Hostage to Murder

  The shrilling of the interval bell rang out from the school building and a stream of chattering, liberated children began to emerge. The man calmly pushed himself off from the wall and walked through the gates, his attitude suddenly intent. His eyes lit on a dark-haired six year old, careering round in a game of tig with half a dozen others. The man headed straight for him.

  As he approached, the boy caught sight of him and stopped dead, his face uncertain. The man walked up to him and dropped into a crouch, meeting him eye to eye. “Ciao, Giaco,” he said, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

  Jack Gourlay said nothing. He broke eye contact and looked at the ground.

  “Didn’t your mamma tell you I was coming today?”

  Jack shook his head. The man held the bag open and showed it to Jack. While he peered into it, the man looked swiftly around, to check if he’d been spotted. Seeing nothing to worry him, he said, “Look, Giaco. It’s for you. A Nintendo. For taking on holiday. You’re coming on holiday with me. Today.”

  The boy shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? Who says you can’t come on holiday with your papa?”

  “I’ve not got my jammies or anything.”

  “We’ll buy anything you need. Come on, Giaco, it’s an adventure. I thought you liked adventures? It’s been so long since we had fun together. I really missed you.” He dropped bag and briefcase and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “You miss me too?” he asked softly.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Jack said, still not meeting his eyes.

  “So now we make up for lost time, OK?”

  “I better tell Jimmy.”

  It was, the man recognised, capitulation. “Who’s Jimmy?”

  “Jimmy Doran. He’s my pal. The one over there with the ginger hair. He’ll wonder what’s happened to me if I don’t tell him.”

  “OK. Tell him you’ve had to go off with your dad. But be quick. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

  Jack’s face lit up. The prospect of a plane journey clearly dispelled any lingering doubts he had about entrusting himself to Bruno Cavadino.

  It had been a toss-up whether Lindsay would call Charles Wayne from home or wait till she arrived at the Café Virginia. If she did it from home, she could present Rory with a fait accompli, all the loose ends tied up in a neat wee parcel, Charles Wayne on tape admitting he’d had dinner with David Keillor as the glittery silver bow on top. But if she did it from the flat, she’d have to contend with Sophie, who was working from home that morning with her feet up on the window seat, presumably to minimise any sudden movements that might dislodge any potential embryo. Sophie certainly wouldn’t approve of the co-parent of her potential offspring committing an arrestable offence under the family roof. On the other hand, Lindsay didn’t really want Rory eavesdropping on her impersonation of a police officer either.

  In the end, she compromised. On her way to the Hillhead underground station, she took a detour down Ashton Lane and slipped into Bean Scene. Armed with a large cappuccino, she huddled into the farthest corner, jacked the mobile into her mini-disk recorder and called the main CCD switchboard. After a little preliminary jockeying with a secretary then a personal assistant, she was finally put through to the great man himself. His voice was a light tenor, its strangulated vowels testifying to its owner’s origins somewhere around the Thames Estuary.

  “Mr. Wayne? This is DC Lindsay, Strathclyde Police. I’m sorry to bother you. I wondered if you could help me with a wee inquiry.”

  “Of course, of course.” Wayne sounded both enthusiastic and unctuous. “Anything to assist the police. We like to foster good relations here at CCD.”

  I bet you do, she thought. “I’ve got a witness statement from Mr. David Keillor that says you spent the evening before last dining at his house. Would that be correct?”

  “Spot on, Detective. A lovely evening it was too. But why are you interested in my social engagements?” Now there was a note of caution.

  “I’m trying to eliminate Mr. Keillor from an inquiry into a road traffic accident. Could you tell me what time it was when you and your lady wife left the Keillors?”

  “Let me see . . . I paid off the babysitter just before midnight, so we must have left there somewhere between half past eleven and twenty to twelve.”

  “And Mr. Keillor was with you all evening?”

  Wayne chuckled. “Naturally. David’s always a very good host.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Wayne. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

  “No problem. Glad to be of help.”

