The Missing Hours (16 page)

It
was
pasta. That was what I was cooking. I remember it now. I remember the sound it made as it hit the wall behind his head. I remember the snaking dance as it oozed its way down the tiles, puddling at his feet.

I remember waiting for the excuses, for him to say that it was because we had been arguing (we had), because the IVF was stripping us bare, taking from us anything that wasn’t necessary for this oh so formal act of procreation (it was), because I had turned away from him, into myself, barely able to cope with making it through a day, let alone pumping life into a marriage (I had). I remember that he said none of that.

That he just stood there as I screamed, rounded globes of tears drifting down his cheeks.

I remember thinking that I had never seen him cry before. I remember telling him to get out. That we were done. Him standing there like he wanted to argue, wanted to beg, and part of me wanting him to, just so that I could unleash another round of fury on him, because there was so much inside me. So much anger that had nowhere to go. Then him lowering his head, turning, walking out the door.

Me sinking to the floor. The tiles so cold beneath me. Watching the pasta as it trickled down the wall. Waiting for the tears. Because surely there should be tears. But none came. Instead, sitting there for hours and hours and hours, a bottle of Rioja next to me, getting lighter and lighter.

I suck in a breath. Fix my vision on the spot of light on the bedroom ceiling, the street light breaking through a gap in the curtains. Tell myself that it is over. Tell myself that it is done. I feel a tear snake its way down my cheek, a surge of anger at him for doing this, for bringing me back here.

‘It was a long time ago,’ I repeat.

We lie there for a time in the unsteady darkness. The rain is coming harder now, the drumbeat a constant, dangerous thrumming, and it seems inevitable that at any moment the glass will break, will not be able to stand much more of this onslaught. But then, like with all things, there is a crescendo and then an ebbing, and what was once violent turns to an easy rhythm.

‘You know I love you? Right?’

I nod. Then realise that he cannot see me. ‘Yes.’

‘And … you know that I would never—’

‘I know.’ I cut him off. The rain has eased now, and I fight the urge to stand, look out of the window. Because it seems absurd that something that has created so much tumult should simply vanish. ‘We should get some sleep.’

He leans over. Kisses my cheek. Turns and settles on his side, his breathing gradually softening, lengthening.

I lie awake, staring into the darkness.

Case No. 38

Victim: Aria Theaks

Location: San Cristobal, Venezuela

Company: United Oil

2 February 2008

Initial event

At 5.30 p.m. on Tuesday 2 October, a young woman in a maid’s uniform knocked on the door of Jessica and Connor Theaks. Mr Theaks is a UK national, employed by United Oil and based out of San Cristobal, Venezuela. He and his wife lived there in a home funded by United Oil, with their six-month-old daughter, Aria.

Mrs Theaks opened the door to the young woman. She does not remember anything after that. Mr Theaks claims to remember coming downstairs and seeing an unknown woman in a maid’s uniform in the lobby of their home. He has no subsequent memories.

Examination of CCTV footage installed inside the downstairs lobby of the Theaks home allowed us to fill in the blanks. The footage shows Mrs Theaks opening the front door to a young Hispanic woman – approximately five feet five inches, shoulder-length black hair, slender, aged between twenty and twenty-five. It shows the woman blowing what appears to be a powder into Mrs Theaks’s face. Mrs Theaks then recoils, and is guided back inside the house by the young woman. The footage further shows Mr Theaks coming down the main staircase of the house, looking to his wife. The young woman then blows powder into the face of Mr Theaks.

Subsequent testing confirmed that this powder was scopolamine (devil’s breath).

CCTV footage then shows the Theakses standing passively in the lobby. The young woman appears to say something to Mr Theaks, who leaves, returning with a wad of money. He hands the money to the young woman and she places it inside her handbag.

Later examination showed that almost $5,000 in cash was removed from the house.

The young woman walks past the Theakses, out of camera view, returning holding their daughter, Aria Theaks. By all appearances, she is asleep, wrapped in a blanket. The young woman proceeds to walk calmly out of the house, leaving the Theakses standing in the lobby.

No attempt is made to stop her.

Upon regaining awareness, the Theakses realised that their daughter had been kidnapped and, as per their training and instruction, immediately placed a call to the headquarters of United Oil. A call was made to the Cole Group shortly thereafter.

Response

Initial contact with the operative of United Oil, and then with the Theakses, was made by Orla Britten, who served as a constant point of contact as the response team was assembled. The response team in this case was made up of myself (Ed Cole), Selena Cole and Beck Chambers. This would be Beck Chambers’ first case with the Cole Group, although he already had some considerable personal experience within the field of kidnap and ransom.

The team arrived in San Cristobal within twenty-four hours of the kidnap taking place. Upon arrival, we immediately attended the home of Mr and Mrs Theaks, who were, understandably, deeply distraught. They had independently viewed the CCTV footage, which had troubled them greatly.

The initial call from the kidnappers came in within minutes of our arrival at the home. The request was for £1 million in ransom.

The parents, whilst unable to raise such a considerable amount themselves, were very keen that the money be paid immediately, and a number of calls were made to the insurance company to this end. I explained to Mr and Mrs Theaks that any ransom paid would have to first be raised by themselves and only then refunded by the insurance provider, and advised them of the protocol in such cases, ergo the negotiation of the settlement in order to secure the release of their child.

The Theakses were somewhat sceptical of this policy.

I began negotiation with the kidnappers almost immediately, requesting an immediate proof of life before their demands would be considered. Selena Cole served as the interface with United Oil and with Rombok Insurance, United Oil’s insurer. Beck Chambers took it upon himself to support the Theakses. He was very skilfully able to convey to them the importance of trusting the protocols we had in place and allowing us to do our job to secure the release of their daughter.

