‘I’d like to speak to Mr Boxer alone,’ he said, shaking hands with Fox.
‘Maybe it would be a good idea if we all sat down together to start off with,’ said Fox. ‘You give us a recap of the developments so far. We can formulate an approach, discuss terms and conditions, and if you and Charles would like to continue, then, of course, I would leave you to do that.’
D’Cruz was irritated but he also realised that Fox held the key to Charles Boxer. D’Cruz opened his hands to the sofas and took a seat in the armchair at the head of the coffee table.
‘My ex-wife, Isabel Marks, called my daughter’s phone at around eleven-thirty on Friday night and had her first contact with the kidnappers,’ said D’Cruz, giving them a recap of the phone call, including the kidnapper’s name and his calm, authoritative state of mind.
‘Is that the only contact with the kidnappers so far?’ asked Fox.
‘No, they called me when my flight landed at Heathrow, using Alyshia’s mobile. An electronically distorted voice said, “Welcome to London, Mr D’Cruz”. I wasn’t even off the plane. It was three o’clock.’
‘Any demands made directly to you?’
‘No. He said there was plenty of time for that. The point of the call was to confirm what I already knew. In case I doubted Isabel, I suppose.’
‘But they didn’t say that,’ said Boxer.
‘No. They gave me the same instructions about not contacting the police and press, and said they wouldn’t be talking to me again. All further discussions would be through my ex-wife.’
‘Did they offer you proof of capture?’
‘They told me my favourite book, which I don’t admit to anybody, but Alyshia knows.’
Boxer and Fox wanted to ask the same question but didn’t.
They discussed the two lines that had contained some kind of demand. What could be ‘more complicated’? What could the kidnappers mean by it not being ‘a money-making exercise’? If D’Cruz knew, he wasn’t letting on. Of course he had business enemies.
‘Name me a billionaire, apart from perhaps Warren Buffet, who doesn’t have a line of people they’ve trodden on to get to where they are now,’ he said. ‘I had a brutal battle to gain control of the steel works I wrested from the hands of the Pitale family in 2007. I’m in a big fight now with Mahale Construction to get the contract to remove the slums from central Bombay and replace them with a major inner city development. They are also furious because the government has asked me to advise on the building of some nuclear reactors. But these are business battles. I know these people. They will try everything but they draw the line at family.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Fox.
‘I am dealing with members of their families. I don’t just talk to the patriarch, I speak to his sons and daughters. I know wives, husbands and their children. I know them socially. My wife, Sharmila, is very close to several women in the Mahale family, for instance.’
‘Have you increased security on your family in Mumbai?’ asked Fox.
‘They’re not to leave the compound until this is over. Screened tutors will come in to teach the children. Sharmila will only allow people she knows into the house. I’ve doubled security at the compound.’
‘What about foreign business dealings?’ asked Fox. ‘I understand you’ve moved into the Chinese market. You’re getting raw materials from Africa.’
‘Yes, well, it’s possible that the Chinese could be more ruthless than, say, the Europeans, but I haven’t antagonised anybody . . . yet. I’m selling steel to them. I’m buying parts from them. I’m growing two companies in the Special Economic Zones around Guangzhou and Shenzhen. I’m creating jobs and I’m paying in hard currency – if you can call the dollar hard.’
‘What about in London?’ asked Fox. ‘Do you have anything here?’
‘Property,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I’ve been buying commercial property over the last four years with the market being so low. Now I’m selling it.’
‘And in the UK generally?’ asked Fox.
‘I’m about to make a major investment in building electric cars and a network of battery recharging stations,’ said D’Cruz. ‘Some prototypes were delivered here from India last week for display in the City and out at Stratford. I’m trying to raise money for the project on the stock exchange. And if you’re asking, I haven’t had any death threats from Nissan or Toyota.’
‘Presumably you’re going to get some UK government support for this initiative,’ said Fox. ‘Tax breaks?’