  Lindsay pressed the stop button on the recorder as she hung up. She plugged in the headphones and listened with satisfaction. It couldn’t have been better. A little judicious editing of the conversation to eliminate any reference to her subterfuge and she was home and dry. Not only did she have Wayne’s admission that he had dined with David Keillor, she had the implication in his last statement that this was far from the first time the men had met socially. It would be fun watching Keillor try to wriggle his way out of this one. A pity it would be Rory doing the showdown. But she was going to have to get used to this way of working, alien as it was to her natural instincts. She’d spent years guarding her exclusives against her rivals; it wasn’t going to be easy to trade that for sharing.

  Rory was already online in her booth when Lindsay arrived at Café Virginia. Rory raised one finger to indicate she was in the middle of something so Lindsay booted up her own laptop and started writing up the notes of her conversations with Keillor and Wayne. Before she could finish, Rory folded her screen down and raised her eyebrows. “Well?” she said. “How did it go?”

  For one crazy moment, Lindsay thought she was referring to the previous evening’s insemination. She was about to open her mouth and say, “Gruesome,” when she realised the topic under discussion was the story. She outlined her progress to Rory, whose grin spread wider as she grasped the full implications of what Lindsay had established.

  “You are fucking outrageous,” she spluttered. “They didn’t call you Splash Gordon for nothing, did they?”

  “I think you’ll find it was more ironic than admiring,” Lindsay said, remembering the less than supportive atmosphere of the newsroom. “And I wasn’t exactly on the ball. I didn’t tape my little chat with Keillor.”

  Rory shrugged. “Irrelevant. You got Wayne on tape, which is even more damning. We’re going to have to wait a couple of weeks before I hit Keillor, though. If we’re really, really lucky, he won’t make the connection with your thespian activities.”

  “We’ll keep my name off the finished piece, all the same,” Lindsay said firmly.

  “Aye. There’s time enough for glory.”

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  Bernie stood outside the school gates, chatting idly to a couple of the other waiting mothers whose children were in Jack’s class. The bell sounded, the doors opened and children of all shapes, sizes and colours began to pour out of the building. After a few minutes, the stream had slowed to a trickle. The other mothers were gone, one with a chattering daughter, the other with a son interested only in the collection of football cards he’d pulled out of his pocket as soon as he’d cleared the school entrance. But still there was no sign of Jack.

  She felt a strange fluttering in her stomach, a physical manifestation of an undefined fear. Now, no more children emerged. It was time to panic, she realised. Bernie walked through the gates then, as she neared the school doors, she broke into a trot.

  Unnoticed by her, the man leaning against the bus stop twenty yards down the street suddenly shifted. Michael hastily put away the knife he’d been using to clean his nails and began to stroll up the street towards the school. Whatever was going on with Bernadette Dooley, it wasn’t in the script. Not as he understood it, anyway. Where was the boy? What was going on?

  What he couldn’t see was Bernie running down the school corridor to the classroom where Mrs. Anderson taught Year Two. She grabbed the lint
el and swung herself into the room, her breath catching in her throat. “Where’s Jack?” she demanded, her voice shrill.

  Mrs. Anderson, a comfortably plump woman in her mid-forties, looked puzzled. “It’s Mrs. Gourlay, isn’t it?”

  “Where’s Jack?” Bernie was shouting now, not caring what the teacher thought of her. “He didn’t come out when the bell went. Where is he?”

  Mrs. Anderson’s face sagged. “I don’t understand. Mr. Gourlay came and fetched him at morning interval. Didn’t you know?”

  “Tam?” Bernie looked thunderstruck. “Tam came to the school and took Jack away?” She shook her head incredulously.

  “That’s what Jimmy Doran told me. When the children came back after break, Jimmy came up to my table and said Jack Gourlay had told him to tell me that he’d had to go away with his dad.”

  “And you thought he meant Tam,” Bernie’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Staggering, she collapsed into a child’s chair, leaned her head on the desk and sobbed in wild, uncontrolled gasps that made her whole body shudder.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Anderson said, suddenly understanding that there might be valid reasons for such distress. “I’d better get the head teacher.”

