Capital Punishment (6 page)

After playing poker until six o’clock in the morning, he’d slept late. At midday, he’d hired a car and spent the rest of the day going to the sights he’d planned to see with Amy. Despite the clear, sunny, warm spring day, he felt bleak, lonely and cold. He missed her, hated this loneliness, which was different to being a loner with purpose.

Later, sitting on the beach with a cold wind from the Atlantic battering his face, it hit him that he’d had every intention of playing cards while Amy slept. The reason for the ferocity of the row was his anger at being found out. He was disgusted by himself: a man who lied to his own daughter. There was something missing in him. Maybe the same thing that had been missing in his own father, who probably hadn’t spared him a moment’s thought in thirty-odd years. A failure to connect. An inability to reach out. He held himself by his sides, not through the chill of the wind, but because he felt the hole inside him expanding.

His thoughts made him edgy. He needed to reel himself in. He drove back to the Parque das Nações to prepare for his night’s work.

He finished his meal and went to the underground car park near the Camões theatre, where he’d left the car and picked up his afternoon’s purchases. He let himself into Diogo Chaves’ apartment building and listened at the door. Silence. He unlocked the apartment, checked the rooms. Empty. He took the step ladder and heaved himself up into the storage area and looped the rope he’d bought that day behind the exposed steel rod and secured it. He placed the shoebox full of the ransom cash by the trapdoor. He paid the rope out and measured it, took a knife from the kitchen and cut it to the right length. He replaced the trap with the rope coiled over it and the money on top. He put everything back in its place, found a broom in the cupboard and swept the hall. He walked through the rooms, committing everything to memory one last time.

Isabel Marks was in bed, make-up removed, the dull sheen of night cream on her face. She had an iPad propped up on her knees, reading an author’s typescript, with her mind only partially on the job. The smell of duck stock filled the house. She’d boiled the birds with an onion stuck with cloves, bay leaves and peppercorns. Now the stock was in the fridge, the fat congealing on top for her to skim off in the morning.

She’d shredded the meat and put that in the fridge, too. All the time she was working, she was subliminally conscious of a sense of unease. Stripping the skin off the duck and tearing a fork through the flesh had left her feeling apprehensive. She fingered the mobile phone on the duvet. Alyshia couldn’t stand phone calls concerned for her safety. Her voice had the terrible scathing edge of someone who’d never known the fear of loss. Isabel toyed with using the excuse of Chico’s premonition. That might amuse Alyshia in a way that maternal worry wouldn’t. Isabel knew now that she wouldn’t sleep unless she called. What the hell.

The phone rang once before it was answered by a male voice, slightly distorted.

‘Hello, Mrs Marks.’

‘Who is that?’ she said. ‘Is Alyshia there?’

‘She’s here.’

‘Can I speak to her, please?’

‘She can’t come to the phone at the moment.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘She’s perfectly all right.’

‘This line is terrible,’ she said.

‘There’s nothing wrong with the line, Mrs Marks,’ said the voice.

‘And who are you?’

‘You can call me Jordan. Why be formal when we’re going to be talking to each other over the next few weeks, months ... possibly years?’

‘Are you a friend of Alyshia’s?’ she asked stupidly, knowing there was something about the tone of the voice that she wasn’t prepared to face up to.

‘Not yet. I’m working on the relationship side of things. Men aren’t so good at the initial getting-to-know-each-other phase. Not like women.’

‘I want to speak to Alyshia,’ said Isabel, irritation rising in her voice.

‘Understandable, but not possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s been kidnapped and there’s a whole process for us to go through before you’ll get the chance to speak to your daughter.’

Silence. Mental paralysis. Words that had been on the way jammed in her throat. Pure emotion took hold. Her blood turned to ether: thin, cold, unable to transport oxygen. A swoon, replete with nausea, walloped through her head.

‘Mrs Marks?’ said the voice. ‘Can you hear me?’

The word ‘yes’ fell from her mouth like a loose tooth.

