The Missing Hours (8 page)

This is where Selena Cole began, with an extreme figure, one that no insurance company would ever pay.

I cannot tell you what that figure is, mainly because I don’t know. It’s the rule in K&R. You don’t talk about the numbers. You don’t reveal how much you paid, in case the next guy asks for a little bit more, then the guy after that a little more still.

‘Negotiation is about building a relationship, allowing the kidnapper to see that everyone is working towards the same goal – a successful resolution, a safe release for the hostage. It’s just that some relationships are tougher to build than others.’ – Selena Cole

Day after day, Selena Cole sat in a dark hole of an office and worked the phones, talking, charming, occasionally chastising, until, gradually, the ransom figure began to drift downwards.

It’s a controversial business, the payment of ransoms to kidnappers. Recent legislation in the UK has made it illegal for insurance companies to knowingly pay money to a known terrorist organisation. And there is little doubt that the money used goes directly into funding criminal activities – drug dealing, terrorist operations. But those involved in the industry say that, at this time, there is no other way, that the payment of a minimal ransom is the safest and most effective way of ensuring the release of the hostage.

One Wednesday morning, the drop was made.

One Wednesday afternoon, five weary, frightened men were dumped on the outskirts of Riohacha. Exhausted but very much alive.

‘In those five days, I thought I was going to die. In my head, I kept saying goodbye to my wife, my three children, over and over again. I thought I would never see them again. But I am alive. And now I get to go home to my family.’ – Hostage, aged 42

‘It is an area fraught with moral ambiguity. You know that part of what you do is funding criminality, and the thought of that, it’s tough. And yet, ultimately, what we are doing is bringing families back together.’ – Selena Cole

There are no right answers in a question as complex as this. And whilst kidnaps keep happening, undoubtedly there will be ransoms paid. We can criticise, stand on our soapboxes and deride those who contribute to criminal enterprises, but ultimately we are not the ones who will have to make the sacrifice if they do not. So perhaps we should wait – judge not, lest ye be judged – and ask ourselves, could I make the sacrifice if it was me?

Coming home

DC Leah Mackay: Tuesday, 10.48 p.m.

I STARE INTO
the night. The curtains are open, a gaping jaw framing the darkness beyond, the pinpricks of orange street lights in the distance. I should close them, should think about going to bed. But still I sit, my knees pulled up tight, laptop balanced on my lap.

I managed to finish on time today, there or thereabouts. Managed to get to the crèche early enough that the twins weren’t the last children there. Tess flung herself at me like she hadn’t seen me in a year, Georgia sparing a moment from the doll whose hair she was brushing to throw me a wave. It’s always been like this with them. Twins identical in all but their reactions to the world. Georgia fearless and forthright. Tess cautious and clinging.

I finished on time. Leaving Selena Cole still missing.

I stare out at the street lights, watch them flicker. Is she walking beneath those street lights? Or is it in darkness that we will find her, her body curled in on itself like a foetus in the womb? Are you alive, Selena? Or is it already too late?

A creak of floorboards above my head makes me start, and I look up, although I know there is nothing to see. It is nearly eleven. Alex will finish work soon, will pack up for the night. Will he come down? Ask me if I’m coming to bed? Or will he simply go, allowing me to fend for myself? My stomach flips at the thought, and I wonder distantly when it all became so damn complicated.

My mobile buzzes. My brother.

Having a nice relaxing evening? Jammy cow.

I know where Finn is, or at least I imagine I know where he is, because I know how these things go. He is sitting at a desk, shuffling papers in a bright artificial light. Or he is sitting in a darkened room, surrounded by screens, watching grainy CCTV footage. It is this way with a murder. The rest of the world stops, cases coming to a grinding halt, families vanishing into a chaos of background noise. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, at least no more than a couple of hours a night. You work and you work and you work, until it is solved or until the overtime budget runs out or until something worse happens.

I type a reply, thumb moving quickly across the flat screen.
Yeah. Until tomorrow.

