The Vanishing (31 page)

Tom looked at it with a sigh. ‘I told you. I didn’t see anyone close enough. And besides …’ He stopped. A detail in the photo caught his eye. It wasn’t a mugshot photo, but a very clear image of someone slim and tall, with hard, bony features, cropped blond hair, wearing a smart suit, in a street somewhere.

‘A surveillance team took that,’ his dad said.

‘You watched him in 2003. Why?’ Tom put his finger on the feature that was bothering him. He couldn’t work out what he was trying to remember. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

His dad came round the table and looked over his shoulder. ‘A scar,’ he said.

Tom felt his heart trip. He took a breath. ‘A V-shaped scar,’ he said, very quietly.

‘Yes. It’s distinctive. A war wound of some sort.’ His dad looked down at him. Their eyes met. ‘You’ve seen the scar before?’ his dad asked, suddenly getting it.

‘No,’ Tom said. ‘But Sara has. She saw it through the weapon sights. She told me. A V-shaped scar on his cheek. Distinctive. It could be him.’ But already he was thinking of all the possible coincidences that might ruin that conclusion. He was still thinking about them when his father spoke again.

‘We put a team on him because in 2003 he was working security for a big-time Russian mobster called Dimitri Barsukov.’

‘Barsukov?’ Tom stood up quickly. ‘I don’t believe it. This guy works for Barsukov?’

‘You know Barsukov?’

‘No. But I was meant to get to know him. Less than a week ago. I’ll tell you about it.’

They stood looking at each other.

‘OK,’ Tom said, frowning. ‘That’s one coincidence too many.’

His father nodded. ‘You’re getting the same feeling I have.’

‘Not that Sara is Lauren Gower. Definitely not. There’s nothing pointing to that at all.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘But maybe Barsukov has her,’ he said, uncertainly. ‘Maybe Barsukov is behind all of this.’

Her mind kept going to the crocodile clip. It was right by his leg, almost within her reach. She just had to move a little closer to him to get it. The shackle was attached to a short chain and that was bolted into the floor. There was a lock. He would have the key. She had to get him feeling safe with her, then get the clip. Attach it to him, switch it on. Electrocute the fucker.

She ate the food. She thought that might relax him a bit, make him think she trusted him, and anyway, she was starving and damaged and it would help. She needed a clear head. There was nothing to suggest he would try to poison her. He talked while she ate, sitting on the stool and rambling on in a morose, depressive voice, telling her about her family, how he had met them, where, when. He talked slowly, avoided eye contact. She stuffed a whole sandwich in and chewed without tasting, then drank about a litre of water from a bottle. She expected to be sick, but she wasn’t. Instead, she very quickly started to feel better, just as he had predicted. Her head began to clear, her heart started to slow, she was able to think.

‘There were rumours,’ he said. ‘Rumours that Liz Wellbeck couldn’t have a child.’ He looked directly at her. ‘Maybe you heard those rumours. That she stole someone else’s child?’

She frowned. She didn’t know what he was talking about.

‘But that was all before you were born,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who told you she wasn’t your mother. But maybe they heard those rumours, and got it wrong.’ He stood up and walked across the floor, leaned against the wall, back to her. He looked more agitated now. She had no idea why. She checked the clip again. It was in reach, she thought. But he wasn’t. She shuffled forward on the mats a little, watching to see if he would notice. He didn’t move from the wall.

‘I was working for her when you were born,’ he said, talking into the wall. ‘Liz Wellbeck was your mother. There were no children stolen. Those rumours were all rubbish. You should believe me.’

She took another drink of the water, spilled some, wiped her mouth with her sleeve. ‘Why do you care?’ she asked him. ‘She’s dead. Doesn’t matter if she was my mother or not – you’re not going to get any money from her.’

She started to move again. If she dived, she thought she could get her hands on the clip. He turned his head slightly, looked at her, then immediately looked at the clip. Like he’d read her thoughts. She froze. He pushed himself off the wall, walked over to the clip and kicked it back, away from her. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Why should I care?’