‘Of course, just like anybody else would who’s making this kind of investment,’ said D’Cruz.
‘I think we’ll see from the “complicated” nature of their demands whether this is a business enemy,’ said Boxer. ‘If it really isn’t a “money-making exercise”, then it’s less likely that this is a criminal gang and we’d have to look more closely at business, political or maybe even Bollywood enemies. They’re not amateurs. Voice distortion, lack of panic, articulateness and the timing of this last call to you is intended to show that we’re dealing with professionals with resources.’
Fox could see that D’Cruz was impressed with the way Boxer handled himself. They agreed to come to terms, subject to Boxer’s acceptance by Isabel Marks. The meeting ended. Fox left.
‘Let’s have a drink’ said D’Cruz, moving over to a trolley laden with every conceivable liquor.
‘Famous Grouse on the rocks, please,’ said Boxer.
D’Cruz poured it out and made himself a pink gin.
‘Isabel’s father was an English diplomat,’ said D’Cruz. ‘He introduced me to this drink. I like it during the day. Whisky at night.’
‘Martin Fox told me you asked for me by name,’ said Boxer. ‘Not many people wander the world with a list of kidnap and ransom consultants in their wallets.’
‘I did my research,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I’ve always done my own research, whether I’m targeting a company to buy or trying to find the right person to do a job. I know a lot of people. They talk to me and I listen. I know rich people but I also know poor people. I come from poverty myself. Poverty can dull the senses, but if you want to get out of it, it can heighten them, too. I’ve never been wrong about the people I employ.’
Boxer didn’t interrupt. He knew this was the rich man’s moment.
‘That’s not true,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I was wrong about Alyshia. Ever since she showed me her intelligence from a very young age, I was absolutely certain that she would work for me, learn from me and ultimately take over from me. I’m not a patriarchal kind of person. I have a small boy, but even at six years old I can tell that he doesn’t have what Alyshia’s got. But I was wrong about her. She walked away from me. I underestimated her.’
D’Cruz swallowed hard against the emotion. Boxer watched and wondered how much to believe it.
‘Underestimated her?’ said Boxer.
‘I thought she would be happy to take over what I had created, but no. She wants to make her own way in the world, do everything on her own terms. She wants to learn things for herself, see how things work with her own eyes. She doesn’t want to be told. She said this to me a few years ago: “Other people’s experience is very valuable, but only half as valuable as your own”. Not bad for a twenty-one-year-old.’
‘That’s good,’ said Boxer. ‘She’ll cope well with being held in captivity. Is she physically resilient? Has she ever been in difficult circumstances before?’
‘No, she’s led a charmed life, of course. That’s what she’s fighting against. She found the poverty in Bombay very difficult to take. She was appalled that people lived in such squalor while others, like herself . . . well, you know the story. The culture shock stayed with her longer than most; in fact, it never seemed to lose its horror for her. That’s one of the reasons she came back to London, Mr Boxer. Can you see that being a problem?’
‘If you’ve already been tested, you know what to expect of yourself. If you’ve never been tested, you might be surprised. P
eople who think they’re tough, crumple like paper; while others who imagine themselves weak, find some steel inside.’
‘So what type of person copes best as a hostage?’
‘Someone who accepts their situation and is able to adapt to it. A lot of people react to fear by denying it. It’s not bravery, just paralysis. An emotionally-controlled person will fare better than an hysteric. Emotions consume lots of energy and volatility is not a good platform for thinking straight.’
‘She’s not highly strung,’ said D’Cruz. ‘Not like her mother.’
‘Intelligent people cope well because they know how to occupy themselves,’ said Boxer. ‘They don’t need outside stimulus. They can amuse themselves, think, observe and calculate. All good things. Having said that, you don’t want to be too intelligent, because you have to be able to get on with people. Persuade your guards to give you things and not mistreat you, for instance. You have to be able to form a relationship with your kidnapper so that in the ups and downs of a negotiation process, you can always maintain some kind of contact.’