I believe that both Mr and Mrs Theaks were tremendously comforted by his presence and reassured by his calm and supportive manner.

After some hours, a proof of life was delivered in the form of a phone call. A baby could be heard gurgling in the background. Mrs Theaks immediately became hysterical, desperate to reclaim her child. Whilst Beck supported her, Mr Theaks was asked to confirm that the sounds heard were those of his daughter. He was unable to definitively do so.

I pressed for a more concrete proof of life but was unsuccessful in my efforts.

We continued with the negotiation, mindful that the proof of life was less than conclusive.

After three days of negotiations, a figure was reached that was acceptable to all parties. This figure was £15,000. The money was to be left in a dead drop, in a bin in a park in the centre of San Cristobal.

Beck Chambers volunteered himself for this role, extremely keen to bring this kidnap to a close and return Aria safely to her parents. It was noted that, due to the presence of scopolamine in the initial crime, the drop would be a high-risk approach and represented no small degree of danger to Mr Chambers himself.

The drop was successful.

Within an hour, a call had been received from the kidnappers informing us that Aria Theaks had been left at the rear of a local hospital. Myself and Mr Chambers attended the scene. We opted not to inform the Theakses of the drop and the exchange, as we were still extremely aware of the inadequacy of the proof of life and were unsure as to what condition the child would be in when we found her. Selena Cole remained with the couple in order to support them.

We attended the local hospital and found a cardboard box in the location described.

Mr Chambers immediately approached the box and, upon opening it, revealed Aria Theaks in the same blanket in which she had been kidnapped, sleeping peacefully.

Immediate medical advice was sought and the baby was given a clean bill of health.

Aria Theaks was then quickly reunited with her parents, much to their enormous relief and gratitude.

Selena Cole established a support system for the Theakses before our departure from San Cristobal. The family will be receiving post-trauma counselling via a colleague of Dr Cole’s. Follow-ups to be undertaken by Dr Cole.

The breath of the devil

DC Leah Mackay: Thursday 9.05 a.m.

I WALK SLOWLY
along the corridor. The major incident room sounds like the distant buzzing of bees, and I think of long hot summers on the Cornish coast, in my grandmother’s garden, the brightly coloured flowers speckled with yellow and black forms, darting and dancing. It is a soporific sound, and yet I am tense, wired, so that I feel more awake now than I have felt in days.

I lay awake last night long after Alex’s breathing had shifted into a soft, steady rhythm. I lay beside him, watching my fingers, my palm splayed flat on the mattress. He was so close to me, the tip of my little finger an inch, perhaps less, from the base of his spine. Yet I couldn’t touch him. Incredible, really, how it works. I lay there and willed my fingers to move, to inch closer, make contact, but it seemed they were glued to the bed, that no will of mine was great enough to move them so that I could touch my husband.

He had left that night, the hot pasta still a wilting puddle on the kitchen floor. I had listened to his slow, defeated footsteps on the loose gravel drive. In my head, I knew where he had gone. He had gone to her, to this invisible other who had blown our lives apart. In my head it was clean, this vivisection of our marriage, a straight choice, her, me. And why would he pick me? With my failing ovaries, and my arms sore with the pinpricks of IVF injections, and my ever-growing sadness? I had sat on the kitchen floor, had almost laughed. I would pick her over me too.

I found out later that he hadn’t gone there, to his other woman. That he had gone to his mother’s. That she had yelled at him long into the night, early into the morning. But still she let him stay. Perhaps she thought, as I did, that if she turned him away, he would have little choice but to return to the scene of the crime, and then it would be truly done.

I don’t remember how long I sat there on that cold tiled floor. I remember that at some point I dragged myself into the living room and curled up in the armchair; it was too small to even consider sleeping in, but I needed its cold leather arms to cradle me as I cried myself to sleep. I remember calling in sick the next day, and the one after that.

It may have been days, or maybe it was weeks, I don’t know. I don’t like to think about it now. All I know is that he showed up at my door looking thinner, sadder, older. Can I take you to dinner? I always wondered, as the years passed and the wound began to knot over, criss-crossed by jagged weakened skin, if, when he stood at the door, behind him stood the spectre of his mother, hand raised to clout him should he fail. I do remember that she said to me, after, when it was all done and life had shifted again and I was swollen up with babies, ‘You know that you are my child too, don’t you?’ She didn’t look at me as she spoke, carried on briskly sorting Babygros into two piles, tiny baby, newborn. ‘As much as Alex is my son, you are my daughter. Just remember that.’

I don’t know why I said yes to that dinner. Maybe it was that I was lonely, maybe it was that I wanted to forget. And I still loved him, of course. But that’s not always enough, is it? Not to explain, not to make a marriage survive.

But anyway, why seems irrelevant now. The fact is, I did say yes, and so we began anew, meeting each other as for the first time. And sometimes I would forget. We would be laughing and I would feel a flush of the old love, the ignorant love, and then it would hit me again, this recollection, and Alex would slip, sliding from his pedestal on to the cold hard ground. And I would see it in him, that he recognised it, knew what I was thinking. How hard it must be to be a fallen hero.

Then came the stomach that just wouldn’t sit right, and two thin blue lines and the future that we were once so desperate for. I cried, we cried, happy, sad, who the hell knew? Because we were getting our castle, the one of our dreams. Only we both knew that the foundations were now built on shifting sand.

Alex moved back in. He had decorated the nursery inside of a month.