‘Why are you asking me these things?’
No one answers. Hands start to lift her from her seat.
‘Jake, what happened to Jake?’ There’s desperation in her voice. ‘Where is he? Can I talk to him?’
They’re turning her around, forcing her to walk.
‘Tell me! Tell me what happened to him.’ She digs her heels in, leans backwards, makes it hard for them to push her. Strong hands sweep her off the floor.
‘Motherfuckers!’ She wriggles and kicks but at least four of them are holding her, carrying her. ‘My father will kill you for this. My father’s men will get you and kill every fucking one of you.’
82
The private Citation jet crosses the Atlantic at a cruising speed of almost a thousand kilometres an hour. The flight is less than six hours — almost two quicker than a regular transatlantic charter.
Vice President Lock and his estranged wife Kylie buckle their seat belts as the jet zips into UK airspace. They’ve barely spoken throughout the journey and the grief-laden silence continues as an armour-plated Mercedes and detail of Secret Service agents whisk them away from Heathrow.
Six police outriders, sirens wailing, accompany them on the last leg of their journey. In Wiltshire, they’re held up by a straggling pilgrimage of cars and campers crawling through the country lanes towards Stonehenge. They pass them, corralled by the outriders, and finally arrive at police headquarters in Devizes.
Thom and Kylie Lock are shown into Hunt’s office and after a round of handshakes and hellos settle at the large conference table. Opposite them are Commander Barney Gibson and Home Office Minister Celia Ashbourne. The woman, a small but forceful northerner in her late-forties, starts the meeting.‘The Home Secretary sends his apologies. Unfortunately it was impossible for him to cut short his visit to Australia. I am here to assist you and to assure you that the British government and all its agencies are doing everything possible to find your daughter.’
‘We are making good progress,’ says Hunt. ‘The vehicle Caitlyn travelled in has been found and although burned out, it is being thoroughly analysed by forensics.’ His face saddens. ‘As I think you know, we also recovered the body of the young man she’d been travelling with.’
Kylie Lock reaches in her handbag for a tissue.
Hunt continues: ‘Did either of you have any knowledge at all of their relationship?’
She shakes her head.
‘It must be new,’ says Thom Lock. ‘Believe me, the team I had guarding Caitlyn would have reported any meaningful relationship.’ He senses his wife’s growing distress and takes her hand. The first sign of affection between them. ‘Have you had any contact from whoever has taken our daughter?’
‘None at all.’
‘Do your investigators have any intelligence on who her captors might be?’
‘We have the most senior detectives from the Met’s Specialist Crime Directorate working on that at the moment.’
‘MI6?’
‘The Special Intelligence Service has been informed,’ Ashbourne cuts in. ‘At the moment we don’t think it would be advantageous to involve them actively. Should a clear foreign or terrorist dimension develop then we’ll reconsider.’
The Vice President exhales. ‘Mrs Ashbourne, my ex-wife and I appreciate your efforts and the hard work of the police service. But — and I hope you don’t mind me saying this — we both would feel more comfortable if the operation were integrated with specific people I can send you. The FBI has noted specialisms in this field.’
Ashbourne smiles compassionately. ‘I understand how you feel Mr Vice President, I have a daughter the same age. Rest assured we are more than willing to cooperate fully in terms of exchanging information with the FBI and appropriately apprising them — and you — of any progress that’s being made. However, clear control of this investigation is of such paramount importance that operational integration really isn’t advisable.’
The Vice President drops his wife’s hand and leans forward. His eyes glint with steel forged in the white heat of campaign trails. ‘Minister, Chief Constable, I spoke with the President of the United States before I got on the plane. It was very late but he was concerned and kind enough to call me to express his concern as a personal friend and as the ultimate guardian of all American citizens. We can move forward here in one of two ways. You can accommodate my request and secure the deep gratitude of Kylie, myself and the President. I recommend that you do that. Or in a few hours the President will personally call your Prime Minister and express his grave concerns over how this investigation is being run. He will then hold a press conference on the White House lawn to share those concerns with the American people.’
Hunt nods understandingly. ‘Mr Vice President, we would welcome the assistance of the FBI. I will have my staff officer make arrangements with the Director General’s office.’
Kylie Lock speaks for the first time. She wants to ask only one question and the nervous pitch in her voice betrays how frightened she is of what the answer may be. ‘Please tell me, Mr Hunt, honestly, do you think my daughter is still alive?’
The Chief Constable answers without hesitation. ‘I am sure she is. I feel confident that we’ll soon find her.’
Kylie smiles, relieved.
Thom Lock’s eyes tell a different story. He would have said exactly the same if he’d been in the chief’s position. He knows the truth. It’s unlikely his daughter will get out of this alive.
83
Megan can’t face another minute at work. She shuts down her computer, grabs her stuff and slips out into the car park. The only consolation is that Sammy doesn’t now have to stay at Adam’s.
Lost in anger at being dropped from the big case, she almost misses Gideon Chase walking towards reception. His head is down and it’s clear he’s burdened with even darker thoughts than her own. ‘Gideon,’ she shouts.
He lifts his eyes, forces a weak smile and turns and heads towards her car. ‘Inspector, I was just coming to see you.’
Megan glances at her watch. ‘You should have called. I have to pick up my daughter. Is it something that can wait until the morning?’
He looks disappointed. ‘Of course, not a problem.’
But she can tell that he doesn’t mean it. ‘What’s wrong? Why did you drove out here to see me?’
He’s been rehearsing things in his mind for the past hour but now he’s really not sure where to begin. ‘You were right. I haven’t been telling you the truth about everything.’
‘What do you mean?’ For a second she can’t remember what it was that she had been accusing him of lying about.
‘I saw the man who broke into the house, my father’s house.’ He holds out his mobile. ‘I got a picture of him.’
She takes the phone from his hand. The photograph is not good. Shaky. Burned out a little by the cheap flash. Badly framed. Everything you shouldn’t do if you’re trying to take a good picture. But there’s enough to go on. A face to fit her profile.
Megan looks long and hard at the shot of the stocky man with rounded shoulders and short blond hair. He’s just as she imagined. White male, mid-thirties, somewhere around fourteen stone, quite broad, forty-two- to forty-four-inch chest.
‘I took it just before I shut the door on him,’ Gideon explains. ‘If you look closely, you can see the papers burning in his hand.’
She squints at the tiny screen and sees he’s right. The photo is better than she first thought. It’s evidential. ‘Why didn’t you want us to know about this?’