My baby brother. People laugh, the two of us together on the same CID shift. We have been called Topsy and Tim more than once. And in truth, there seemed little hope that Finn would follow where I led. He had a good career of his own, serving his country. First Battalion, First Fusiliers, armoured infantry. A hero soldier. Then came love, a tumultuous relationship that would barely hang around long enough for him to get settled back into British life, and when the dust settled from a particularly stormy break-up, Finn had lost everything. His career. His girlfriend. His home.

I was a PC at the time, drowning in a never-ending series of night shifts, fighting the local drunks at three in the morning and growing increasingly frustrated with humanity. I had complained about it to my brother, thought I’d done a pretty good job of putting him off policing for ever.

Apparently not.

It was, as time would show, a perfect fit for him, a job that allowed him to pick up where the military left off, and fairly quickly, he leapfrogged right over my head, Finn chasing promotion whilst I was laid up, fat and pregnant.

Am I jealous? No. Yes. Mostly I’m just tired. And the jobs I have to do, they’re enough for now.

I draw the line at calling him Sarge, though.

I continue to gaze at the street lights.

I got a message on my way home from the crèche, a heads-up from the DI. Wrap up your case, you’re moving to the murder team tomorrow. The girls were sitting in the back of the car, identically tied in to their identical car seats, singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ loudly and out of key. My insides sank. I knew it was coming. You do, when you’re CID and a murder comes in. You know that it’s all hands to the pump. But I looked into the rear-view mirror at my two little girls and wanted to cry. I wouldn’t be there to put them to bed tomorrow night. In all likelihood, the night after that and the night after that. I would vanish for them, just as certainly as Selena Cole has vanished for her girls.

I set the phone down, rest my head back against the sofa, old enough and used enough that it is beginning to sag. I think about tomorrow. I think about my juggling, all of the balls that I will be setting down. Motherhood. Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Selena Cole. Alex will pick the girls up from crèche. He’ll bring them home, give them their dinner, put them to bed. They will be fine. But Selena Cole … she will simply remain as she is. Gone.

Where are you, Selena? What happened to you?

I stood in the Cole kitchen, kept my voice low.

‘Your sister-in-law.’ My head was close to Orla’s, my gaze on the girls, sitting back at the kitchen table now. Orla had convinced them to eat, had made them toast, smeared thick with Nutella. Vida watched, forehead heavy in disapproval. ‘She was seeing a psychiatrist?’

Orla pulled back, stared at me. ‘She … It was after Ed … she needed a little help. That’s all. It’s nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘And the antidepressants?’

Orla’s mouth moved, an answer that came without words, and then, as always happens with children, Tara said something, pulling her attention away. I let it slide. Perhaps best that she doesn’t spend too long thinking of the implications of that.

In my head, there is an image: Selena Cole, a woman who can take on the world, unstoppable, indomitable.

And then there is the other image: Selena Cole, drowning in grief, hanging from some rafter somewhere we have not yet thought to look.

Which one is true? Or are they both true? Can she be both one thing and the other?

I scroll down the Google search listings again. It was not a complicated search. My missing person was (or is) a woman of substance. Her name in the search bar, and articles pop up, one, two, ten. The Rescuer, they call her. Like she is some superhero. Perhaps she is. Perhaps her superpower is invisibility. I rub my eyes. I really should go to bed. What, I wonder, would I find if I typed my own name in instead? Very little, I suspect. I’ve never been to Colombia. I’ve never been to Poland to rescue my nephew. I spare a moment to think about Finn, what the hell that would be like, him having a son, let alone a kidnapped one.

There is another creak from above me, Alex’s footsteps heavy and slow across his study, the groan of the door.

I stare at a picture of Selena that accompanies an article, her hair tied back, her frame swamped in a bulletproof jacket.

How long will she have to wait now before I can find her? It is cold, even for the time of year. So that should preserve the body, if indeed there is a body to preserve. It’s not like in the summer heat, when the flesh begins to break down, flies rushing to the scene like, well, like flies to a carcass.

On an impulse, I pick up the phone, dial the number. It is answered on the first ring.