  At that precise moment, Jack Gourlay—né Cavadino—was thirty-five thousand feet above Germany. He looked up from his Nintendo, an anxious frown on his face. “Mum won’t be angry with me, will she?”

  Bruno Cavadino gave his son a hug. “Why would she be angry with you? I told you, she said we could go away together.”

  “She’s never let us go away together before,” Jack said suspiciously.

  “She thought you were too little to be away without her. She thought you would cry because you missed her. But I told her, he’s old enough now to understand that a holiday is a holiday, not forever. You won’t cry, will you?”

  Jack gave a tight, apprehensive smile. “No, papa. Can we phone her when we land?”

  Bruno shook his head. “You don’t want her to think you’re a big baby, do you? She’ll call us in a couple of days. Don’t worry.”

  The siren call of Nintendo dragged Jack back from the conversation to his screen. Bruno looked down at him with a surge of affection that surprised him. He was a good kid. Bernie had made a decent job of bringing him up. But she’d had her chance. Now it was up to him to do his best for the boy. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had plans for Jack.

  Bernie was sobbing into a handkerchief while a woman police constable patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. Mrs. Anderson sat at her table, fingers twisting round each other as Sergeant Meldrum took her through the events of the morning.

  “I thought nothing of it, you see. I mean, obviously you don’t.

  The boy, Jimmy Doran, he said that Jack had told him he had to go off with his dad. Naturally, I assumed he meant Mr. Gourlay.”

  Sergeant Meldrum nodded, scribbling something in his notebook. “So, the last you saw of the boy would be when, exactly?”

  “When the bell went for the morning interval. Five to eleven.”

  The classroom door burst open and Tam Gourlay burst in. He was a bear. Six feet and six inches of brawn, topped with a thick head of dark auburn hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard one shade lighter, he stormed into the classroom like a force of nature. Without pause, he rushed to Bernie, pushing the policewoman to one side. “Has that bastard Bruno taken him?” he demanded.

  “Tam, oh Tam, I’m so sorry,” Bernie sobbed.

  “Sorry? It’s not your fault you married a bastard first time round.” He glared belligerently at Sergeant Meldrum. “So what the hell are youse doing to stop him? Christ knows where he’ll take the boy.”

  “We’ve already circulated a description to the ports and airports, sir. We’re doing everything we can,” the policeman said, his tone placatory.

  It didn’t work. “Is that all you can say? Have you not got weans? Jesus, man, can you not see the state she’s in? You’ve got to find the boy.”

  “Was Mr. Cavadino ever violent during the marriage?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Tam demanded.

  “No, he wasn’t,” Bernie cut in.

  “And has he had access to Jack since the marriage broke down?” Meldrum continued.

  “He’s taken him out him half a dozen times when he’s been in the country,” Bernie said, sounding calmer now her husband was present.

  “Mrs. Gourlay, do you think he’d offer any kind of physical threat to Jack?”

  She shook her head. “Bruno wouldn’t hurt a hair on his head.”

  “You see my problem, sir?” Meldrum asked, his tone that of sweet reason. “The child doesn’t seem to be at risk. OK, Mr. Cavadino didn’t have permission for this custody visit, but he has previously returned Jack safely. We’ve no reason to think a crime has been committed.”

  “I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” Tam roared. “Our boy gets kidnapped and you think that’s OK?”

  “With respect, sir, that’s not what I said.”

  Tam looked at the sergeant as if he wanted to hit someone and he was the best candidate. “Listen, pal,” he growled. “Get your finger out and get our boy back. Or else you’ll wish you’d never joined the polis. And that, my friend, is a promise.”

  Lindsay poured two glasses of pinot grigio and took them through to the living room, where Sophie was sprawled on the sofa, a book on preparing for pregnancy open on her lap. “There you go,” Lindsay said, offering Sophie a drink. “I’ve just put the potatoes in the oven. Dinner’ll be about three quarters of an hour.”

