Perfect People (51 page)

Naomi felt a whorl of fear spiral through her. ‘What – what developments?’

‘He didn’t give me any details.’

Naomi, in the rear seat, looked at Renate Harrison’s face in the mirror. Every few seconds it was illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. The woman was lying, she could see it in her expression.

Was this it? Was this going to be the bad news they were expecting? That their children had been found dead? Murdered by the paedophiles or Disciples, or whoever the hell had taken them?

John was sitting in the front passenger seat. Naomi laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you think this guy, Reggie, will be able to crack these codes?’

John turned his head, put his hand gently over her fingers. ‘He’s doing all he can, hon.’

‘I know, but will he crack them?’

John was silent, wondering what to say to her. He knew that some modern codes were virtually impossible. ‘If anyone can break them, it’s him.’

Naomi responded, ‘Is that another way of saying that if he can’t, no one can?’

For an answer, John took her hand in his, and interlocked his fingers with hers.

She thought back to the expression he had used so often in the past.
Love is more than just a bond between two people. It’s like a wagon-train circle you form around you that protects you against all the world throws at you.

Their fingers closed that circle. She and John. They were that wagon train. Except. You were meant to have your entire family inside that circle. Wasn’t that the point?

*

The tall, wooden detective sergeant, Tom Humbolt, who had been one of her two interviewers yesterday, was in DI Pelham’s office with him when they arrived shortly after six. Humbolt was dressed as sharply as he had been yesterday, in a camel suit and a jazzy tie, with a warm smile on his face. Pelham was looking concerned.

They sat down at the round table.

‘Right, to bring you up to speed, Mr and Mrs Klaesson,’ the DI said tersely, ‘there have been a number of developments. At two thirty this afternoon, a woman masquerading as a nurse entered the room of the man we know as Bruce Preston, at the Sussex County Hospital, and administered a lethal injection. I’m afraid the medical team were unable to resuscitate him.’

John stared at him in silence, absorbing this, and the significance. Naomi was wide-eyed in shock.

Humbolt continued, ‘She stabbed a nurse – not fatally – and drove her car at a police officer who had been guarding him, injuring him seriously, and she was subsequently killed in a head-on collision with a lorry. She was apparently on the wrong side of the road.’

‘Committing suicide?’ said Naomi, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘Who – who – what – this woman – what . . . ?’ John said, his voice tailing off.

‘She matches the photograph of the woman that we found in Preston’s wallet – the one I showed you.’

‘This must be Lara, the woman he kept mentioning after he was shot,’ John said.

‘We don’t know anything about her or what their relationship was,’ Humbolt said.

‘She was travelling on an American passport,’ Pelham said, ‘under the name Charlotte Feynman. The FBI have just informed us that the passport number corresponds with a woman of twenty-seven of that name, who died of meningitis in a hospital in Columbus, Ohio, eighteen months ago.’

He paused to let this sink in, then went on. ‘What I’m now going to tell you is in complete confidence and you are not to repeat it to the press, or to anyone, is that clear?’

John and Naomi nodded.

‘We’ve found three items of interest in her handbag, in the boot of her car. A boarding-card stub from a flight from Athens to London earlier today; a receipt – which looks like a bar receipt – from a location as yet unidentified, in Greek currency, dated yesterday; and, what might be the best of all, a receipt for a left-luggage locker at Athens airport time-dated six fifteen a.m. today. I’ve had a copy faxed through to the Athens police headquarters and a request for them to open it and let us know the contents. There’s always red tape involved with the Greek police, and if I don’t get immediate cooperation, I have an officer on standby to catch a flight out there tonight with the original.’

‘Killed him?’ Naomi said. ‘Went in the room and killed him?’

‘We won’t know until the post-mortem is done, but that’s how it appears.’

‘Wasn’t he under guard?’

‘Yes.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘To report on other progress, our team have concluded their field search for clues at your home.’

‘What have they found?’ John asked.

‘Very little to go on, so far. Footprints. A discarded cigarette butt in the schoolhouse car park that’s been sent for DNA testing. Now, regarding the private jet, a Gulfstream, our colleagues in France have checked out all national and international airports within the jet’s range and there’ve been no sightings. They are trying to obtain ownership details of the plane, but it seems there’s a whole chain of companies involved, starting with half a dozen different ones in Panama. Someone’s gone to great lengths to keep its owner invisible.’

‘I know I keep asking this, but do you think it’s a paedophile ring?’ Naomi asked, looking at Pelham then Humbolt in turn. Neither of their faces gave away anything.

‘We are keeping a totally open mind at the moment, Mrs Klaesson,’ Pelham said. ‘But if it is of any comfort, with the involvement of this aircraft and all the planning that seems to be behind this, it’s too sophisticated for any of the paedophile rings we’ve ever encountered.’

‘What about the Disciples of the Third Millennium?’ John said.

Pelham shot a glance at the detective sergeant then stared back at John and Naomi. ‘I understand from the FBI that they may be close to a breakthrough.’

‘What kind of a breakthrough?’ Naomi asked, her hopes rising.

‘They won’t tell us.’

‘Great,’ she muttered bitterly.

‘One thing I’m not clear on,’ John said, ‘is how you are sure that it was Luke and Phoebe who went through the Channel Tunnel and were on that plane. You seem to be very certain it was them.’

Tom Humbolt responded, ‘I went to Folkestone today and interviewed the immigration officer who claims he saw them. He said he had a bit of banter with them – they were all travelling on American passports and told him they were on a touring holiday of Europe. He said he’d commented that with the kids on the back seat of this small sports car, they couldn’t have much luggage with them. The man he’d presumed was the father had joked back that because the car went so fast, they got everywhere that much quicker, so they needed less luggage.’

