Bring Him Back

  ‘Take care. I’ll be in touch,’ Ben said, heading towards the door.

  ‘Ben?’ she said, and he stopped and turned.

  She stepped up to him, reached out and clasped both his hands tightly.

  ‘Please find him. Find my son. Bring him back.’

  5

  DREW HUNTER’S ABODE since his divorce from Jessica had been a stark contrast from the family home the two of them had once shared. Ben parked a little way up the quiet street from the modest semi-detached suburban house on the outskirts of St Helier.

  He didn’t get out of the car immediately, because nobody could have failed to notice the police patrol car sitting right outside Drew’s place. Ben sat at the wheel of his Mondeo, watching it. He could see the figures of two officers inside, in conversation with one another. With time passing and the kidnap becoming yesterday’s news, he guessed that the cops would be downscaling their surveillance of the place, just dropping by now and again on the off chance that they could catch Drew sneaking back to his address.

  As if he’d come near the place with a marked car plonked outside his gate, Ben thought. Not the best strategic policy in the world. But that was why they were the police.

  A few minutes later, the patrol car drove away. Ben got out of the Mondeo, walked to the house and let himself in the front door using the key that Mike had given him.

  As he went from room to room, he was keeping his eyes open for the telltale signs that Jessica had described and which hopeless drunks always left in their wake. Empty bottles lying about, unwashed glasses perched on every flat surface reeking of stale beer and spirits, dishes piled high in the sink, fast food containers overflowing from the bin.

  But there were none of those. The house was tidy, everything in place, everything clean. Even the bed was made. One room was full of expensive photographic equipment, all carefully organised.

  Ben spent the next half hour sifting through every piece of paperwork in Drew’s study desk. Utility bills, tax documents, bank statements, insurance. Nothing beyond the mundane. Next, he went through every pocket of every jacket and pair of trousers in Drew’s wardrobe. He found a small folding knife. Not exactly the weapon of a hardcore crook. A camera lens cleaning cloth, still in its packet. A bus ticket. A photography supplies business card. Lastly, there was a little yellow receipt from a business called ‘A Stitch in Time’, which sounded to Ben like a clothes repair shop. Below the place’s address in St Helier was scrawled a collection date for the repaired garment: May ninth. Two days after the kidnapping, meaning that unless Drew was still on the island and crazy enough to go back to pick it up, it was still at the repair shop.

  ‘A stitch in time,’ Ben murmured thoughtfully as he left the study and continued his search of the house.

  Returning to the kitchen, he checked the fridge and freezer. No beer, no vodka. Not even a frozen pizza. Surprisingly for a heavy-drinking deadbeat, it seemed that Drew had been living on organic health foods: tofu, lentils, wholegrain rice and pasta. ‘Jesus,’ Ben muttered to himself. He sniffed inside a plastic container: homemade vegetable soup. Give me army food any day, he thought.

  Drew juiced his own fruit juice, too. A large bowl nearby was filled with oranges and grapefruit, some of them turning soft and discoloured with age. In a cupboard, Ben came across packs of dandelion and nettle tea, the kind of stuff hippies and alternative types drank. Along with them, sitting in front of stacked tins of organic butter beans and chickpeas, was a small brown bottle with a dropper top, which he took out and examined. It was some kind of herbal tincture. He wondered what ailment Drew had been using it for. That could be useful information. Sick people generally went to doctors, collected drugs at pharmacies. You couldn’t do that without leaving a trail.

  Thinking he might find more of interest in the bathroom cabinet, he went back upstairs to check. There was nothing in the cabinet apart from the usual everyday toiletries. A pack of soap. Band-aids. Nail cutters. A pair of scissors with specks of fresh orange rust on the blades. Ben closed the cabinet door.

  Spotting another little brown bottle sitting on a crowded shelf near the bath, next to an empty glass that had probably contained a toothbrush before Drew had packed up and left home, Ben reached across to pick the bottle up. It contained lots of tiny white tablets and bore a simple label that read NUX VOMICA 6X. Ben replaced it on the shelf, then as an afterthought picked it up again. As he did so, his sleeve caught the glass, which dropped off the shelf, hit the bottom of the bath and smashed.

