Snatched (5 page)

Seven

Mac devised a plan before he’d completely worked out why he needed one. In a tense meeting with his boss, in which he’d been questioned carefully about the incident with the rope, he’d managed to convince Phil that there was no way an almost-registered disabled man like himself could be swinging out of windows, four floors above the pavement, insisting, ‘I’m not Spiderman . . .’

When Delaney had carefully checked his files, drawers and computer to make sure nothing was missing, he reluctantly let Mac go. ‘But be warned Mac. I’m sending this rope over to forensics. If I find evidence that you’ve been using it . . .’

Mac stared at the rope that was lying on the desk in front of him. ‘That’s a waste of resources at a time when the force is tightening its belt.’

‘Not to me, it isn’t.’

Dismissed, Mac went downstairs, fetched his car and took off at high speed for the hospital where John Mac was under observation. Tom Bracken had said that he thought Elena had skipped town and Mac would swear on the Bible he knew which town she’d skipped off to. So Elena had shopped Garcia to the Feds. Why? As Garcia had had their son he’d assumed they were associates. But maybe they weren’t. Or was this another one of Elena’s double-crosses?

With more questions in his head than answers Mac stopped on the way to buy a padded hoodie and a pair of sunglasses with which he entered the hospital. He took them off again when he reached the children’s ward and placed his police ID badge on a cord around his neck so he looked official. No guard outside his son’s room but Mac wasn’t naïve enough to think one might not be nearby. After checking out the positioning of the staff, he hit the fire alarm with his elbow and picked up a fire extinguisher.

The alarm screamed into action. There was the usual confusion. Was it a scheduled or unscheduled drill? Was there a little smoke somewhere and someone was playing safe? Or was there actually a fire? Mac marched down the corridor with an air of authority and called out, ‘Come on people, it’s a fire alarm, not the front door bell . . .’

He walked into the baby’s room and picked his son up. He was smiling. Mac wondered if the boy ever stopped being happy.

‘Come on little man, I think your mother’s in town and I’ve got a suspicion I know what she’s up to. And us two are going to stop her doing it.’

He walked back into the corridor and began barking at the confused staff who passed by. ‘Come on, you know what to do . . .’

But it seemed many of them didn’t, especially the temporary ones.

He was asked, ‘Is it a real fire?’

‘I don’t know; better safe than sorry.’

He walked out onto the wing’s main drag, pulled on his hoodie and tucked his son inside. He skipped down the steps to the ground floor. When he got to his car he laid John Mac on the front passenger seat. It was only then that he realised he didn’t have any idea where he was going to keep him. His flat was a non-starter; that would be the first place the police would look when they realised the kid was gone. Mac pulled away and then stopped when he saw his son rolling around dangerously on the seat. He needed a baby seat. In fact what he really needed was a mother. But where was he going to find one?

Unlike his previous experience at Foster’s club, on the second occasion, that afternoon, Mac was treated to the smooth and slick welcome at reception that an honoured guest of the eminent lawyer might expect.

‘Ah yes, you’re here to see Mr Foster of course. He’s expecting you in the smoking room. Please allow one of my colleagues to escort you.’

Stephen Foster sat in a distressed leather armchair, smoking a cigar, under the portrait of a no-nonsense Victorian Duke. Mac’s escort went off to get him a drink and when he returned, cut a Havana for him and lit it with a taper from a candle.

Foster didn’t look at him. ‘Have you brought a photograph?’

When Mac handed it over, the lawyer produced an ID card from his wallet and clipped it into place. He handed it to Mac. ‘According to that you’re from an agency that hires out temporary legal staff. I’ve booked you in for an appointment with Garcia at four. According to the prison visitor’s log, you’ll be there to deal with routine paperwork on behalf of my firm. Of course, if the prison staff get suspicious and call me up, I’ll deny any association with you. Then you’ll be arrested and you’ll need your own lawyer. Garcia knows you’re coming and he knows why. You can discuss any business you have with him in private.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Wetherall Maximum Security in West London: just report to the gate. Can you imagine? They put a respectable businessman like Mr Garcia in a place for terrorists and common criminals. No wonder the international business community prefer to do their work in other countries.’