‘Listen very carefully. Your daughter has been kidnapped. I know this is a shock,’ said the voice gently, but then the tone changed. ‘You must not go to the police and you must not talk to the press. If we believe that you have done either of these things, you will never hear from us again. And, I’m quite serious about this, Mrs Marks, you will only see your daughter if you are extremely lucky, but it will be some months later, and she will be in an advanced state of decomposition and forever troubling the mind of the unfortunate hiker, farm worker or gamekeeper who has chanced upon her remains. Do you understand me?’

‘No police, no press,’ said Isabel, on automatic.

‘You can talk to Alyshia’s father about what has happened, but—’

‘What do you want? He’ll want to know that.’

‘Well, that’s not so easy,’ said the voice. ‘That will have to be discussed over—’

‘Money? Is it money you want? How much money?’

‘I wish it could be as straightforward as that. Of course, rich people always believe that all anybody wants from them is their money. And that the kidnap of someone as precious as your daughter can be sorted out with a bit of negotiation over a few days or, at worst, a few weeks. I start at fifty million, you come back at twenty thousand and, after a bit of good old Asian haggling, we agree at, say, half a million. This is not about money. I am not going to be so crass as to demand that you put a price on your only child’s head. Your ex-husband will try to dismiss our little endeavour as a mere money-making exercise and it’s up to you, Mrs Marks, to persuade him to take it much more seriously than that.’

This man’s talk had a strange effect on Isabel. His calmness earthed her. After the initial shock and the terrible, chilling constriction it had inflicted on her, his chattiness, even the severity of his articulate threat, had restored some normal flow. Her brain finally started to function.

‘Do you know my ex-husband?’

‘Frank D’Cruz is in the news so much these days you could go anywhere in the world and find people who
think
they know him. The difference is, Mrs Marks, that you know him better than anybody.’

‘Do I?’ she said. ‘We’ve been divorced for twelve years and we weren’t together much for three years before that.’

‘That’s what happens when you become very wealthy: you make sure people know you as little as possible. It leaves you greater leeway for ruthlessness,’ said the voice. ‘One last thing before I go, Mrs Marks. I will only speak to
you.
Understand? Nobody else is acceptable. Not your husband, not a friend, not a lawyer. Only you. If anybody else answers the phone, I will hang up. Three strikes and you’re out.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘If somebody other than you answers that phone more than twice, you won’t see Alyshia again,’ said the voice. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Marks.’

‘Wait,’ said Isabel, surprised at what had just come to her. ‘How do I know you’re holding her? That’s the first thing my ex-husband’s going to ask.’

‘No physical proof, although don’t expect her at your lunch party tomorrow.’

‘That won’t be good enough.’

‘Alyshia asked me to remind you that when she was small, she used to call her Portuguese grandmother
vo-vó-voom
.’

The phone went dead, leaving Isabel Marks with the sensation of a double pulmonary collapse.

2.50 A.M., SUNDAY 11TH MARCH 2012

London

The phone calls had already started. Each one more complicated than the last.

The first was between Frank D’Cruz and the special risks underwriter at Lloyd’s of London, who’d told him that the syndicate would not be liable for the kidnap for ransom insurance claim unless the Metropolitan Police were informed that his daughter had been taken. Not many people told Frank D’Cruz what he could and couldn’t do. So his next call was to the Secretary of State for Business Innovation and Skills, who was put in no doubt as to the future of a major investment in the UK car industry.

The Secretary of State for BIS put a call through to the Home Secretary, Natasha Radcliffe, and he explained what Frank D’Cruz had brutally outlined to him, with added detail he’d gleaned from the special risks underwriter at Lloyd’s.

‘Just remind me which Indian friend Frank D’Cruz is,’ said Radcliffe.

‘He’s the one with the new battery technology. The ferrous ion one that
can
be recharged from the mains in less than an hour and has battery switching capacity for longer journeys.’

‘Sorry, yes, of course. I’m not quite up to speed on that,’ said Radcliffe, who remembered now that the promise was for a major investment in two car factories in the Midlands with a roll-out of switching stations all over the country, creating lots of jobs and giving them the perfect mid-term announcement.

‘He made it quite clear that, were the police to be involved, it would affect his inclination to invest,’ said the secretary of state. ‘I was wondering if there was a way that we could satisfy him without treading on anybody’s toes?’

