Host, p.52
Host, page 52
Joe glanced at the two detectives and saw the curiosity on their faces.
Good morning, ARCHIVE. These two detectives are interested to know what you saw last night when we were out.
I’m sorry, professor, I do not understand the question.
Joe rephrased it. My wife and I went out. Jack was here with Muriel Arkwright. What did you see?
I’m sorry, professor, I do not understand the question.
The detectives were starting to look at him as if he was a bit strange. He felt confused, and having the two men watching over his shoulder wasn’t helping. Joe scratched his head; tiny flakes of dandruff drifted down past his eyes. It was possible to get on the screen an actual replay of what had been recorded by the cameras, but only by inputting a fiendishly complex set of instructions, which he had devised as protection against hackers being able to watch his family life. He had a go now.
He called up the menu, then accessed the control system sub-program, and selected Visual Interface. Methodically, thinking hard at each stage, he worked through the system until he had isolated the house’s visual system. A 3-D model of the house came up on the screen and the words flashed at him: Select room.
His hand on the mouse moved the cursor to the kitchen, then pressed down twice. The screen went blank. Joe looked at the detectives. ‘It has selective retention, like the human brain. It retains any movement or conversation in any room for twenty-four hours, then dumps most of it.’
There was a sharp beep. On the screen were the words: Video recording mode not functioning. System fault. Check system manager diagnostic index.
Joe reacted in disbelief, tapping his knuckles against his lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. His energy was ebbing away.
The two policemen looked at him as though they had never believed him anyway. Gavros smiled sympathetically, Lyne’s expression was harsher. ‘Could someone have tampered with it?’ Gavros asked.
Lyne nodded. ‘The same person who tampered with the traffic lights?’
Joe had not dared to make the connection. ‘I – I guess – it’s possible –’
There was a knock and the door opened. Another man in a white disposable boiler-suit stood there, holding several framed photographs; he spoke cheerily to Lyne, as if he was totally unaffected by all the horror. ‘Good morning, sir. I was told the occupant of the house was here?’ He glanced at Joe, then back at Lyne. ‘I’d appreciate a word about these.’ He held up the photos, and Lyne nodded. The man turned to Joe. ‘We need a recent picture of your son, sir; I found these in a drawer – would any be of him?’
A wave of emotion chewed Joe as he saw Jack holding a rod and the first fish he’d ever caught. Last September in Devon. All he could do was mouth a silent ‘Yes’.
Lyne studied the photograph, and Detective Inspector Gavros looked at it as well.
‘Smashing little chap,’ Gavros said.
‘If you’ve no objection, Professor Messenger, we’d like to get this straight into circulation. We think publicity could be helpful in this case.’
‘Sure,’ Joe mouthed.
Lyne glanced at his watch. ‘While you’re here, you’d better pack some kit for yourself and Mrs Messenger – maybe just some basic things for now.’
Joe went into their bedroom, hastily packed a holdall, then it was back outside and into the police car. Gavros drove and Lyne sat beside him in the front. He turned to Joe. ‘Do you have any relatives you can stay with for a few days? I’m afraid we can’t allow you back in the house until we’ve finished; it’ll take us about a week.’
Joe shook his head, bewilderment and exhaustion closing in on him. But he managed to spare a thought for the professor who owned the house. He wasn’t going to rush to pass on the news that it was now a murder scene. ‘We don’t have any relatives over here.’
Lyne picked up the handset of the two-way radio and instructed someone at the other end to arrange a hotel room. Then he replaced the handset and stifled a yawn.
‘Do you think he’s still alive, Superintendent?’ Joe asked quietly.
Lyne gazed directly back at Joe. ‘Yes, I do.’ He added solemnly, ‘But if you want me to be truthful with you, I don’t know how long we have.’
Lyne had apologized in advance for the hotel. There were four conferences going on in Brighton simultaneously, as well as a large exhibition, and virtually every decent space in the town had been booked. Their room was dingy and smelled of mothballs. They were one floor above a busy seafront road and sleep was impossible.
The phone rang for them at nine o’clock when they’d been there for just two or three hours, lying on the bed and attempting to rest. Karen looked at it, afraid. Joe lifted the receiver and recognized Lyne’s voice instantly. A man with a young boy who answered Jack’s description had boarded an Air France flight to Paris from Gatwick at ten o’clock last night. They’d bought their tickets at the last minute and the man had seemed nervous. He would call back when he had more news.
Joe’s spirits lifted a fraction. Paris. Whoever had Jack wouldn’t bother taking him all the way to Paris if he intended to kill him, surely? Karen perked up a little with the news, also.
Joe showered and shaved and felt marginally better. Lyne rang back again with further news. Karen’s white Toyota had been found in the short-term car park at Gatwick; this tallied with the report of the man and the boy.
‘Is there no one you can think of who might have done this, professor?’
‘No one,’ Joe said adamantly.
Lyne said he would give them time to have breakfast, then he would come round to carry on with more questions.
During the next hour the phone rang solidly as reporters from the national press began following up the leads from their overnight baskets. The fingerprint man came to see mem both in the midst of it all, followed by Lyne and Gavros. Joe was glad to see the detectives.
