Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

Nevertheless it was clear from her story that there was going to be a media storm around her, even if it was only on behalf of the British media. Vivian wanted to provide Stephanie with protection on that score. Since taking her into custody would be an extreme overreaction, it might be best to book her into an airport hotel under an assumed name.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

Stephanie shrugged. ‘Drained,’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted, but I’m too wound up to sleep.’ Not that she felt like trying. The last thing she wanted was to open the door to the nightmares Jimmy’s disappearance might provoke. Her waking imagination was bad enough.

‘Why do you think they chose to abduct Jimmy here? At an airport in the USA?’ Vivian asked. ‘I’m still curious. It seems unnecessarily complicated. Surely there must have been easier options back in the UK?’

Stephanie ran a hand through her hair. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to draw attention away from themselves.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Jimmy had been snatched in the UK, the authorities would have focused on a tight circle of suspects. Who knows him? Who hates me? Who had access to him? Over here, you’re forced to consider a wider picture. It makes you think, “No, wait, it can’t be as straightforward as it seems, otherwise why not do it in the UK?” ’

Before Vivian could respond, a tap at the door was swiftly followed by Don Abbott’s head and shoulders. ‘Sorry to interrupt again,’ he said. ‘Can we have a word, Agent McKuras?’

Vivian raised a finger at Stephanie and scrambled to her feet. As soon as the door closed behind her, she raised her eyebrows in a question. ‘News?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Kind of,’ Abbott said. He rubbed his eyes. ‘I tell you, the one thing I’m not going to do when I finally get home is watch TV. My eyes are fried.’ He produced a tired smile. ‘We’ve made a little bit of progress. We now know where he changed his clothes. The control room are sending a clip of CCTV footage to your computer. They eventually found the bathroom the perp comes out of in his TSA lookalike outfit. Then they had the pain-in-the-ass job of pairing up every guy who went in with the image of him coming out. I tell you, Vivian, you might think you got a tough assignment today, but you should be down on your knees thanking God that you haven’t been staring at CCTV footage till your eyes bleed.’

‘I’m grateful. Trust me. Did you get anything?’

He nodded. ‘Guy comes in wearing a black tee and black trousers, ball cap, carrying a lightweight nylon backpack. But get this. He’s got a beard and moustache. Doesn’t look like the kidnapper worth a damn. And he never comes out again. It’s our man, Vivian.’

She felt a bubble of excitement in her chest. ‘That’s terrific news! We need to get that image out there. Somebody must have sat next to him on a plane. We’re on his trail now. What about the backpack? Where does that go? Have we got someone going through the trash from that bathroom?’

Abbott gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You’re right that he left the backpack behind. The bad news is that the bathroom was cleaned two hours after the perp was in there. The trash bag is somewhere in a mountain of crap. Assuming we had the bodies and the will to sort through it, and assuming we found it, the chain of custody’s already up in smoke. We can’t do anything worth a damn with it. It’s gone, Vivian.’

‘Shit. Are the guys in the control room backtracking to the gate he came into?’

‘Even as we speak. But don’t hold your breath for any substantial leads coming from that. This has run like clockwork. He’s not going to have flown on his own ID. He’ll have a fake driver’s licence. Or something stolen.’

‘I know. But it’s all we’ve got.’

‘Nothing to go on from the witness?’

Vivian shrugged. ‘A couple of possible leads. But nothing that would hold up in a high wind. I’ll let her take a look at the new CCTV material, see if she recognises anyone. Don’t hold your breath, though.’

49

Nick Nicolaides was willing to bet he had one crucial advantage over his American counterparts. He did not believe any of them could have his degree of familiarity with the inner wheels of the music business. He was a good enough guitarist to have been enlisted several times by professional musician friends as a backing player on recordings, and he’d spent a fair few long nights sitting in studio control booths watching producers and sound engineers at work. He was at home in their world. He understood how to communicate with them. How to avoid pissing them off and how to win them over.

Nick fitted a hands-free phone headset and laid out notebook and pen. A few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse and he had a phone number for South Detroit Sounds. It was early evening there. Chances were the band was still working. Time to find out whether Pete was there or not. Nick keyed in the number and held his breath.

The phone was answered by a man with a slow drawl and a friendly tone. ‘South Detroit Sounds, we are here to make music for you. How can I be of assistance?’

‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ Nick said in the sort of clear and polite English voice that makes Americans swoon. He was never going to sound like a TV toff, but after all these years in London, he could draw a veil over most of his Northern vowels when he had to.

‘That would be my pleasure, sir. What can I do?’

‘I believe one of my friends is running the desk for the Style Boys. Pete Matthews?’

‘Sure, I know Pete. He’s not here right now. They’re taking the day off. He’ll be in tomorrow, you want to call back then.’

Strike one for Pete Matthews, Nick thought. ‘You’re kidding me? I’m only in Detroit for one night. I’ve got a flight to St Louis in the morning.’

‘That sucks. Maybe you can call him, fix up to get together.’

‘I tried that first. But he doesn’t seem to be using his UK cell. It’s not even going to voicemail. Have you got another number for him?’

‘Sure. Hold on, I’ll be right back.’

Nick finger-picked the desk silently, listening to Bert Jansch in his head. In a few moments, the American was back on the line, reading out a mobile number. Two strikes. So far, so good. Now it was just a question of whether Nick could pull off the final finesse. ‘That’s brilliant, I appreciate it. Now, can I be really cheeky? My phone’s getting low on juice, and if I can’t get hold of Pete straight away, I’m worried he won’t be able to get back to me. I don’t suppose you’ve got an address for him? Then if I can’t get through, I can go and check if he’s home. If he’s not around, at least I can leave a note.’ There was no immediate reply. ‘It seems a pity to be here and miss the chance to see him. Look, I totally get it that you don’t want to hand out his address. If I can’t get hold of him, I’ll swing by the studio and leave a note.’

‘No, you’re OK. Let me see what I got.’

This time, the wait was longer. And the voice on the phone was different. More authoritative. ‘You looking for Pete, yeah?’

‘That’s right. We’re old pals.’

‘How do you know Pete?’

‘I did some fill-in guitar on the last Pill Brick set,’ Nick said as nonchalantly as he could manage. But his spirits were sinking. ‘We kind of knew each other before, but that’s when we really became mates. Look, if it’s a problem, I don’t want to put you on the spot.’

‘It’s OK, you sound like the real deal,’ the man said. ‘And I don’t think Pete’s hiding out from anybody. You got a pen?’

And there it was. Strike three. An address for Pete Matthews. Something concrete to pass on to the people on the ground.