“What? Where? It sure sounds like you’re on the Tube,” Mike declared.
“I’ve just parked at the office, and I’m walking to the elevator.”
“Leonard, your car parking space is so close to the elevator that the ‘S’ of ‘de Vries’ wraps around the call button.”
“Someone parked in my space.”
“Who?”
“Let’s call him Lance Armstrong because he’ll be cycling to work from now on. Call me back in five.”
He rang off, and Mike leant back in her chair. It was Monday morning, and she was still digesting what had happened yesterday. Most important for her was that Maria and Angelica were safely in the villa after their flight from Northolt. Unfortunately, Maria was now heavily sedated and lying in her room. The realisation of what was happening and the flashbacks to a year previously had set off a panic attack. Angelica had gone to her room and locked herself in, but not until after Mike had read the Riot Act to her, having explained that she must turn off the location services on her phone and she couldn’t tell anyone that she was in Spain.
“Yes, Angelica,” Mike had said, “that does mean no selfies.”
“How long are we here for? I’m going to the Ariana Grande concert next week with Pippa.”
“Just leave it a couple of days while we sort out what’s happening. Sorry.”
Angelica had locked the bedroom door.
Now in full operative mode, Mike had asked Charles to describe what he had seen on his phone while talking to the kidnappers. It was no surprise that he wasn’t the most observant of people and could only describe Gabriela and Camila with tape across their mouths. He thought he had seen a chest of drawers to one side, but he wasn’t sure. This fact contributed absolutely nothing to the search, but this seemed to pass Charles by altogether. Mike and Charles hadn’t told Maria or Angelica about the break-in nor that the blackmailers had rung back a little later once they had established who they had kidnapped. Their demands were the same, and Charles had written down the email address that Brendan had given him. It ended in ‘.ma’ which was Moroccan.
“Just as I thought, the bastards are in Morocco,” Charles had said.
“Not necessarily,” Mike had replied.
“Why are you always so cynical?”
“Charles, when the magician keeps waving his left hand in the air, look at his right. Just a piece of advice.”
Charles had shrugged.
For several hours previously, Mike had tried to piece together why a well-spoken British man was holding two females who he thought were the Yellands, while demanding that commercial information was emailed to a Moroccan email address. This didn’t ring true, but then again, what did she know?
Not long after Maria’s arrival, and as promised, Mike had made the call to one of her contacts in the London police and reported the events in Buckinghamshire. She had forwarded the security video from Charles’s phone. A police team had gone out to the Manor to investigate, and a scene-of-crime unit was currently gathering evidence. However, it was obvious that the gang was professional and had only made one mistake: assuming that the two people in the kitchen were Maria and Angelica. An easy mistake to make given that both mothers were Mexican, and they all had jet-black hair.
Mike was surprised that the kidnappers hadn’t been monitoring the Manor. Hadn’t they seen them leave for Northolt? Here, she was wrong because she didn’t know that they were indeed watching, but they hadn’t seen the mother and daughter being ferried to the airport in a helicopter from the rear of the estate, which had therefore not triggered the surveillance camera at the front gates.
She grabbed her phone. She had forgotten to call Leonard back.
“Where’ve you been?” he said when the call she made connected.
“How’s Lance Armstrong?”
“He’s been selected at random by me for an invasive drugs test.”
“Aren’t you confusing him with the real Lance Armstrong?”
“Well, whatever. All I know is that he won’t be able to sit on a bike for a while.”
Mike winced and, as an involuntary reaction, squirmed on her chair.
She told Leonard all about the events in Buckinghamshire and that she felt she was under a lot of pressure. He, for his part, told her that she didn’t know what the word ‘pressure’ meant and that she ought to feel the heat that he was getting from above. Leonard wanted her to forget about the Yellands and find Randy.
On a bright Monday morning, Patrick Redwood walked up the steps of the prosecutor’s office in anticipation of his 10.00am meeting. While stopping at a kiosk to buy some chewing gum, Ben Cox had rung to confirm that Brendan Dowell still hadn’t been in contact or been found. The FCO was presuming he had decided to spend his weekend completely away from work and would be back in his office on Monday – so far, he hadn’t reported for duty at the Paris embassy.
Madame Bettancourt was sitting at her desk, wearing a collarless black suit with a dragonfly brooch. She invited Patrick to take a seat. “Mr Redwood, how was your weekend in the Alsace?”
“Very enjoyable. I visited the Schlumpf car museum in Mulhouse yesterday. It’s very impressive.”
“I am ashamed to admit that I have never been,” she confessed.
“Are you from the Alsace originally?” He couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘Alsatian’ for some reason.
“No, I am from Lorraine, which is the region to the north … not far away.”
Patrick reflected on this and, after a short pause, asked, “How’s Walter Flushing?”
“Alive but still on the critical list. He is under police protection, which you might also be interested to learn.” She moved a notepad on her desk and looked directly at Patrick. “You did not spend the weekend with Mr Dowell from your Foreign Office?”
“No, no; I think he has gone back to Paris. I don’t know him. I’ve been liaising with Stewart McBride on this case – or should that be cases?”
She smiled in a knowing way. “Over the weekend, we tried to contact Mr Dowell, but his phone has been turned off.”
Patrick wondered why the French investigative team should be trying to contact Brendan. “Have there been developments?”