  Sophie shook her head. “No wine for me, love.” She patted her flat stomach. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Lindsay put both glasses on the end table and slid on to the sofa, lifting Sophie’s feet into her lap. “Sorry, force of habit. I forgot your body’s a temple now. How are you feeling?”

  Sophie snorted with laughter. “Exactly the same as usual. I don’t think you get symptoms within twenty-four hours of insemination. What about you? How’s the ankle? You should be the one with your feet up.”

  “Ach, it’s not too bad. It’s more stiff than sore now. Do you mind if I put the local news on?” she added, reaching for the TV remote control.

  “News junkie,” Sophie teased her. “Of course I don’t mind.”

  The screen came alive on a police press conference. A uniformed chief superintendent sat behind a table. Next to him, a woman with red swollen eyes looked as if she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her hand was held by a giant of a man with a neatly barbered mane of hair and a heavy beard. What could be seen of his face looked sullen. The sound faded up on the police officer’s voice. “. . . during the morning interval. We have reason to believe that the boy has been snatched by his natural father. We’re obviously concerned that Mr. Cavadino will try to take Jack out of this jurisdiction, even though he has no legal right to do that. If anyone has seen the boy or his father, they should contact Strathclyde Police.”

  Two photographs appeared side by side on the screen. The boy grinned cheerfully at the camera with the gap-toothed smile of childhood. His resemblance to the woman was obvious. The man whose photograph appeared next to him looked unmistakably Italian, his easy smile making his face more attractive than it would have been in repose. After a moment, the camera returned to the press conference.

  “Mrs. Gourlay, have you a message for your former husband?” the policeman asked.

  The woman took a visible breath and looked straight down the barrel of the camera. “Bruno, if you’re watching this . . . I know you mean well, but Jack’s safety is the most important thing in the world to me.” Her voice cracked and broke and tears welled from her eyes.

  The picture changed to a reporter standing outside police headquarters. “Photographs of Jack Gourlay and his father Bruno Cavadino have been circulated to ports and airports. But tonight, fears were growing that they have already left the country.”

  “That poor wo
man,” Sophie said, reaching for Lindsay’s hand. “She must be going through hell. I can’t imagine what that must be like. Not to know where your child is or what’s happening to him.”

  “It’s despicable,” Lindsay said.

  “What? Putting that woman on the telly?” Sophie sounded offended.

  “No, of course not. I meant that thing that couples get into when they split up, using their kids as weapons against each other. It’s so bloody selfish.”

  “That’s not going to happen to us, you know,” Sophie reassured her.

  “What? Breaking up or fighting over the kid?”

  “Neither one. It’s going to be OK, Lindsay. No, it’s going to be better than OK. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  Lindsay grunted. “If it happens.”

  “It’s going to happen. I’m sure of it. If it doesn’t work this time, we’ll just try again.”

  “And when do you stop trying?” Lindsay couldn’t help herself. “How long are you giving this?”

  “As long as it takes. I thought we’d try the insemination for six months, and if that doesn’t work, we can look at assisted conception.”

  “You mean IVF ?”

  Sophie nodded. “I don’t want to go there, but if that’s what it takes, yes.”

  “I thought you said lesbians couldn’t get IVF treatment in Scotland,” Lindsay said mutinously.

  Sophie squeezed her hand. “Lindsay, I’m professor of obstetrics at Glasgow University. Trust me, I’ve got the contacts.”

  Lindsay’s heart sank. She saw her future contract to a pinprick focus on the business of conception. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

  Chapter 9

  Afternoons in the Café Virginia were subdued affairs. Solo coffee drinkers flicked through newspapers, bar staff cleared lunchtime debris and cleaned tables, Horse sang “Breathe Me” and Rory wrote copy. Lindsay was online, browsing the newspaper archives, trying to get up to speed with her native land in the third millennium. There was, she thought, something very soothing about it all. She could hardly believe how quickly her general sense of malaise at being back in Scotland had fled. If nothing else, it told her how much she needed work to give her a sense of purpose. Now, if only Sophie would give up this madness, she would be entirely content.