‘You mean inform the police but ask them to keep their noses out?’

‘If you think that would be possible.’

‘Difficult to say without asking them, but my instinct tells me they wouldn’t like it. There isn’t quite the free flow of personnel and contracts between the private and public sectors here that there is, say, in the States,’ said Radcliffe. ‘Would Frank D’Cruz be prepared to use a kidnap consultant provided by the Met? The kidnappers wouldn’t have to know he was a policeman.’

‘He wants to use a specific kidnap consultant: Charles Boxer, who works for a private security company called Pavis Risk Management, which is run by an ex-army major called Martin Fox.’

‘Is that non-negotiable?’

‘The way he put it, yes.’

‘The only way to find out if this is workable is by talking to the police themselves. If we don’t tell them and something goes wrong and, God forbid, the girl is killed, there will be an investigation, it will all come out and we will
not
look good.’

‘Is there any leverage you can bring to bear on the Met Police Commissioner to ensure that we get a sympathetic ear?’

‘Leave it with me. I’ll have to talk to Mervin Stanley, you know that.’

‘Needless to say, Natasha, this is somewhat urgent.’

By midnight, Charles Boxer’s brain had come back to the diamond sharpness he was accustomed to when playing poker and he’d found himself seated at the table opposite Don and getting the cards. The money had flowed back to his side. The American had started to get frustrated.

‘It’s getting on for three o’clock,’ said Don. ‘Maybe we should take a break.’

‘You looking to get lucky like last night?’ said Boxer.

‘Don’t know what happened,’ said Don, open-handed.

‘I emptied my boots,’ said Boxer.

Don’s face didn’t crack; he just pushed himself back from the table.

Boxer left the casino, moving fast. He went straight to the hire car in the underground car park. He put the Glock in the back of his trousers and the suppressor in his pocket. He walked down towards the river and came up sharp when Diogo Chaves shambled across his path. Late. Damn. He’d have to give him some time.

The river lapped and gurgled as he stood in the darkness under a line of pines. The odd bit of traffic pulsed across the bridge towards the lights of Montijo on the far side. He looked up to the balcony doors of Chaves’ apartment. The lights were on. He waited. The lights stayed on. He watched for movement. Ten minutes passed. It should have been all over by now. Still nothing. The tension built inside him as the minutes ticked past. He pushed himself away from the tree, went into the apartment building.

Up to the first floor. Listened at the door. Music. He listened harder. Nothing beyond the music. He fitted the key in the lock, eased in each tooth silently, turned it, opened the door. The music was louder than he’d expected. Brazilian. The sort that reminded you of the beach, the heat and string bikinis. He fitted the suppressor to the Glock by the light shed from the empty kitchen into the hall. On the sideboard was a bottle of rum, a tin of coke on its side, a brown puddle next to it. The bedroom at the end of the hall was in darkness. He moved towards the living room, peeked through the crack at the hinge of the open door. Couldn’t see anyone in either of the two armchairs, the sofa was empty. He looked around for light elsewhere in the apartment. Not a crack beneath any door.

Boxer decided that Chaves had turned the music on, poured himself another drink in the kitchen, gone back to the living room to dream about Brazil, fallen asleep and sunk down into an armchair out of his line of vision. He couldn’t check in the reflection of the sliding doors to the balcony without his own reflection from the doorway appearing there too. All he could see were the lights of the stereo system. He went down onto all fours and crept to the other side of the door. He checked the two bedrooms and bathrooms: all empty. He stepped into the living room, gun at waist height.

Diogo Chaves was fast asleep in one of the armchairs, with a half empty glass in his crotch. Boxer took a seat in the other armchair and swivelled it so that he was sitting opposite Chaves’ unconscious form. He kicked him on the point of the ankle so that Chaves came awake with a terrible jolt and a strangled cry, spilling the contents of his glass into his crotch. Chaves held onto his ankle, the air hissing between his teeth. He saw what Boxer had in his hand, blinked at it in a way that told Boxer he was a man who’d had a gun pointed at him before.

‘
Porra
,’ said Chaves,
‘o que quer, seu cuzão
?’