‘I think because of the gravity we should have an ACC handle the media. ACC Rigg is on call today.’
Grace smirked. He liked the idea of the very slightly arrogant Peter Rigg being given a role down the pecking order, beneath the Chief Superintendent.
‘I think we should make your deputy SIO the Investigations Bronze, as he’ll be up to speed. Who is that?”
‘Glenn Branson.’
‘He’s a DS?’
‘Yes, but he’s good,’ Grace said, turning to his colleague and winking.
‘OK.’
‘I think our very first priority, Graham, is road checks.’
‘Yes, we’ll get them on all major routes. What do you think? Forty-five minutes’ or one hour’s drive away?’
Grace looked at his watch, doing a calculation. It would take time to get cars in place.
‘An hour’s drive, to be safe. Can we scramble Hotel 900.’
Hotel 900 was the call sign for the police helicopter.
‘Right away. Get me a description of the taxi as quickly as possible to give to them. What about utilizing Child Rescue Alert?’
‘Yes, definitely. I’m about to do that,’ Grace said, although he was aware of the deluge of calls his team would receive from this, most of which would be false alarms.
Child Rescue Alert was a recent police initiative, modelled on the US’s Amber Alert, for getting descriptions of missing or abducted children circulated fast, nationwide. It included mobile messaging, social-networking sites, news bulletins and posting descriptions on motorway signs. Its use always generated thousands of responses, each of which would have to be checked out. But it was a valuable resource and ideal for this current situation.
‘We need an all-ports alert out, too,’ Grace said. ‘No one’s leaving this country with a young boy until we’ve cleared them. We need to throw everything we have at this. We need to find this bastard and we’re going to have to find him fast, before he has a chance to hurt the kid.’
Grace hung up, leaving the Chief Superintendent to get started, and turned back to Branson.
‘OK, you’re Investigations Bronze. Chief Superintendent Barrington will brief you shortly, but there are three urgent things you need to do.’
‘Yes?’
‘The first is to get the boy’s computer – I assume he must have one – down to the High-Tech Crime Unit for analysis. Find out who he’s been talking to and engaging with on Facebook, chat lines, email.’
Branson nodded. ‘I’ll access that via his gran.’
‘The second is to get every inch of his house and garden searched, and his immediate neighbours’, and the homes of all his friends. You may be able to draft in some locals as volunteers to help search his entire home area.’
‘Yep.’
‘The third is to keep checking with the dentist and the school. I don’t want egg all over my face if this kid turns up safe and sound because his mum forgot to tell you something.’
‘Understood, but that’s not going to happen. Not from what she’s told me.’
‘It had better not.’ Then Grace shrugged. ‘Although I wish it would, if you know what I mean.’
Branson nodded, getting up to leave. He knew exactly what Roy meant.
As the door closed, Grace grabbed the Kidnap Manual off the shelf and laid it on his desk, but before he opened it he scribbled down several more actions on his pad as they came into his head, then sat in silence for some moments, thinking. His phone rang. It was his MSA, Eleanor Hodgson, asking if he had the amended draft of his press statement ready for retyping.
In the panic of the last few minutes he’d forgotten all about it, he realized. He told her he was going to have to rewrite it totally because of the latest development and that the press conference might need to be delayed by half an hour.
He felt very afraid for this young boy. This man who had killed Preece and Ferguson was a cruel sadist. There was no telling what he had in mind for Tyler Chase, and all Grace’s focus now was on how to get the boy safely out of his clutches. Thirty minutes had elapsed so far. They could be in a lot of different places in thirty minutes. But a taxi was distinctive. A man and a young boy were distinctive – particularly if Tyler was still in his school uniform.
He felt a deep, dark dread inside him. This was not his fault, but he still had overall responsibility for providing the protection Carly and her family needed, and he was angry with himself for letting this happen.
At least the timing of the press conference could hardly be better. Within the next hour, combining Child Rescue Alert, the press and the media, he could have nationwide blanket coverage on the missing boy.