‘Orla? It’s Leah Mackay. I just wanted to see if you’d heard anything.’

She sounds exhausted, her accent heavier now than it was this morning. ‘Nothing. The kids … they … they’re really upset. I only just managed to get them to sleep. My husband’ll be here soon. He’s on his way down from London, so … things will be easier then.’ She says it like she is trying to force herself to believe it, and I wonder what it is that she believes this husband will do to fix where we are.

‘Orla, look, I’ve been doing some reading, looking into your sister-in-law’s background, what she does … I understand she does work in Colombia, places like that?’

‘Yes. Not so much lately, but before … yes.’

‘I … Orla, I don’t want to worry you any more than is necessary, but is there any way she could have been kidnapped herself? I mean, one of these Colombian gangs …’

She goes quiet for a moment. ‘I just … I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of them operating outside of Latin America. I mean, yes, the job can be dangerous. It involves going into high-risk areas. But that danger, it’s contained, you know? It doesn’t follow you home.’

‘I see.’ I stare at the photo. ‘Okay. Look, call me if you hear anything. No matter what time it is.’

‘I will,’ says Orla. ‘And thanks.’

I set the phone down, have not even let it go before it begins to ring again, its vibrations dancing an insistent beat against my leg.

‘I thought you were working,’ I say.

Finn snorts. ‘Yeah, well, someone’s got to.’

‘Anything happening?’ What I mean is, have you solved it yet? What I mean is, have you found the murderer of a good, decent man, so that I may return to my wild goose chase?

‘Nah.’ He sighs, and it catches at me. The closest my brother ever comes to sadness is that sigh.

‘You okay?’ Then I realise what I have said. ‘Yeah, I know, I know. You’re fine …’

He gives a bark of a laugh. ‘Always. No, just got back from identifying the body with the boyfriend.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, it is what it is. Hey, I’ve got a question for you.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You know him?’

‘Who? Isaac?’ I shift a little, setting my laptop down on the sofa beside me. ‘Not really. I’ve met him a couple of times.’

‘You think he could have done this?’

I think of Dominic, his voice bubbling with affection when he spoke Isaac’s name. Another floorboard creaks above me, then another, on the stairs this time. ‘I don’t know, Finn. I would like to say no, but then I guess you never know what goes on inside another person’s relationship.’

The living-room door opens, and Alex slips in, running his fingers through his dark hair so that it stands on end. He gives me a quick smile and I mouth the word ‘Finn’. It occurs to me that my husband is handsome, with his dark hair that remains thick, bright blue eyes that, if you are lucky, seem to laugh. Strange, isn’t it, to think that way about a man whose life you have shared for eight years. But then I suppose it goes that way sometimes, that life forces you to step outside of yourself, looking in at your marriage as a stranger rather than one who is buried within it.

‘Yeah,’ says my brother. ‘I guess I’ll have to defer to your judgement on that one. You know that briefing is at eight, right?’

‘Mm hmm.’

‘What?’

‘What what? Nothing. I’ll be there.’

‘You squared away your missing person, right?’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘she’s still missing, so not really.’

A hefty silence, and I can tell that my brother is debating whether to put his foot in it or not.

‘Lee, it’s a murder.’

Foot in it it is.

‘Yes, Finley. I’m aware of that.’

‘No, I’m just saying …’

‘Look, I have to go.’ Alex is staring out of the window, his arms folded, trying to look like he isn’t listening. ‘I’ll see you at eight.’

I hang up, watch Alex as he pulls the curtains tight shut. It feels wrong somehow, shutting the night out. Who will be watching for Selena now?

‘Everything okay?’ he asks.

I nod, close the laptop and lean my head back against the sofa. ‘How was work?’ He’s an IT consultant, a wizard in a world of things I know nothing about.

He shrugs. ‘You know …’ He looks smaller now, younger. Opens his mouth, closes it again. ‘I’m off to bed.’

I could just stay here. My hand rests on top of the closed laptop. I could stay up, keep digging, wait for him to fall asleep. I could do that.