  ‘Shit,’ Ben muttered.

  He was picking up the bits of glass when he noticed the hair clogging up the bath’s plughole. He poked his fingers into the hole, pulled out a pinch of it and examined it. Drew Hunter was fair, like his son, and Ben had been told his hair was long and straggly. This was short and very dark, almost black. Definitely interesting. Ben carefully dropped some strands of it inside an evidence bag, sealed it and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Milk Thistle?’ the woman in the health food shop said some time later, peering through her thick spectacles at the bottle Ben was showing her. ‘Why yes, it’s very popular as a liver cleanser. A lot of customers come to buy it after Christmas and New Year, when they’ve been overindulging a little.’

  ‘You mean, in drink?’ Ben said, and the woman nodded. ‘Would it help for hangovers, things like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Also to help support internal organs after a period of abuse,’ she replied.

  ‘So an alcoholic might use it?’

  ‘If they were trying to detox themselves,’ she said. ‘Studies have been done that show how it can help regenerate the liver.

  ‘Sounds like I need some more of it for myself,’ he said dryly.

  ‘Or people on a crash diet, to help protect against the release of toxins.’

  ‘And what about this?’ He showed her the bottle of small white pills he’d found in Drew’s bathroom.

  ‘Nux Vom,’ she said, recognising it instantly. ‘Same idea, only this is homeopathic, not herbal.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘Oh, it works, all right,’ she said. ‘Just ask my husband.’

  Ben bought another lot of each by way of thanking her for her help, and left the shop thinking about what he’d learned. First, no booze anywhere to be found in Drew’s house. Now this. It looked as if the guy was pretty serious about cleaning himself up and purging the toxic effects of drink from his system.

  As he walked up the street towards his car, checking the address for A Stitch in Time, Ben took out his phone and called Jessica at home. She answered on the second ring, as if she’d been hovering nearby waiting for a call.

  ‘What have you found out?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Was Drew seeing anyone recently?’ Ben asked.

  Jessica sounded taken aback. ‘As in, a girlfriend?’

  ‘One with short hair, very dark brown or black.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d have heard it through the grapevine. Who’d want him anyway, in the state he’s in half the time?’

  ‘What about friends who might have visited him?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Most of our friends stopped socialising with him when we broke up. Why are you asking?’

  Ben told her about the hair in the bath. ‘But what does it mean?’ she said, sounding baffled.

  ‘I can’t be sure, of course. But I think he dyed his hair sometime not long before abducting Carl. And cut it, too. There were scissors in the bathroom cabinet. The blades were rusty, like they’d be if you used them to cut wet hair and put them away in a hurry.’

  ‘But his hair wasn’t short,’ she said. ‘It was long and straggly. I told you, I was shocked by his appearance. And you’ve seen the police sketch.’

  ‘My guess is that he’d already done the job on himself by then, to save time, and that he was wearing a wig,’ Ben said. ‘And I’d bet that he’s done the same for Carl, too, immediately after the snatch. Maybe at his place but mo
re likely somewhere else, somewhere isolated and private, like a beach hut. Dyeing the boy’s hair wouldn’t have taken long, maybe forty minutes from start to finish.’

  ‘I can’t even imagine what he must look like with dark hair,’ Jessica said, sounding aghast.

  ‘Exactly. So it’s possible that they used the ferry after all. Drew’s hideout could have been somewhere en route from your house to the port, so they’d have had time to do the job and still make the last ferry, well before you and Mike got out of the cellar and raised the alarm. That’s how he managed to fool the cops when they reviewed the CCTV footage, because they only had your description of a fair-haired boy and a guy with straggly, sandy hair to go on.’

  ‘Oh, my god,’ she breathed. ‘That devious . . .’

  ‘I’ll drop by the house later and let you have the hair sample I collected, so you can pass it on to the cops for analysis. I won’t be surprised if it tests positive as Drew’s. He’s gone about this very cleverly, Jessica.’

