese woman at seven-fifty this morning in Brook Green. She had a suitcase, dark blue. He drove her to Kempsford Gardens School in Earls Court-would that be right?-and waited until eight twenty-five, or soon after, when she came out with a child, a small girl. Japanese, like the woman. She seemed to be playing up, he said. He drove them to the airport."
"Heathrow?"
"Yes."
"Which terminal?"
"Three. The intercontinental."
Diamond didn't wait to hear any more. He was out and down the stairs and telling Harry to get Immigration on the line.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wedged into seat 1 IB in the Concorde, Diamond was about as comfortable as a stout person may expect to be on an aircraft noted for its slim contour. Eleven-B was immediately behind the serving bay, providing the dual advantage of increased legroom and a tray arrangement that allowed him to stand his champagne glass on a level surface rather than having it on a slope created by his stomach.
Rapid decisions were responsible for his being on the flight. Around 5:30 P.M., he had learned from Immigration at Heathrow that someone remembered a Japanese woman and child passing through the departure gate about 1:00 P.M. More importantly, the woman had been wearing what was described as gray sportsgear and the child a red corduroy dress, black tights and trainers. Soon after this, British Airways check-in staff had confirmed that a Mrs. Nakajima, accompanied by her daughter Aya, had boarded flight BA177 at 1415, due at John F. Kennedy Airport, New York, at 1705, local time.
New York. This wasn't a game for faint hearts, but Diamond was totally committed. By using his former police rank, he succeeded in extracting a promise from the Immigration Service at JFK that Mrs. Nakajima and daughter would be detained for up to an hour. From British Airways he had already learned that by taking the last Concorde flight of the day at 1900, he could be in New York fifty minutes after BA177 arrived-the sort of schedule that would have him looking at his watch all the way across. He'd booked a passage immediately, quoting Yamagata's Gold Card number. The thought crossed his mind that he ought to have called the Albert Hall to get his sponsor's approval, but he decided against it. "Mr. Yamagata is a rich man. He will pay," the interpreter had promised when they had met, and presumably Mr. Yamagata, the man of honor, wouldn't quibble over a mere five thousand and thirty pounds. Diamond preferred not to inquire at this stage.
Remembering just in time that he was a considerate husband, he did phone Stephanie to let her know that he was leaving the country. She wasn't quite as devastated as he'd expected. "See if you can get me a pair of genuine New York sneakers while you're over there. White, of course. Remember I take a seven, but that's eight and a half in their size." How did she know these things? he wondered.
He checked his watch again, thinking ahead. The U.S. Immigration officials would be the first test They were trained to spot conmen. He'd need to be sharp to convince them that he was on an official investigation. Then there was the Nakajima woman, who had thoroughly outfoxed the formidable Mrs. Straw. She was a real challenge. Even if she folded under questioning and admitted to abducting the child, there was still the matter of what action could be taken, and where. Extradition law had never been his forte.
A stewardess came along the aisle and handed him a note that must have been transmitted to the cockpit.
To: Supt. Diamond
From: US. Immigration
Time: 1721NYT
Will meet you on arrival. Ms. Nakajima and child detained.
A tingling sensation, a mixture of relief, anticipation and champagne, spread through Diamond's veins.
"Good news, sir?" the stewardess inquired.
He gave a dignified smile. "Just confirming an appointment" In truth, it deserved a fanfare. For one indulgent moment, he likened himself to Chief Inspector Dew, the man who had crossed the Atlantic in 1910 to arrest Dr. Crippen and his mistress. A telegraph message, a dash across the ocean, and Crippen had been copped.
There the comparison ended. Crippen had been a murderer. Mrs. Nakajima was guilty, at most, of abduction.
The Concorde had already started its descent. The "fasten seatbelts" order came over the public address.
They touched down five minutes before schedule at 1750.
When the doors were opened, a woman immigration officer was waiting. Diamond introduced himself.
"May I see your ID?" she asked, taking stock of him. He didn't fit the stereotype of a British detective, judging by the way she eyed his waistline.
"Will my passport do?" Helpfully, it had been issued four years ago and still listed his profession as police officer.
"Would you come with me, sir?"
The "sir" was encouraging. Stiff from the journey and slightly disorientated, but eager to see Naomi, he was taken through a roped barrier and along a corridor lined with filing cabinets. Another door, another corridor, and into an office looking like a scene out of a television police series with its sense of stage-managed activity as people walked through, stopped, exchanged words, presumably to develop different plotlines in the story, and moved on. A black officer in tinted glasses carved a way around a couple of desks and said, "You've got to be the guy from Scotland Yard."
"Peter Diamond," he said, offering his hand without going into the matter of where he was from. "You still have these people detained, I hope?"
"Sure have." The man didn't need to give his name. He had a tag hanging from his shirt that identified him as Arthur Wharton.
"Are they giving any trouble?"
"No, sir."
"What have you told them?"
"The usual. A small technical problem over their passport. They're yours." Arthur Wharton nodded to the woman who'd brought Diamond this far and she beelined determinedly between two people crossing the office from different directions and into another corridor. Diamond realized that he was meant to go with her. Striving to go the same way, he found that he wasn't so adept at dodging people.
He caught up with her by an open doorway. A uniformed member of the airport police was sitting outside, drinking coffee from a paper cup.
Diamond looked into the room.
He stared.
A woman and child were in there, certainly, but the child wasn't Naomi.
She was at least two years younger. Seated on a steel-framed chair, swinging her legs, this little girl still had a baby face, tiny features and chubby cheeks. She wasn't even dressed like Naomi. She had a blue dress, white socks and black shoes made of some shiny material like patent leather. She was Japanese, admittedly, but there the resemblance ended.
The Japanese woman who looked up anxiously at Diamond didn't match the description he'd been given either. She was in a red skirt and jacket and she was wearing rimless glasses.