‘Save it Foster, you’re not on TV now.’

The lawyer gave him a wary eye. ‘You’re a very confident young man aren’t you? You do understand the risks you’re running here?’

‘Sure. I just don’t care.’

‘Very well. I don’t think we need to see each other again’

‘Actually we do. I need you to look after something for me.’

Mac unzipped his hoodie. Foster looked down with horror at the sight of John Mac who was sound asleep inside the padded jacket, nestled on his father’s chest. ‘You want me to look after a baby? Are you mad? I’m a lawyer not a child-minder.’ He quickly looked around. ‘Small people aren’t permitted in here.’

‘I know what you are Mr Foster. Either you make arrangements to look after him or I’ll have to take the kid to see Garcia with me. Do you want to get your client off or not?’ Foster said nothing. ‘It’ll only be for a couple of days max. You must have facilities for this sort of thing. In fact I’m sure you have.’

‘Whose baby is it?’

‘Mine. It’s all legit. Just make sure he’s well looked after.’

Foster sighed, ‘You’re full of surprises young man . . .’

He pulled a phone out of his jacket pocket and made a call, ‘Sarah? I need you to meet me at my club. Bring a baby carrier with you . . . Just purchase one on the way.’

Mac finished his drink, kissed his son on the forehead and handed him over to a clearly embarrassed Foster. He stubbed out the Havana and put it in his pocket for later. As he got up to go, Foster warned him, ‘Let me remind you that Mr Garcia is not a man to be trifled with.’

Mac leaned over and whispered, ‘Neither am I. If I don’t get my son back in one piece as delivered . . .’ He didn’t need to finish his menacing sentence.

Mac listened to the car radio as he drove to the prison. There was nothing on the news about any abduction of a child from a hospital. But then why would there be? As soon as Phil Delaney heard that John Mac was gone, he would have a prime suspect. There was no call from his boss either. No, Phil knew that would be a waste of time. The best way to get Mac was to send out cars looking for him.

It was only when Mac arrived as the bogus solicitor at the heavy oak front gates of Wetherall Prison that he realised Foster had been right. He was running a terrible risk. He’d been to prisons many times for professional reasons but never to blag his way in. And he knew prisons were a lot more careful with security than most. Their own security depended on it.

He was ushered into the office at reception where an officer asked his name. Mac realised he hadn’t checked his fake ID card and so didn’t know what his name was supposed to be. He pulled out the card, ‘I’m here on behalf of Stephen Foster to see Mr Garcia. I’ve got an appointment.’

The officer examined the card carefully. Then he went out back to check his visitor’s credentials. He was gone a long time – far too long. When he returned it was with a more senior colleague, ‘I’m terribly sorry sir but I’m afraid we’ve some questions we’d like to ask you.’

The two men looked and sounded less like prison officers and more like detectives with a suspect. Mac looked backwards at the main gate. But it was too late for that now. He smiled at the two officers and waved his empty briefcase at them in an effort to prove he was a real solicitor.

‘Of course. What seems to be the problem?’

‘We’ve checked with the legal agency and they say you left their employ last month.’

At least Foster had taken the trouble to find the name of a real solicitor. ‘No, I handed in my notice with them last month. They’re obviously confused.’

‘If you work freelance for an agency sir, surely you don’t have a ‘notice’?’

‘They ask you to commit to them for three months at a time. I notified them last month that I wouldn’t be renewing.’ The two officers looked unconvinced. So Mac went for broke, ‘You know Stephen Foster don’t you?’

‘Of course sir, everyone knows Mr Foster.’

‘Call him then. He’ll put your minds at rest.’