Then he picked up his phone and made the call that he was not looking forward to.
Assistant Chief Constable Peter Rigg answered on the first ring.
88
Carly walked around her hotel room in a black vortex of terror, tears streaming down her face, desperately wanting to get back to England. Her brain was jumping around all over the place and she was feeling physically sick.
How could she have been so damned stupid leaving him at home, unprotected like this? Why, oh why, hadn’t she thought everything through more carefully before making this dumb decision to come here?
Was she forgetting something? A simple explanation for the taxi? Was there something she had overlooked in the chaos of the past weeks? She regularly ordered taxis to take him places when she was tied up at work. Had she double-booked Tyler for another appointment somewhere else? With whom? Had she perhaps ordered this taxi weeks ago for that and forgotten all about it? Perhaps the taxi had picked up the wrong boy? That could be it, a mix-up at the school!
She felt a fleeting moment of relief.
Clutching at straws, she knew.
She tried to shut the images of Fernanda Revere in the wreckage of her car from her mind. Some of them were intertwined, horrifically, with Tyler’s face. She shivered and thought about getting into a hot shower, but she did not want to risk missing a call. She had to get home. Someone helpful down at the front desk was looking into flights to England for her. She had to get back today, somehow had to, had to. She looked at her watch but could hardly read the dial. Her eyes felt as if they weren’t working properly. Everything she looked at seemed out of focus.
She had to think straight. Had to think clearly. But the only thing that came to her mind was the image of Tyler getting into a taxi.
Driven by a monster.
She walked over to the window and looked out again. It had been a blue sky a few minutes ago. Now it was grey. The landscape was all washed out. She watched a man on a dumper truck. Has your son been kidnapped? She saw a woman get out of a small car. Starting her day. Just a day like any other, for her. Has your son been kidnapped?
She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, but her hands were shaking so much the toothpaste fell into the sink each time she tried to squeeze some on to her brush. A coiled spring felt as if it was being wound tighter and tighter inside her. She filled the kettle, but then could not find the switch on the damned thing. All the time she kept her phone beside her, willing Tyler to ring. Desperately praying he would ring.
And suddenly it began ringing. The display said, blocked.
‘Yes-hi-hello,’ she blurted.
‘Carly? It’s DS Branson.’
‘Yes?’ she said, trying to mask her disappointment. But maybe he had news? Please, please have news.
‘I need to ask you some questions, Carly.’
Her heart sinking, she rushed on, ‘I was thinking – I don’t know – is it possible there was a mix-up at the school and the taxi was for another boy? Have they checked he’s not somewhere at the school. He likes science, history, stuff like that. He often just goes into the labs and works on his own. He can be a loner. Did they check? Did they?’
‘They’re searching the school now. The taxi was definitely there to collect your son, Tyler.’
‘Did he turn up at the dent
ist? Do you have any news at all?’
‘So far not, but we’ll find him, don’t worry. But I need your help.’
‘DON’T WORRY? YOU’RE TELLING ME NOT TO WORRY?’ she shouted.
‘We’re doing everything we possibly can, Carly.’
‘I’m going to get the first flight home. Maybe I can get a daytime one and be home this evening.’
‘I think you should get back as fast as you can. Let me know your flight details when you can and we’ll meet you at the airport. We’ve heard about Mrs Revere.’
‘This is just a nightmare,’ she said. ‘Please help me. Please find my son. Oh, God, please help me.’
‘One thing that could be significant. Can you tell me who might have known about Tyler’s dental appointment?’
‘Who? Only – only his school – and my friends, Sarah and Justin Ellis. He – Justin – was going to take him. I – I can’t think of anyone else.’
‘Our High-Tech Unit’s done some searches. Tyler’s on a number of social networking sites, which I presume you know,’ Branson said.
‘Well – some.’
