Майкл Ридпат - The Marketmaker

I sighed, drank down my whisky, and looked at my watch. Three o’clock. The kidnappers’ deadline was four, British time. One hour to go.

I nodded off in my chair, and was woken by the phone ringing. It was ten past four, and I could hear the scattered chirping of the first blackbirds outside the window.

‘Nick? It’s Luís.’

‘What did Zico say?’ I asked him.

‘They’ll keep her alive. I told him that the deal wasn’t called off, but merely delayed. He said that as soon as they hear that the deal is closed, they’ll kill her.’

‘So we have until next Wednesday to find her.’

‘Yes. But at least she’s still alive.’

‘At least she’s still alive,’ I repeated.

With the hope that Isabel would live glimmering like the dawn light seeping through the curtains, I dragged myself upstairs to bed.

I woke at nine. Five hours’ sleep was enough for me to feel refreshed. Kate was taking Oliver to his nursery school, and Jamie had left hours before. I made myself a cup of coffee and some toast, and went back upstairs to think.

I put all thoughts of Jamie, Kate, where I was going to find a job and where I was going to live out of my mind. I had to work out how to find Isabel by next Wednesday. I pulled out some fresh clean white sheets of paper, and stared at their emptiness.

Whoever had organized Isabel’s kidnap wanted Dekker to remain independent. Ricardo and Eduardo were the two people most likely to want Dekker to remain independent. Yet Ricardo refused to admit any knowledge of the kidnapping, and it would be impossible to tie them into it from here.

But what about the other end? What about Brazil? What about Rio? Now we were getting somewhere. I began to jot down some thoughts.

The kidnappers were a Rio gang. I had been attacked by a gang in Rio, even if it was only a gang of kids. Dave had guessed that this was linked to Martin Beldecos’s death in Caracas, and money-laundering at Dekker. Money-laundering that was organized by Francisco Aragão, Ricardo’s brother-in-law.

But why would Francisco Aragão want to kidnap Isabel?

I looked over my jottings. It was clear that if I was to work out who was holding Isabel, I would have to go to Brazil. But, in the meantime, there was one lead in England I should follow up.

I pulled out my list of Dekker home numbers and dialled one.

‘ Alô .’

‘Can I speak to Luciana Ross?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Oh, hallo. This is Nick Elliot. We met at your party in April, I don’t know if you remember?’

‘Ah, Nick, of course I remember!’ Her voice was husky, warm and friendly. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Um, not too bad. You talked about some of the Latin American designs you do, and since I’m planning to redecorate my flat, I wondered if I could come and see some?’

‘Of course. Any time you like.’

‘Today?’

‘Sure. Come round here for some lunch.’

‘OK.’ I checked my watch, and thought about train times. ‘I’ll be there at about one.’

‘See you then.’

The Rosses’ apartment was in one of the grand squares of Belgravia. I chained my bike out of the way down some steps, and rang the bell. I was wearing the smartest casual clothes I could muster, but I knew I would look more in place in the School of Russian Studies common room than here.

A disembodied voice crackled through the entry-phone. ‘Nick?’

‘Yes.’

‘Second floor. Take the lift.’

There was only one door on the second floor, and I rang the brass bell beside it. In a moment, it was opened, and Luciana appeared. She was wearing a simple white top, and jeans that clung to her hips and legs. Her full black hair shone round her shoulders. She gave me a broad smile, as though she had known me for years. ‘Nick, come in!’

She proffered her cheek, and I kissed it, smelling a hint of expensive perfume. Then I followed her into the sitting room.

It assaulted my eyes. Dark polished wood, lush carpets, gold trim, and large, heavily patterned drapes clamoured for attention. But I was drawn to the walls, where three long paintings swirled in greens, blues and reds.

Luciana followed my gaze. ‘These are by an up-and-coming artist from Bahia. Do you like them?’

‘They remind me of my mother’s.’ And, in a strange kind of way, they did. Although the subject matter, Norfolk beaches and tropical forests, was entirely different, the whirling brush strokes evoked the same kind of dark despair. It was uncanny.

‘Really?’ said Luciana. ‘She must be a good painter.’

‘She is,’ I said, thoughtfully.

Luciana watched me closely. She knew and liked these paintings. It was as though she knew my mother.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she offered.

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Have a seat, I’ll be back in a minute.’

I sat down on a sofa, and looked around at the carpets, vases, clocks, candlesticks, some old, some new, all expensive. Between the paintings hung a vast, gilded antique mirror. What sort of people would like to have their homes done up like this? I wondered. Rich people, I presumed.

I could see no trace of Ricardo anywhere. He probably had an office stuck away out of sight. This was Luciana’s territory.

She returned with two glasses of white wine, and curled up in a large armchair next to me. I noticed she was barefoot. Red toenails.

It seemed to her perfectly natural that a junior ex-employee of her husband’s firm should come to see her to talk about designs. Somehow, I had guessed it would.

‘So, you’re decorating your place?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Now I’ve earned some money I thought I ought to brighten the flat up a bit. And I liked some of the things I saw in Brazil, so I thought I would come and ask you for ideas. If you don’t mind?’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Luciana. Her dark eyes looked straight at me over her glass. ‘But let’s have a drink and some lunch first, shall we? It’s just a salad.’

I gulped at the wine. I felt uncomfortable. In her own way, this woman was as powerful as Ricardo. She was used to getting what she wanted. Well, I needed something from her, and it seemed best to come to it straight away, before I lost control of the situation.

‘Actually, there is something else I wanted to ask you about.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘It’s about your brother, Francisco.’

This surprised her. Her smile wavered, and those dark eyes hardened for a second. ‘Why do you want to know about him?’

‘You know Isabel Pereira was kidnapped, don’t you?’

‘Yes. That was awful. These things happen in Rio. It is terrible.’

‘Well, it seems that Dekker Ward have been dealing with drug gangs. It may be that there’s a connection between this money-laundering and Isabel’s kidnappers.’

‘And you think this connection might be Francisco?’ Luciana looked shocked but not offended.

I took a deep breath. ‘I have heard rumours that Francisco is connected with some drug gangs.’

‘Are you saying my brother is a narco-trafficker?’ Luciana still looked more amused than offended.

‘No, Luciana. I’m saying your brother is a businessman. I’m sure he doesn’t deal in drugs, but he deals in money, doesn’t he?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Well, people invest money with him, he invests money with other people. Perhaps he invested some money with Ricardo? Money belonging to contacts of his? Contacts in the import-export business?’

I was guessing and Luciana could see it. She smiled. ‘And why should I tell you anything about this, even if there is anything to tell?’

‘What’s the harm? I don’t care where Francisco’s money came from. I have no desire to get him into trouble. All I care about is tracing Isabel, and I need some sort of lead. If I don’t find her in the next week, she will die.’