  A short drive across town, Ben found ‘A Stitch in Time’ down a little alleyway. The bell tinkled as he walked in. The shop was filled with racks and hangers of clothing. A dumpy woman scowled up from behind a sewing machine.

  He handed her the little yellow ticket he’d found at Drew’s place. ‘Picking this up for my brother,’ he said.

  She only had to look at the name on the ticket and put two and two together: Drew was all over the media and big talk on the island. But the blank look on her face told Ben that she’d either missed the news or didn’t care one way or the other. She browsed through a set of hangers, pulled one out and laid it on the counter. It was a navy blazer, alpaca wool, pricey-looking. The woman showed him where she’d replaced a button and fixed part of the lining, then stuffed the garment in a bag. Ben tumbled coins across the Formica.

  ‘I might need something repairing myself,’ he said casually. ‘Problem is, I’m going on holiday soon. How long does it take?’

  She shrugged. ‘’Bout a week, normally, for a small job like this one.’

  ‘Great. Be seeing you, then.’

  Back at the car, he slipped the blazer out of the bag and looked at it. It somehow didn’t look like the jacket of an overweight slob. Going by the description of Drew, it would have been impossibly tight on him.

  Ben slipped off his own leather jacket and tried the blazer on for size. It wasn’t too baggy even on his lean frame. He felt in the pockets. In the left one he found a piece of fluff. In the right one, a crisp and new-looking business card.

  The name on the card was Paul Finley, and he was co-partner in a private detective agency in Dover.

  6

  ‘FINLEY AND REYNOLDS Investigations.’

  ‘Can I speak to Mr Finley, please?’ Ben said to the agency receptionist as he drove. He was heading back to Jessica’s place, to give her the hair sample as he’d promised. The detective’s card lay next to him on the passenger seat.

  There was a pause on the line. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ she replied. Ben noticed the edgy tone in her voice.

  ‘This is very important. When will he be available?’

  ‘He won’t. I’m afraid Mr Finley is no longer with us.’

  ‘I see. Do you have a number for him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Now it was Ben’s turn to pause at the unexpected news.

  ‘May I ask who’s calling?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘My name’s Ben Hope. I was calling on behalf of a mutual client. Was Mr Finley ill?’

  Her swallow was audible on the line. ‘Mr Finley was murdered.’

  ‘I’m extremely sorry to hear that. What happened?’

  ‘He was on his way back from London,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘Waiting for a train. These two thugs attacked him. Took his wallet, but obviously that wasn’t enough for them. It never is these days, is it?’ She sighed. ‘They stabbed him, twice in the chest. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived. Poor Mr Finley.’

  ‘Did they catch the killers?’

  She snorted. ‘Do they ever?’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Nearly three weeks ago. It was late afternoon. Broad daylight. Can you believe it?’

  ‘What date?’ Ben asked, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘May third,’ she said. ‘Monday. Why?’

  The day before Drew had withdrawn all his money from the bank, Ben thought. Four days before the kidnapping.

  ‘Perhaps I could speak to Mr Reynolds instead?’ he said. ‘It’s about our mutual client.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr, uh, Hope. There’s no way Mr Reynolds or anyone else at the agency is going to discuss clients’ affairs without prior written consent. Which I take it you don’t have.’

  Ben ended the call without saying anything more.

  This time, as Jessica Hunter led Ben into the kitchen, he accepted a coffee from her. What he really wanted was some of the single malt whisky in his flask and a cigarette to go with it, but smoking and drinking weren’t quite the thing inside a client’s house. He sat at the breakfast bar and sipped the espresso she made him. Strong, black, no sugar. Coffee with a bit of welly to it, the way he liked. He took out the evidence bag containing the hair sample and laid it in front of her.

  ‘This is for the police. A little something they missed, and I would have, too, except by chance. Like I said, ten to one they’ll come back saying it’s Drew’s. In which case they have to start mounting a whole new search, if it’s not already too late.’

  Jessica picked the sample up and stared at it in horrified fascination. Just then, Mike walked into the room looking weary and drawn, and came to sit at the breakfast bar. ‘Back again so soon,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you’ve only been on the case a few hours and already there’s progress.’