‘She’s very bright,’ said D’Cruz, ticking off her attributes against Boxer’s list, ‘and well-liked.’
‘On the other hand, you don’t want to be too friendly. That can lead to the complications of Stockholm syndrome, when the victim begins to identify with the cause of their captor,’ said Boxer. ‘So you see, Mr D’Cruz, a delicate balance is required to be a hostage. You’re not born to it. You learn on the job, adapting your behaviour accordingly and developing survival techniques.’
‘I don’t know what I would do if any harm came to Alyshia.’
‘To me?’ said Boxer, deadpan.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ said D’Cruz, nearly summoning a laugh, ‘with myself. She is everything to me. I am a driven man, Mr Boxer. I hated being poor. I made a name for myself in the movies. I have created enormous wealth for myself and my country. And yet nothing has affected me more in my life than looking down on Alyshia sleeping when she was small and realising that my happiness depended on her.’
Boxer wished he’d never been told that D’Cruz had been a famous actor. He found himself examining everything for emotional veracity. He was also aware of a circling motion in this conversation. D’Cruz wanted to get to something, but not directly. It could have been a cultural difference, Asian versus Anglo-Saxon, but somehow Boxer thought it more to do with delicacy. The man was listening and responding to him, but there was something big and pressing concentrated elsewhere.
‘I see that you have a business yourself,’ said D’Cruz.
‘It’s a charitable foundation,’ said Boxer, thinking: now we’re getting to the deeper research.
‘I understand you started it because your father disappeared,’ said D’Cruz.
‘He went missing when I was seven years old,’ said Boxer, avoiding that phrase ‘on the run’.
‘But you didn’t name your charity after him. Normally, foundations are set up in memory . . .’
‘I’ve no reason to believe he’s dead,’ said Boxer. ‘But that’s beside the point. I set the foundation up because when people disappear, most of the time it’s those who are left behind who really suffer. I called it The LOST Foundation because it describes the state of those still desperate to know what happened.’
‘And how do you finance this foundation?’
‘Donations. Fundraising events.’
Boxer was feeling the pressure of the man’s interest but didn’t shift in his seat. D’Cruz’s mind swooped and banked away.
‘Do you spend any time on your father’s case?’
‘No, not now,’ said Boxer. ‘When I first gained access to the police file, I spent all my spare time following leads.’
‘Trying to prove his innocence?’
‘To see if I could find him.’
‘Where and when was he last seen?’
‘He was seen by his neighbour in Belsize Park late morning, August 14th 1979,’ said Boxer, wondering if D’Cruz was genuinely interested or if this was just a ‘getting to know you’ process. ‘Twenty years later, I found the Indian “bucket shop” owner who’d sold him the ticket to Crete, and later I found the hotel where he’d been staying on the south coast of the island and its owner back in ’79. He showed me the beach where they found his clothes and passport. And that’s where it all ran out.’
‘It can’t be easy,’ said D’Cruz, ‘to pay two full-time employees in London, even if they are retired policemen.’
‘We manage,’ said Boxer, undisturbed by D’Cruz’s jolting interview technique. ‘Maybe you should tell me why you asked for me by name?’
‘I was told about you by a Chinese businessman in Shanghai. You performed a very special service for him, for which I understand he makes a substantial monthly payment to The LOST Foundation.’
‘Zhang Yaoting,’ said Boxer. ‘And did he tell you the nature of this special service?’
‘He said that after you’d negotiated the return of his son from the gang holding him in Nigeria, you tracked them down and shot all four men,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I’d like you to do the same for me.’
‘Does that mean you know who we’re dealing with?’
‘No, it doesn’t. I have no idea. I am, of course carrying out my . . . research, but I have no leads.’
Silence from Boxer while he looked hard at D’Cruz’s face, searching for any tell-tale signs. All he saw was a powerful determination. But it did give him a breathing space to recover from the shock of D’Cruz being the second person in twenty-four hours who knew about his dirty secret. Something somewhere was leaking and he didn’t like it.
