Ken McClure: Tangled Web

That’s what it says here.’

‘So what’s happening?’

‘We’ve asked the French police for urgent assistance in finding them.’

Gordon put down the phone but it rang again almost immediately. This time it was Davies himself. ‘You’ve heard?’

Gordon said that he had. ‘Paris, and their daughter was with them.’

‘Don’t understand that,’ said Davies. ‘Their neighbour was adamant that the child had gone into the clinic a few days ago and that the Trools were alone when they left.’

‘Must have picked her up somewhere along the way,’ said Gordon.

‘So what the hell are they doing?’ asked Davies.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Gordon slowly. ‘This Paris thing has thrown me a bit but they’re up to something.’

‘If the kid’s already had the operation, maybe they’ve taken her away to recuperate?’ suggested Davies. ‘I mean, Paris doesn’t have to be their final destination, does it? The south of France can be very nice at this time of year.’

‘Then why not fly there directly,’ said Gordon.

‘Maybe flights were difficult. It doesn’t take that long on the TGV from Paris.’

‘Hmm,’ said Gordon, unconvinced.

‘Look, if they’ve booked into a hotel in Paris, the French police will find them,’ said Davies.

‘And if they haven’t booked into a hotel?’

‘Then it could take a bit longer,’ conceded Davies. ‘But if the operation has already taken place... then I don’t see...’

‘What the hurry is,’ said Gordon, completing his sentence. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘If they’ve done it, Anne-Marie will be dead already. But we don’t know that for sure. We have to keep trying.’

‘Understood,’ said Davies.

Gordon put the phone down and it rang yet again within seconds. It was Mary. ‘I thought I’d see how you were this morning,’ she said. ‘I thought if you were okay, we might meet up when I come off duty in half an hour?’

‘I’m fine. Good idea,’ said Gordon, rubbing his chin gently.

Mary was aware of Gordon seeming very tense as they sat talking and drinking coffee in a small café near Bangor Cathedral. Although polite and apparently attentive to what she was saying she noticed his gaze drift off and the muscles in his cheeks were a dead give-away.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked gently.

‘It’s probably just the prospect of yet more waiting. I keep thinking there must be something I can do.’

‘Not if you don’t know where they are,’ said Mary. ‘It’s really up to the French police now.’

‘The airport!’ said Gordon suddenly. ‘Maybe someone at the airport spoke to them and they said something about what their plans were. I’m going over there!’

Mary looked at him with a slightly anguished expression on her face. ‘You’re doing it again,’ she said.

‘It’s worth a try,’ insisted Gordon. ‘What harm can it do? And it’s better than just sitting here doing nothing.’

‘Oh, I suppose,’ conceded Mary. ‘But I’m coming with you.’

‘But you’ve been working all night,’ protested Gordon.

‘I’m coming,’ Mary insisted. ‘If only to stand behind you and make sure that no one hits you over the head again!’

There was a moment when Gordon didn’t know whether to take offence or laugh. In the end, he did the latter and agreed to her coming along. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Manchester Airport was unpleasantly crowded. Early morning fog had persisted until well after ten causing a number of delays to both inbound and outbound traffic.

‘Where do we start?’ asked Mary, as they came to a halt in the crowds.

‘The police said they took a British Airways flight, let’s try the BA information desk if we can find it,’ said Gordon.

It took them some five minutes to find it and another ten, waiting in the queue before they got close enough to see that the desk was manned by two ladies in navy blue uniform who were fending off complaints and dealing with enquiries with stock replies and autopilot smiles. ‘Sorry sir, your flight will be leaving as soon as possible... Of course, Madam, just ask the flight attendant when you board... Your baggage will be checked right through to Warsaw, sir. No need to worry.’

Gordon reached the head of the queue and addressed the glazed smile with the name badge saying, Angela . ‘I’d like to speak to someone about passengers on your Paris flight last Tuesday evening.’

Angela’s brittle smile was extinguished as suddenly as if a fuse had blown. ‘I’m sorry?’

Gordon repeated his request.

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman stammered. ‘We don’t actually give out that kind of information.’

‘It’s very important,’ said Gordon.

Mary intervened. ‘We’re doctors,’ she said. ‘These passengers are our patients. It’s extremely urgent that we trace them.’

‘I see,’ said Angela thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have to call my supervisor. She picked up a house phone and after a slight pause, spoke to someone she addressed as, Mrs Roberts. When she’d finished she asked Gordon and Mary to wait to one side while Mrs Roberts ‘came down’. A few minutes later, Mrs Roberts, a woman in her early forties, wearing the same uniform as Angela, appeared and asked them to accompany her to her office. This turned out to be a small room with no windows on the first floor.

Gordon noted that Mrs Roberts appeared neither over-friendly nor defensively aggressive when he explained to her what he wanted to know. He wondered if such neutrality were a practised skill for dealing with the public. ‘We were hoping that the Trools might have said something to one of your staff about their plans?’

‘Angela tells me that you are both doctors?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for some proof. I’m sure you understand.’

Mary showed her hospital staff card. Gordon provided a range of ID from his wallet.

‘Fine,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘Do you have the exact details of the flight your patients were on?’

Gordon said not and apologised for the fact.

‘No matter, I’ll check the staff rota for the Tuesday flights and we’ll take it from there. Just bear with me.’

Gordon and Mary sat in nervous silence while Mrs Roberts checked lists and made several calls on the internal phone network, all apparently without success. They were becoming depressed when a more positive sounding conversation seemed to be taking place. ‘You were on the desk on Tuesday evening, weren’t you, Lisa? Good... the Paris flight, that’s right... Do you happen to remember a family named, Trool boarding the aircraft?... You do? Excellent! Could you come upstairs when your current boarding’s finished?’

Mrs Roberts smiled and said, ‘Lisa remembers them. She’ll be up as soon as they’ve finished boarding the Zurich flight.’

A fresh-faced, blonde girl appeared some ten minutes later, carrying a clipboard under one arm and a bag slung over her other shoulder. Mrs Roberts did the introductions and added, ‘These two people are doctors, Lisa. They’re trying to trace the Trool family. I understand it’s quite important.’

‘I’m not sure I can help really,’ said Lisa diffidently. ‘I remember them because I got their name wrong and called them, “Troll”. We made some jokes about Norwegian fairy folk and had a bit of a laugh, but that’s about it.’

‘Who was carrying the child?’ asked Gordon.

‘Mrs Trool was,’ replied Lisa.

‘Were her eyes bandaged?’

Lisa looked at Gordon as if it were a daft question. ‘No,’ she replied, sounding puzzled. ‘They weren’t.’

Gordon let out a sigh of relief and smiled at Mary. ‘They couldn’t have done it yet,’ he said. He turned back to Lisa and said, ‘But you did notice that their daughter was blind?’