‘Did he Tweet it? He had put that he was going to the dentist up on Facebook, making a joke of it. Did he talk to you about any of the responses he had?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘These past two weeks since my accident he’s been in a really strange mood. I – I—’ She was fighting off tears. ‘Tyler’s a – he’s a very special child. He’s incredibly resourceful. He wouldn’t get into a car with a stranger. You may wonder how I know that for sure, but I do, I can promise you. He’s streetwise. Have you checked he didn’t go home?’
‘We’re keeping a round-the-clock watch on your home. There doesn’t appear to be anyone in. But he definitely went off from his school in a taxi.’
‘Please find him,’ she said. ‘Please find him.’
‘We are going to find him, I promise you. The whole nation’s looking for him.’
Tears were stinging her eyes and everything was a blur. The detective’s kind voice was making her weepy.
‘The Revere family,’ she sobbed. ‘They can do anything they want to me. I don’t care. Tell them that. Tell them they can kill me. Tell them to give me my son back and then kill me.’
He promised to call her back the moment he had any news. As she hung up, she crossed back over to the window and stared out at the drab landscape. Christ, the world was a big place. How could you find someone? Where did you start looking? Way down below her on the ground she watched a man walking along, phone to his ear. And suddenly she had a thought.
Wiping away tears, she stared down at the screen of her iPhone, fingered through the apps, sliding them across, until she reached the one she was looking for. Then she tapped it hard.
Moments later she felt a sudden flicker of hope. She stared at it harder, brought it closer to her face.
‘Oh yes! Oh, you good boy, Tyler! Oh, you clever boy!’
89
Grace came out of the press conference at 12.50 p.m., pleased with the solid performance ACC Rigg had delivered, and very relieved. He found all press conferences to be minefields. One wrong answer and you could be made to look a total idiot. Rigg had been sensible, keeping it tight and focused, and brief.
He was tailed by Kevin Spinella, as ever wanting one more question answered. But the Detective Superintendent was in no mood to talk to him. As he reached the security door at the start of the corridor, he turned to face the reporter.
‘I don’t have anything to add. If you want more information you need to speak to ACC Rigg, who is now responsible for press liaison on Operation Violin.’
‘I know you’re still angry with me over writing about the reward,’ Spinella said. ‘But you seem to forget sometimes, Detective Superintendent, that you and I both have a job to do and it’s not the same job. You solve crimes, I have to help sell newspapers. You need to understand that.’
Grace stared at him incredulously. A child’s life was at stake, he was right in the middle of the fast-time stage of one of the most serious critical incidents of his career, and this young reporter had decided now was the moment to start lecturing him about the newspaper business.
‘What part of that do you think I don’t understand, Kevin?’ Grace said, turning back to the door and holding up his security card to the pad.
‘You have to realize that I’m not your puppet. I want to help you, but my first loyalty will always be to my editor.’
‘Why don’t you save your breath right now, hurry back to your office and file a story that might help save Tyler Chase’s life?’
‘Coz I don’t need to. I can use this,’ Spinella said. Then he fished out his BlackBerry and held it up, with a smug grin.
Grace slammed the door behind him. He was about to call the Gold Commander for an update, when his phone rang. It was Glenn Branson.
‘You out of the conference, boss?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re cooking with gas! We have a development with Tyler.’
‘Where are you?’
‘MIR-1.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
Grace threw himself down a few steps, sprinted along the corridor and entered the packed Incident Room. In contrast to the corridor, which had a permanent smell of fresh paint, MIR-1 at lunchtime always smelled like a canteen. Today an aroma of hot soup and microwaved Veg Pots was mixed with a tinge of curry.
There was that quiet buzz of energy in here that Grace loved so much. A sense of purpose. Some members of the team at their workstations – on the phone or reading or typing – and some standing, making adjustments to the family tree or photograph displays on the whiteboards. There was a constant muted ringing of landline phones, plus the louder cacophony of mobile phones and the rattle of keyboards.