‘I’m serious,’ said D’Cruz. ‘Once you’ve negotiated Alyshia’s release, I want you to find the gang who were holding her and kill them all.’
‘There’s a big difference between doing that sort of thing in the Niger Delta and the banks of the Thames.’
6
6.30 P.M., SUNDAY 11TH MARCH 2012
The Ritz, Piccadilly, London
‘Found Amy,’ said the text. Boxer called Mercy on the way down to D’Cruz’s limousine, which was waiting outside the hotel to take them to Isabel Marks’ house in Kensington.
‘She’s in Tenerife with Karen and some other girls,’ said Mercy. ‘She flies back tonight.’
‘And what the hell is she doing there?’
‘Sun and sea. Clubs and bars. What else does a group of girls get up to in Tenerife?’
‘How did she pay for it?’
‘I’m working on that. Karen’s mother assumed I’d paid for the ticket,’ said Mercy. ‘What riles me more than anything is that she doesn’t care. Amy knew we’d find out in the end and yet she still went ahead and did it. What are we going to do with this kid?’
‘I suppose she’s not taking calls on her mobile.’
‘I can picture her face when she sees “Mum” coming up on her screen every two minutes. I tried the hotel but they’re not in.’
‘Tenerife for the weekend? It doesn’t make sense,’ said Boxer. ‘There’s something else going on.’
‘I’ll be at Gatwick this evening to meet her off the plane,’ said Mercy. ‘How’s the job?’
‘I’m just about to meet the mother,’ said Boxer. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
Boxer got into the back seat of the Mercedes. D’Cruz sat behind the chauffeur. He’d already told Boxer not to say a word about their business in front of the driver. They drove down Piccadilly, through the tunnel under Hyde Park Corner and crawled into Knightsbridge. It was cold, barely above freezing, the winter lingering through March. Londoners walked at their usual breakneck speed, hands thrust into coat pockets, collars up, merciless with dawdlers. D’Cruz stared out of the window at the darkening scene outside the Royal Mandarin Hotel and the new development of One Hyde Park.
‘I’ve always looked after Isabel,’ he said quietly. ‘She works in publishing but she doesn’t need to. A couple of years ago, I moved her into this new house
in Kensington from where she used to live in Edwardes Square because her neighbour, some divorced banker, kept pestering her. It was supposed to be temporary, one of my residential investments, but for some reason she’s still there. She’s never been interested in anyone else since we split up. I was the only man she ever wanted. I feel responsible for her.’
Boxer nodded, said nothing, surprised at the intimacy.
‘Does she have a relative or a close friend she can rely on?’ Boxer asked, after some moments. ‘Someone who can support her . . . through all this?’
‘It won’t be me,’ D’Cruz said. ‘We’re close but there are limits. Her younger sister, Jo, is with her now. They’ll be all right for about a day but don’t be surprised if she gets rid of her after that. Her closest friend, Miriam, is a diplomat’s wife in Brazil. She might be able to come over.’
A scooter pulled alongside the passenger window on the driver’s side. The rider wore a black helmet, visor down, and a bulky, black anorak, but what Boxer noticed was the lack of gloves in the freezing cold, and that there was no good reason for him to stop. The helmet did not turn. The rider’s right hand flipped the visor up and then reached inside the black anorak. Boxer didn’t wait to see what it came out with. He hauled D’Cruz out of his seat by the collar of his coat and threw him in the footwell, rolled on top.
‘Drive,’ he roared, as the window shattered with an explosive pop and he felt the diamonds of glass shower over his back. A thud.
‘U-turn,’ shouted Boxer.
The limo lurched forward, made an arc in front of the oncoming traffic, which had just come through the green light. Cars swerved, braked and honked. Boxer pushed himself up, twisted his torso and looked out of the window in time to see that the Vespa, which had peeled away from the line of traffic, was heading back towards Hyde Park Corner.
‘Follow that scooter.’