Val McDermid: The Vanishing Point

‘Security area two, terminal three.’ Parton was eager now, sensing that Vivian’s actions might get him off an awkward hook.

Vivian repeated the details and reminded the controller of her computer ID. She hung up and attacked her keyboard, fingers deft and fast. Strictly speaking, she should bring in one of her colleagues to watch the footage with her. But the two men she shared the airport posting with inhabited a cubbyhole office in the international terminal. She didn’t want to wait for one of them to drag himself over. If there had been a kidnap, every minute counted, especially since they’d been too slow off the mark to call a Code Adam. Besides, she had a ready-made witness in the room, however low her opinion of him. She looked up at Parton. ‘We’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with now. Why don’t you bring the chair round where you can see my screen? Two pairs of eyes are better than one.’

Parton grabbed the chair and angled it by the corner of the desk so he could see the screen. He sat down, stretching his long legs out and folding his arms across his chest. A whiff of laundry detergent and fried meat caught her throat and without thinking she drew away from him. He caught her movement and grunted, tucking his legs under the chair to take up less space. ‘It’s a great system,’ he said. ‘When it works.’

‘Let’s hope this is one of those days,’ Vivian muttered, clicking her mouse button to open up a new window. She was offered a choice of three cameras that covered the security area. ‘Which one?’

Parton leaned forward, a long bony finger extended. ‘That one. The middle one.’

Vivian checked her watch. ‘How long ago did this happen?’

‘About twenty minutes ago.’

She pulled up the camera feed and scrolled back twenty-five minutes then set it running. They watched in silence for a couple of minutes. Then a woman and child walked into shot, filling the plastic trays on the far side of the metal detector. ‘That’s her,’ Parton said.

‘And that boy is definitely with her.’ Vivian paused the recording and studied the pair. The woman looked taller than average. Around five nine, maybe. Mid-brown hair in an untidy jaw-length bob. Striking looks, with high cheekbones, a square chin, a wide mouth caught in a smile as she looked at the boy. She looked like she had that English-rose colouring, all pink and white. The kid had a thick mop of black hair, olive skin, cheeks like apricots. He was all arms and legs, wiry and clumsy like a foal in one of those sentimental race-horse movies. He didn’t look like he’d sprung from her genes. And yet there was no denying it. ‘They’re together, Parton.’

‘Shit.’

They watched the boy move through the metal detector and over to the far side of the X-ray machine where their possessions would reappear on the delivery belt. He looked over his shoulder towards the woman, who smiled and gave him the thumbs-up sign as she entered the box to wait for a female officer to pat her down. So far, so good. Vivian realised she was holding her breath, as if she was watching a thriller.

A few seconds passed. The boy shuffled from one foot to the other; the woman watched him. Then a man dressed in what appeared to be a TSA uniform shirt and black trousers appeared from the concourse and approached the boy. Just before he reached him, Vivian paused the video. ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’

‘He’s wearing a ball cap,’ Parton said without hesitation. ‘That’s not uniform issue. We don’t wear headgear.’

‘And he’s wearing the one kind of headgear guaranteed to obscure your face when you’re dealing with overhead cameras.’ Vivian set the video running again.

‘He’s not one of my team. No way.’ Parton unfolded his arms and clenched his fists.

The man walked straight up to the boy and put a hand on his back. The boy looked up and nodded. The man in the TSA uniform picked up a backpack from one of the plastic boxes then ushered the boy away from the belt and towards the concourse. The effect on the woman was electrifying. As soon as the man put a hand on the boy, she started moving. They’d barely cleared the end of the scanner conveyor belt when she was out of the plastic box.

Vivian ignored the drama in the foreground and concentrated on the man and boy. They remained in sight for a few yards then, as the concourse curved round to the right, they cut sharply left. ‘Shit,’ Parton said again.

‘That’s an exit, isn’t it?’

‘Takes you landside,’ Parton confirmed. ‘You’d be kerbside inside a minute. Then you could be anywhere.’

Vivian paused the video again. ‘Looks like the lady was telling the truth,’ she said, her voice as bleak as her heart. A child had been snatched and the bureaucracy of airport security had handed the kidnapper a head start. ‘Christ, Parton. How come nobody listened to this woman?’ She was already reaching for the phone again.

‘Nobody could understand her at first,’ he said. ‘I swear to God.’

‘I’m sure that’s going to cover your back when the lawsuits come down. But as of now, I need you to get me a list of everyone who was on duty this afternoon. We’re going to have to interview them all. Find out who saw what.’

Parton didn’t move. He seemed fascinated by the hand holding the phone. ‘Parton,’ Vivian said impatiently. ‘Get me that list of names.’

His eyes met hers. He seemed dazed. ‘He’ll be OK, right? The kid? You’ll find him, right?’

He didn’t deserve the effort of lies. ‘Alive? Probably not. Now go.’ She watched him stumble over the chair on his way out. Then Vivian took a deep breath and composed herself. She pressed the speed-dial number for her boss. The number rang out, signalling the end of her autonomy on the case of the kidnapped child.

4

The urge to get up and pace was almost overwhelming. Stephanie had already tried to stand up, only to have Lopez insist sharply that she stay seated. ‘Don’t make me have to cuff you again,’ she’d warned.

‘Don’t I get a phone call or something?’ Stephanie asked. ‘I thought you Americans made a big deal out of people’s right to legal representation?’

Lopez gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You never heard of Guantanamo Bay? We’re not so keen on human rights when it comes to the kind of people who want to blow us off the planet.’

‘But I’m not a terrorist. I’m obviously not a terrorist. I’m a woman whose child was kidnapped in front of her eyes and you’re treating me like I’m the criminal. When is someone going to start taking me seriously?’ In spite of her determination to stay calm, Stephanie couldn’t help her voice rising. She felt nauseous and sweaty, sick with fear and worry. But she had to keep it together. For Jimmy’s sake. For the sake of the promises she’d made.

They should never have come on this holiday. But she’d allowed herself to be seduced by the idea of California. Beaches and surf, Disneyland and Universal Studios, sunshine and Yosemite. Ever since she’d heard that Joni Mitchell song, the city of swimming pools had held her imagination close. She wanted to know what the waves at Malibu sounded like. Jimmy needing a holiday had just been an excuse to indulge herself.

Stupid.

They should have gone to Spain. Taken the car on a ferry to Santander and driven across to the Costa Brava. Or dawdled up the French Atlantic Coast to Brittany. Something that didn’t involve metal detectors and separation. Something that didn’t hand Jimmy on a plate to whoever wanted to steal him away.

And who would do that anyway? Who would have the nerve and the brains to abduct him in the middle of a busy airport, under the watchful gaze of CCTV and some of the most stringent security arrangements on the planet? It was beyond belief.