They went down and talked in the restaurant. Joe forced down some scrambled eggs, but Karen could manage only a piece of toast. She asked when they could go home, and Lyne repeated that it would be about a week. When pressed, he said that time might be shortened by a day or two if the whole team could be persuaded to work round the clock. He asked her and Joe to let him have a list of clothes and other items they needed.
The two detectives left at midday; when Joe and Karen went into the foyer of the hotel they were startled to see a pack of reporters and photographers, and retreated back up to their room. It had obviously once been spacious, but now it looked too narrow and high because it had been partitioned from one large room into two or three smaller ones. It was like being in a gully.
As Joe was trying to persuade them both to look on the bright side, there was a rap on the door. It was Blake, and Joe was glad to see him.
Blake looked at the room in horror. ‘Do you guys want to come and stay at my place?’
Karen shook her head. ‘No thank you, Blake,’ she said sharply.
Joe was a little embarrassed at her hostility, but as usual Blake seemed either not to notice or not to care. He suggested taking them in his car to tour round, see if they could spot Stassi on the streets anywhere, and check some hotels. Karen said she would stay put in case the phone rang, in case a miracle happened.
In the car, Joe slipped out the photograph he always kept of Jack in his wallet and tried to make it come to life. They drove along the seafront area, stopping at each hotel, running in, describing Stassi and showing the photo of Jack to any staff they saw. Street after street.
‘You didn’t tell me exactly what happened with Stassi, why she had to leave,’ Blake said at one point.
Joe explained and Blake looked amazed. ‘I thought she was a virginal little thing,’ he said.
‘So did I.’
‘Want a paper?’ Blake asked as they drove past a news vendor whose placard read: BRIGHTON KIDNAP MURDER HUNT.
Joe shook his head.
‘Do the police have any other theories?’
‘Not that they’ve said.’
Blake patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Gonna be OK, Joe. He’s gonna turn up somewhere, be fine.’
‘I don’t think Karen can take this for much longer.’
‘She’s a strong girl, Joe.’
‘Barry’s death nearly destroyed her.’ He bit his lip. ‘And me too.’
‘It’s not going to happen again.’ He glanced in his mirror and moved across into the centre of the road. ‘You know, I don’t think you should jump to conclusions about Stassi. I can’t believe she’d kidnap anyone, however hacked off she might have been. Maybe we should go take a closer look around your neighbourhood?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He looked at Blake. ‘You’re being very kind.’
Blake drove in silence for some moments. Then he said: ‘I guess someone’s going to have to let Stassi’s family know soon if she remains a missing person. I’d better speak to Matt Brewster, let him pass on the bad tidings.’
*
Joe had to wade through an army of reporters in the hotel foyer, but the worst moment came when he went up and faced Karen again. She was sitting in a chair, her eyes red and her face slippery with tears. There’d been no news. Just more calls from reporters. And one from Lyne who’d told Karen he now hoped they’d be able to move back into their house on Saturday; he’d added that until they knew who was responsible for what had happened he was arranging a police guard for them.
A counsellor sent by the police came to see them and later their doctor came to see Karen. They had supper sent up to their room, not wanting to face the reporters downstairs. Then went to bed. Someone had given Karen a sleeping pill, but despite his exhaustion Joe slept only fitfully. He was waiting all the time for the phone to ring. It remained silent.
Lyne came by in the morning and sat in the bedroom with them. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘The man on the Paris flight on Wednesday night has been traced. The boy with him has been positively identified as his son; a matrimonial situation, the father collecting the boy from his ex-wife.’
The news flattened Joe. He watched Karen’s face. She listened to Lyne without commenting; only the tightening of her features communicated her true distress.
He’s still alive, Joe wanted to say. As long as there’s no news we can go on hoping.
Lyne asked them more questions about Stassi and told them he’d requested the Hong Kong police to look into her background, as well as to contact her family.
After he had gone, Karen told Joe she would like to go to the synagogue and wanted him to come with her. He agreed.
The synagogue was only a block away from the hotel. They sat, Karen praying; Joe in silence, thinking. Afterwards they took a taxi back to Cranford Road to collect Joe’s car.
It felt very strange seeing the white-tape cordon and the mass of police vehicles, as well as several reporters and cameramen. Joe drove the Saab away quickly, not wanting any chance of having to face Derek Arkwright and tell him how sorry he was. He wasn’t up to facing anything right now.
They circled the neighbourhood several times, then moved slowly further afield. It was futile, Joe knew, but anything was better than sitting like caged animals in that miserable room, and going to the university was out of the question. He couldn’t leave Karen.
A couple of times they stopped and phoned in to the incident room to speak to Lyne or Gavros, but there was still no news.
Shortly after seven in the evening, as Joe pushed the hotel’s chunky key into their door, the phone rang. He sprinted over to grab the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he said, guarded but hopeful.
He heard an elderly woman’s voice dithering, confused. ‘Oh – er – is that, I wonder if I have the wrong number?’
Get off the line, you old bat, he thought, stop blocking it, the police might be trying to get through. ‘Who do you want to speak to?’ he said tersely.