It was after nine by the time they could get everything ready, but still Tom hadn’t been able to sleep for longer than about fifty minutes. Standing in the foyer of Barsukov’s Knightsbridge address, he leaned on the counter between himself and the man he had spoken to and let his eyes close momentarily. The man was standing back from the counter, phone to his ear, speaking in hushed tones to communicate Tom’s presence to Barsukov’s people in the apartment far above.

Tom knew Barsukov was here, because he had called him, using an ordinary mobile number his father had provided. Barsukov hadn’t answered, hadn’t even spoken to him. But what Tom had said had been enough to get this meeting set up. What Tom had said was that he wanted to negotiate over Sara Eaton, that if Barsukov didn’t cooperate then he would go to the police with a list of thirty-seven properties held by Barsukov. That Barsukov had bitten didn’t necessarily mean he was holding Sara Eaton at one of these properties, but it
might
mean that. It might.

Tom was trying not to focus on how speculative his reasoning was. At the moment his father was going along with it all – caught up in a fever of excitement at the absurd idea that Sara might be the missing Lauren Gower. Any little glimmer of hope that might shine a chink of light on his twenty-two-year-old case had to be worth following through. He had already had meetings and phone calls with colleagues from Operation Grenser, retired and ongoing, already involved the new Grenser SIO, ostensibly on his terms. Which at the moment were that they should proceed quietly, in secret, without even telling Freddie Eaton, because this was their only chance of recovering Sara alive.

But that would have to change soon. Before long someone was going to call Freddie Eaton with a ransom demand. Eaton was highly connected. He would certainly wish to use those connections. There was a deputy assistant commissioner, or some such, who had flags against Eaton on all the systems. So he should already have been told about John Lomax’s information and involvement. Maybe he had. If so, he hadn’t appeared yet. But he would appear sooner or later. Then Tom’s father was going to have no control over it. Tom had until then to test his hunch, to go for Barsukov.

The address was a high-profile recent development to cater for the super-rich, an address that even Tom had heard of. There had been carefully orchestrated media coverage when the place had opened, rumours that the penthouse apartments were going for over one hundred and forty million. The security was said to be provided by ex-SAS personnel, though if that was so they weren’t hanging around the atrium chewing gum and looking hard. The atrium was full of activity and people, but it looked more like the foyer of an expensive hotel than a carefully guarded residential address. Everything was normal – rich-normal, at any rate. There were men standing either side of the lifts up to the apartments, true, but they didn’t look like bouncers – more like off-duty waiters. Perhaps that was their skill. Tom couldn’t see any indication that they might be armed, though there had been press rumours about that too. It occurred to him again that – despite everything looking relaxed and normal, despite the luxury address in the heart of London – what he was doing might still carry a risk – the man he was approaching played by different rules, as he already well understood. But the fear was just a shadow behind the urgency. This was
all
he could think of to do, so he was doing it. And he wasn’t completely alone. His father was out there, on the street, in the car. And within the hour there would be proper back-up – his father was seeing to that. So there was some protection. Just not much.

The man dealing with him had been scrupulously polite, but it was obvious nevertheless that he regarded Tom with distaste, a stain on the pristine carpet, not the type they liked to let in via the main entrance. Tom was in clean clothes, but his face was a mess of cuts and bruises, one eye fat and swollen. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, which was blocked with clotted blood, and his lips were swollen and wouldn’t close properly, so that he had to keep wiping his sleeve across them to stop saliva dribbling all over when he spoke. He tried to keep on top of all this as discreetly as possible.

He was waiting about five minutes for the man to come back to him, and in the end it was another character who appeared at his elbow to tell him that Barsukov was ready. This one was a bit heavier, though not tall, and spoke English with an accent. He looked at Tom with hard eyes and indicated that he should follow him to a lift.

Once inside they stood side by side and took the ride to the top floor in silence. It was only when the doors opened that the fun began. There were three more waiting to greet him. Which meant drag him out and put him against the wall. It was done with enough force to make it clear that he shouldn’t bother arguing. He was into it now. There would be no turning back.