  ‘Let’s take this one step at a time,’ Ben said. ‘I have a question. Does either of you know of any reason why Drew might have hired a private investigator?’

  Jessica was startled. ‘A what?’

  ‘His name was Paul Finley,’ Ben said. ‘Based in Dover.’

  ‘What on earth would Drew have wanted with a detective?’

  ‘There could’ve been a few reasons,’ Ben said. ‘The most obvious being to watch you. It’s not unknown for disgruntled ex-spouses to want to get the dirty on their former partners, especially when there are child custody issues involved.’

  ‘Get the dirty?’ Mike said, frowning.

  ‘Incriminating information that might have enabled him to accuse you of neglect, as a way of getting custody himself. Did you two ever go out in the evening, restaurants, nightclubs, and leave Carl on his own?’

  Jessica bristled. ‘Absolutely not. I really resent the suggestion. And I’m frankly appalled that this man has been watching us like a couple of criminals.’

  ‘You won’t have to worry about him any more,’ Ben said. ‘He was stabbed to death in London before the kidnapping took place.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ Mike said.

  ‘It happens,’ Ben said.

  ‘Anyway, we have nothing to hide,’ Jessica said angrily. ‘There’s no question of Carl being neglected or abused in any way. How dare Drew make those allegations? He’s my son. I love him. I’m not the one who’s falling about the place too drunk to take care of themselves.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what Drew told the detective,’ Ben said. ‘What matters is that they were in touch in the first place. After Finley died, it’s possible that someone else at the agency took over where he left off. That could mean that Drew was in contact with them right up until he took Carl, and maybe even since. It could help lead us to him.’

  ‘Did you say they were based in Dover?’ Jessica asked. ‘Will you go?’

  ‘Can’t hurt to check it out,’ Ben said.

  ‘What if they won’t talk to you?’

  ‘I’m sure I can find a way,’ he replied. ‘I won’t be gone for long. In the meantime, the police may have some work to d
o.’

  ‘You’re talking about this?’ Mike asked, pointing at the sample bag containing the short, clipped lengths of hair.

  Ben nodded. ‘Forget the description you gave to the cops. It’s leading us off the trail. I’m almost certain that we should be looking for a man with much shorter hair, black or close to it. And that’s not all. If I’m right, the police should also change their suspect description from an overweight guy to one of slim-to-medium build. In other words, Drew has radically altered his appearance.’

  ‘Hold on, we saw him that night,’ Jessica said. ‘Nobody can lose weight that fast. It’s impossible.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Ben said. ‘But it’s not impossible to fake being fat in the first place. In fact, it’s pretty easily done.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You said that you hadn’t seen Drew for some time before the kidnapping. Not since the episode of the car accident.’

  Jessica nodded. ‘That’s right. He was already getting out of shape then.’

  ‘But between then and the day of the kidnapping, he had plenty of time to lose the pounds. Someone who’s serious could get into good shape in that time.’

  ‘What are you basing all this on?’ Mike asked, looking doubtful.

  ‘The clothes in his wardrobe,’ Ben said. ‘Every pair of trousers was a thirty-two waist. Shirts and T-shirts all medium size. Jackets all thirty-eight inch chest. Not whiplash thin, but hardly what you’d call porky either.’

  ‘Obviously, they were his old clothes,’ Jessica said impatiently. ‘I told you, he was quite slim and fit when we were first married. He wouldn’t have packed those things when he went on the run with Carl, if he couldn’t get into them any more.’

  ‘That was my thinking, too,’ Ben said. ‘That he’d have taken all his large-size clothes with him, especially if he wasn’t planning on coming back. I assumed he mustn’t have worn the other stuff for quite some time. But then, why keep it? It’s taking up a lot of wardrobe and drawer space. That interested me. Then I saw the way he’s been eating lately. All health food. A man can starve pretty fast on that stuff. No beer, no booze of any kind. He’d been cleaning himself up, even using herbs and homeopathic medicine to cleanse his liver and protect himself from the flood of stored toxins that can be released when people go on a crash diet after a prolonged unhealthy lifestyle. Looks like he was committed to it.’