One of two men disappeared again while the other kept Mac under observation. Foster had warned him at the club that he would not acknowledge any connection if there was any trouble. But Mac was betting that he would: the dodgy brief had too much to lose. And if anyone knew how to get a client out of difficulties with the authorities, it was Foster. When the prison officer returned he was grinning. As he escorted Mac into the prison he whispered, ‘You should have explained the situation to us sir. We’d have understood.’

‘Mr Foster explains these things so much better than I do.’

‘Of course.’

Mac made a mental note to find out what Foster had said, once he knew his son was safe for good. It was obviously a trick he might be able to use himself later. The officer thoroughly searched him inside a secure area near reception. Next was an X-ray machine. Then he was led into the legal suite where prisoners were allowed to consult with their lawyers. Garcia was already there.

Eight

Prison had changed Garcia. When he was arrested he’d looked like a jovial uncle who had been the victim of a cruel practical joke. When Mac set eyes on him, he looked like a caged animal with a grudge, a sharp set of claws and a grey tone on his olive skin.

Garcia got straight down to business when Mac took a seat opposite him. ‘Mr Foster tells me you have a proposal to put to me?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you mind telling me what your interest in this matter is?’

‘I’m the father of the baby you were hiding.’ Garcia didn’t react to his news. ‘I intend to keep him safe and sound and that means I need to know what his mother is up to. I’ve got a strong suspicion that she’ll be turning up here soon, looking to get him back. And I’m going to stop her doing that.’

Garcia shrugged his shoulders. ‘A baby should be with its mother.’

Mac leaned across the table. ‘I didn’t come here for a lecture on parenting the Garcia way. I want to know why you had my son and where his mother is.’

The prisoner nodded and said calmly. ‘You’re a police officer aren’t you?’

Mac reddened slightly. ‘No, I’m not.’

Garcia smiled. ‘I think you are. I find police interrogation techniques are the same all over the world.’ His smile became a malicious grin. ‘Although I’ll admit I’m cheating a little. I know you’re a policeman – Mr Foster told me. John MacDonagh isn’t it? Known to his colleagues as Mac? The man who was led around by the nose by the very persuasive Elena Romanov? You should know Mr Foster has a lot of friends in your police force. I suspect he’s hoping you’ll be one of his new “friends” there – whether you like it or not.’

When Mac said nothing, Garcia continued. ‘Come on Mac. We’re not going to get anywhere unless we’re frank with each other.’

‘OK, you’re right. I’m a cop.’

Garcia seemed pleased. ‘And you can use your position to help?’

‘Not for nothing I can’t. How did you end up with the boy? And where’s his mother?’

Garcia rubbed two fingers together on his right hand, like he was missing the comfort of a cigarette. ‘It’s a complicated story Mac. But basically the child’s mother had a relationship with the company I represent. She owed us a substantial sum of money, which she was reluctant to pay. As a result, senior managers in my company decided that holding her son as security might encourage her to settle her debt, together of course with a commission for late payment. Some gentlemen were hired to go and collect the security from the mother’s home in California. The woman wasn’t at home but as you can imagine her property was well guarded and as a result I’m afraid some of our men and some of hers unfortunately lost their lives . . . There’s no need to look like that Mac – the baby was completely unharmed.’

Just thinking of his son being kidnapped and possibly witnessing violence at such a young age made Mac shiver. Didn’t psychiatrists say that no matter how young or old a child was, those were the type of things they remembered?

‘As you can imagine,’ the money launderer continued, ‘the deaths meant that each side in this dispute were no longer inclined to reach a compromise. And of course, you know how mothers are with their children. Elena was determined to get her son back. As you will know also, this mother is a woman of considerable resources. My company decided that in the circumstances, it might be a good idea to get the boy out of the United States to a place where our opponent would have more difficulty finding him. As I had business in London, I was asked to look after him after he was brought to the UK on a false passport. So I hired a nanny and had some adaptations made to the house I was renting and took charge of the young man.’ Garcia smiled, showcasing two crooked side teeth. ‘Charming child.’