‘Well, you see, it’s taken me a long time to get your number. I had to go through Directory Enquiries and I didn’t have your address; then I rang somewhere and got the police. So – I don’t know, you see.’
‘Don’t know what?’ He was getting increasingly impatient.
‘Well, if I have the right person?’ Her voice was quavering, nervous.
‘Who is it you want to speak to?’
‘You see – this is difficult for me – I’m trying to contact Professor Messenger.’
Joe frowned. ‘Speaking.’
‘Are you the gentleman who was on the six o’clock news on the television – on BBC yesterday evening?’
Hesitantly, ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t see the broadcast.’
‘You’re the father of the little boy who’s been – who is missing?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said. ‘What is it you actually want?’
‘Professor, please, bear with me, I’m old and I am a little confused. And I’m very nervous, you see. I – well – there was a picture on the television of a young lady. The police are trying to contact a young lady – something to do with your son, I think – it wasn’t quite clear.’
‘Anastasia Holland. Our au pair.’
‘Yes. You want to talk to her?’
He wondered where this was leading. Maybe she’d seen her – and Jack? He spoke more politely. ‘Yes, I do, very much. And so do the police.’
She became even more agitated. ‘I – I think you, oh dear, you might find that would be difficult.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, you see, I recognized her instantly. It’s really given me an awful shock. But I’m not mistaken …’
‘Look,’ Joe said, his hope fading again. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you are on about. I must keep this line clear for the police.’
‘Please – let me explain, professor. You see, I think they must have made a mistake; they must have shown the wrong picture.’
‘Wrong picture of whom?’
‘Of the girl. They called her Anastasia Holland – but that girl they showed is my niece, Susan. Susan Roach.’
‘Susan Roach?’
‘Yes! I’m certain. I knew her so well – you see, I brought her up for most of her life.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ Joe said.
‘No, I don’t either. You see, she died nineteen years ago, professor.’
65
Joe’s first reaction was to want to hang up. The woman was nuts, or perhaps just a harmless old biddy suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, her memories all confused. But there was something in her voice that made him want to give her the benefit of the doubt for just a little longer.
‘Did I catch you right?’ he asked. ‘You’re telling me that the girl they showed on television isn’t Anastasia Holland but someone who died nineteen years ago?’
There was a pause. ‘I knew the police would think I was, you know, a bit potty; that’s why I thought I’d try you first, you see.’
‘Who is it?’ Karen whispered.
Joe covered the receiver. ‘A crank.’ The old woman was saying something else and he missed it. ‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’
‘I suppose they might – perhaps, do you think?’
Joe took a breath to control his temper. ‘Might what?’
‘Keep the photographs going back that far?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. Who might keep the photographs going back that far?’
‘The television company, the BBC, or the newspapers – or the police.’
‘And which photographs do you mean? Photos of whom?’
‘Susan,’ she said, as if he was the idiot now.
He hesitated. ‘Why would the BBC have photographs of your niece?’
‘Well –’ Doubt returned to her voice. ‘I imagine they might have done. Otherwise, how would they have one now?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said rattily. He’d had enough, the conversation wasn’t going anywhere. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I have to go now. I’ll take your number and pass it on to the police. They’ll get back to you if they think your information could be helpful.’
She gave it to him and he jotted it down on the back of the room-service menu.
‘Thank you for calling,’ he said, and hung up.
Karen was staring out of the window. ‘What kind of a crank was that, Joe?’
‘An old lady, she was harmless, just confused; thought Stassi was her niece.’
‘I keep thinking I see him running across the promenade,’ she said.
‘I keep thinking I see him everywhere I look.’
The phone rang again. Joe made a move, but was surprised when Karen reached it first. He soon gathered that it was just the old biddy ringing back again and gestured at Karen to get rid of her. He was even more surprised when Karen shooed him off and gave the pest-caller her full attention, and even asked the old lady to take her time. He knew Karen was close to the edge and it was all he could do not to grab the receiver from her and slam it back in the cradle.
The leaden surface of the road sucked the light from the sky without returning it as Joe drove through the grimy sprawl of the south London boroughs, making his way towards Battersea. Against his own better judgement. Norbury, Streatham, Balaam, Clapham. Saturday morning. The street barrows were out; veggies, cheap pullovers, shirts, socks. Day-glo stickers shone from shopfronts. BARGAIN! CLOSING DOWN SALE! CD’S REDUCED!! FIRE SALE!! People were milling down the streets in shell suits and trainers. Joe scanned them, watching for a girl with long brown hair, on her own or accompanied by a small fair-haired boy.
He pulled over and checked the address, found his bearings. Close now, he thought with relief; should only be a couple of blocks. A man went by holding a boy’s hand. The boy looked excited and did a little jump. Jack did little jumps like that sometimes.
He turned right at the next light, and slowed down when he reached two concrete tower blocks with ugly weather stains. Large lettering above the porch of the first one stated: PORTLAND COURT.
Joe parked the Saab and walked over to the entrance. One of the glass doors was smashed and the other was off its hinges. Someone had had a go at the entryphone, and all that remained were a few bare wires sticking out of the wall like entrails. He knew it, this was a complete zero.