‘He wasn’t at all suspicious?’ said John.

‘He said that he felt afterwards that something hadn’t been quite right. But couldn’t put a finger on it,’ Humbolt responded.

‘And he had a really good look at them?’ Naomi quizzed.

‘He’s one hundred per cent certain it was your son and daughter.’

‘Did he say anything about how they were? Did they seem distressed? Anxious? Upset?’

‘He didn’t, no.’

‘Prat,’ she said. ‘What a prat. He’s suspicious and he does nothing? What the hell’s he there for?’

Everyone was silent for a moment.

Then Pelham said, ‘Under the current circumstances, I think it would be inadvisable to return to your home – at least until we know more about the identity of this woman who killed Bruce Preston. With your permission, I’d like to move you to safe accommodation under police guard. We have some facilities at Sussex Police Headquarters, in Lewes. It’s not luxurious, I’m afraid, just a basic room with shower and TV. But I’d feel more comfortable if you were there, until I can be sure you’re not in any danger yourselves. Are you OK with that?’

‘Anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t care.’

Pelham stood up, walked over to his desk and leaned against it, putting his hands behind his back. ‘Dr and Mrs Klaesson, I want to ask you both something, and I need you to answer me openly, however difficult it may be for you. You have been telling me the truth, haven’t you?’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Naomi had to contain her anger.

‘You haven’t had a call from the kidnappers that you haven’t told us about? No ransom demand? No communication of any kind?’

‘Absolutely not!’ declared John.

‘Why would you think we would hold anything like this back from you?’ Naomi asked.

‘Because in my experience – and no offence intended – people under the kind of strain you are under do sometimes. Because, quite naturally and understandably, you will do anything to get your children back. Often, if people are told by kidnappers not to mention something to the police, they comply. You need to understand where I’m coming from, and likewise, the reverse.’

After some moments of collecting her thoughts, Naomi responded, ‘Detective Inspector Pelham, so far as I am concerned you are coming from your life, and when you are finished today, you’ll go back home to your life. Until the moment I have my children back, safe and well and in my arms, I don’t have a life. Nor does my husband. Can I make that any clearer to you?’

The room in the Sussex Police Headquarters annex building smelled newly decorated and had the damp chill of all rooms that are only occasionally occupied.

Naomi sat on one of the twin beds, hugging herself for warmth, while John fiddled with the electric radiator. The walls were painted a pastel yellow, there were chintz floral curtains, two landscape prints – a view of Lewes Castle, and of the river Ouse – a small sofa, a writing table and a television, which John had switched on. A door opened onto a tiny en-suite bathroom.

In the hall outside the room, two armed police officers guarded them. Their presence should have made her feel safer, Naomi thought, but it didn’t. It just made her feel worse, even further divorced from reality.

Her phone beeped, telling her she had messages, and she played through them. Rosie. Her mother. Her sister. She rang home and checked the messages on the phone there. There were twenty. Some were from friends and neighbours in Caibourne, several from the press, and a couple of work ones for John, which she jotted down on the back of a receipt she dug out of her handbag.

‘That’s better, getting some heat now,’ John said.

She read out the work messages to him.

‘They’re not urgent, I’ll deal with them tomorrow.’

Tomorrow.
She thought.
Tomorrow
was a million years away. Luke and Phoebe could be alive tonight and dead tomorrow.
Tomorrow
wasn’t a luxury they had.
Now, this minute
, that’s how it had to be. ‘Will you call Reggie Chetwynde-Cunningham, see if he’s made any progress?’

‘He promised to call the moment he has any news.’

‘He might not have been able to get through.’

‘Hon, he has both our cellphone numbers, OK?’

One of their guards, a cheery Firearms officer in his late thirties, brought them their supper, a tray of lasagne and salad and rhubarb crumble and custard. He had three small kids himself, he told them, and knew what they must be going through.

Naomi, out of politeness, resisted telling him that no, he didn’t know what they were going through, he had no idea, no one could have any idea. Just hold in your mind the worst thing in the world you could imagine and then multiply it by ten billion. And not even that would take you close.

A while later they had a phone call from a doctor, at DI Pelham’s request, he said, asking if they would like sedatives or sleeping pills. Naomi politely declined, telling him she wanted to be fully alert if there were any developments during the night.

They watched each news bulletin in the forlorn hope that they might learn of some progress the police had not yet told them about. They were the lead item and the main story. The killing of the man in hospital. The death of the mystery woman with the false American passport. Speculations about paedophile rings, Disciples of the Third Millennium cult, the world adoption trade in small children. Excerpts from the broadcast John and Naomi had made yesterday. Pictures of Luke and Phoebe. A statement from DI Pelham saying little.

In between, Naomi made calls to her mother and sister, John dealt with some emails, and they watched
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
.

John managed to concentrate on the show for just one question, but within moments had lapsed back to his inner world. To the terrible guilt he felt for what he had done.
If
he hadn’t spoken to that journalist, Sally Kimberly, then there would never have been all the publicity. Perhaps no one would have taken any notice of them. Whoever had taken Luke and Phoebe, and for whatever reason, he felt certain he was in some way to blame.

He didn’t know what to say to Naomi, what to do about it, how to deal with it.

For the first time ever in his life he felt that if he were to die, it would be a blessed relief. And what he deserved. All that kept him going was the knowledge that somehow he had to be strong for Naomi, to keep every ounce of pressure on the police.

After the ten o’clock news Naomi said, ‘Do you think they will ever find them, John?’