Two held him, tight enough for it to hurt, two searched him. When that was done he was propped between them and walked forcibly down a tasteful, short corridor to the door to Barsukov’s apartment. This they opened by one of them standing in front of a sophisticated piece of wall-mounted kit which Tom guessed was a retina scanner. Then they were in and Tom was released into a large, very bright reception room, walls and ceiling of glass and steel. The four of them stood close to him, facing him, hands at their sides. Barsukov was already there, lounging on a long, semicircular couch done out in cream leather, a big balcony window behind him, everything chrome and glass and minimalist, spotless, reeking of luxury. Except Tom. Barsukov looked at him with a scowl, then said something in Russian. One of the four answered, then there was a further exchange and they walked off through a door to the left.

‘That leaves me and you, Lomax,’ Barsukov said. ‘I let you up because I didn’t understand the message I was given and because …’

‘We already met,’ Tom said. ‘You hit me about a week ago, broke a tooth …’

‘Don’t interrupt me. I know who you are. What was the message – give me it again.’

Tom took a breath. ‘I want to talk about Sara Eaton …’

‘I got that bit – what was the rest, the crude blackmail attempt?’

‘Blackmail? Hardly. I said if you wouldn’t see me then I would go to the police with a list of thirty-seven addresses owned by you …’

‘That was it. Yes.’ He stood up and walked towards Tom. ‘Thirty-seven addresses. That was the part I didn’t understand.’ He looked angry, like he was going to throw another punch.

‘I’m not alone in this,’ Tom said quickly. ‘If I don’t make a call within the next fifteen minutes then it starts. I call every ten minutes after that. Or it starts.’

‘What starts?’

‘The information goes to the police, along with everything we know and those addresses. The police will start an operation to search those addresses. At the very least.’ He hoped.

Barsukov looked mildly surprised. He stood in front of Tom, looking up at him as if trying to read something written on his face. He was wearing a suit, no tie. After a little he sighed and nodded. ‘I don’t understand anything you’ve said,’ he said, quite loudly. He looked at the floor. ‘There is some error, surely. You’ve come to the wrong place, the wrong person. I’ve never heard of this Sara Eaton person …’

‘I meant it. We will go straight to the police …’

Barsukov looked sharply at him, then put a finger to his lips. Tom shut his mouth. ‘You do what you have to Mr Lomax,’ he said. ‘As I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ He smiled, then pointed off to a door – adjacent to the one the security had gone through. Tom frowned. What was he saying? That the place wasn’t secure, that there might be surveillance devices? Tom shrugged. That didn’t bother him. But then Barsukov suddenly leaned closer to him and whispered, so low Tom had to lean forward to hear – ‘
We talk through there, or not at all. Your choice.
’

‘OK,’ Tom said. ‘But remember …’ He took his phone out and looked at the time on it. ‘Nine minutes now. I call in nine minutes or it’s out of my hands.’

‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’ Barsukov replied, smiling again, as if there might be cameras on him too. ‘You do whatever you have to. But I think we’re finished here now.’ He walked over to the door, a big glass thing, inviting Tom to follow. Tom paused, unsure how to assess the risk. Barsukov opened it and Tom saw beyond an empty room, a toilet, or bathroom, it seemed, though big enough to be his living room.

He sighed then followed Barsukov through, the phone still in his hand. Once inside he saw that they were in a beautifully tiled bathroom/toilet – the guest toilet, presumably – with neat towels and soaps, like something in a hotel, fine art on the walls, separate shower, big circular bathtub and jacuzzi, two toilets, two bidets, flatscreen to watch while you did your business, a shelf full of medicines, or toiletries, even a little bar with drinks. There was nothing to suggest why this room would be any more secure than the last – from a surveillance point of view. But as Barsukov closed the door on the reception room he started to talk at once. ‘Just a precaution,’ he said. ‘This room is perfectly secure. No one can hear us here. No one at all.’ He wasn’t smiling any more. Almost as soon as he shut it the door opened again and the four heavies came in. Then there were five of them standing in front of Tom and he was feeling distinctly afraid. He was in the middle of the room, back to the toilets. There were no windows. The door closed again with a smooth click. One of the men turned and pressed a button on the wall, to lock it.

‘What’s the matter?’ Barsukov asked. ‘You look nervous.’

Tom held his phone up. ‘I meant what I said about the call.’ He wiped his sleeve across his lips. His heart was beating very fast now.