Some of the team were eating as they worked. Norman Potting was hunched over a printout, munching a huge Cornish pasty, oblivious to the crumbs falling like sleet down his tie and bulging shirt.
Glenn Branson was seated in the far corner of the room, close to a water dispenser. Grace hurried across to him, ignoring Nick Nicholl and David Howes, who both tried to get his attention. He glanced at his watch, then at the clock on the wall, as if to double-check. It was something he often did and could not help. Every second of every minute in this current situation was crucial.
‘Boss, have you used an iPhone?’
‘No. Why?’ Grace frowned.
‘There’s an app called Friend Mapper. It operates on GPS, just like a satnav. You and someone you know with an iPhone can both be permanently logged on to it. So, for instance, if you and I are logged on to it, provided you’ve got the app running, I’d be able to see where you are, anywhere in the world, and ditto you’d be able to see me, to within about fifty yards.’
Grace suddenly had a feeling he knew where this was going.
‘Carly Chase and her son?’
‘Yes!’
‘And? Tell me.’
‘That apparently was the deal when Carly Chase got her son an iPhone, that he had to keep Friend Mapper on all the time he was out of her sight.’
‘And it’s on now?’
We had a call from her twenty minutes ago. ‘It’s not moving, but there was a signal coming from Regency Square. We don’t know whether it’s been switched off or the battery’s dead – or he could, as I suspect, just be in a bad reception area.’
‘How old is this signal?’
‘She can’t tell, because she’s only just checked. But she doesn’t understand why it’s where it is. Regency Square’s a couple of miles east of the school and nowhere near where his dental appointment is. She says Tyler would not have had any reason to be there. She’s magnified the map as much as she can. She says it looks like it’s very near the entrance to the underground car park.’
Grace suddenly felt himself sharing Branson’s excitement. ‘If he’s in the car park that could explain the lack of a signal!’
Branson smiled. ‘Gold’s
got every unit in Brighton down there now. They’re ring-fencing it, covering every exit, searching the place and any vehicle that leaves.’
‘Let’s go!’ Grace said.
90
With his memory of Glenn Branson’s driving still too close for comfort, Grace took the wheel. As they blitzed through Brighton’s lunchtime traffic, the Detective Sergeant said, ‘Carly Chase is booked on a BA flight that leaves at 8.40 a.m. New York time – 1.40 p.m. UK time – less than an hour. She’ll get back to Heathrow at 8.35 p.m.’
‘OK.’
Grace’s phone rang. ‘Could you answer it, Glenn?’
Branson took the call while Grace overtook a line of traffic waiting at a red light at the junction of Dyke Road and the Old Shoreham Road, blazing down the wrong side of the road. He checked that everyone had seen him, changed the tone of his siren, then accelerated over the junction.
When Branson ended the call he turned to Grace. ‘That was E-J, reporting back from Avis. That Toyota Yaris was rented Monday morning of last week to a man called James John Robertson, according to his licence. The address he had given was fictitious and the information received back from the High-Tech Crime Unit was that the Visa credit card he had paid with was a sophisticated clone. Avis gave a description of the renter, but it wasn’t much to go on. A short, thin man with an English accent, wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses. He’d been offered an upgrade which he had declined.’
‘Interesting to decline an upgrade,’ Grace said. ‘Wonder why?’
Branson nodded. ‘You know, it would be brilliant if we could take Carly Chase’s son to the airport to greet her,’ he said.
‘It would.’
‘And with a bit of luck, that’s going to happen.’
Roy Grace shared his friend’s hope, but not his optimism. After enough years in this job, your optimism gradually got eroded by experience. So much so that if you weren’t careful, one day you’d wake up the cynical bastard you’d always promised yourself you would never become.
Driving normally, the journey to Regency Square from Sussex House would have taken around twenty minutes. Grace did it in eight. He turned off the seafront, ignoring the No Entry sign, and pulled up behind two marked cars and two police transit vans that were halted either side of the car park entry ramp. They were both out of the Ford almost before the wheels had stopped turning.