Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 4

  ‘I heard about the break-ins,’ Rafferty said. ‘Is there anything worth stealing on board?’

  ‘Not really. The boat itself is expensive. I suppose someone could steal the engine or something.’

  ‘No phones? Laptops?’

  ‘Just this,’ Faye said as she pulled an old Nokia from her pocket.

  It was a seriously out-of-date model, the kind parents might entrust to a preteen too young for a smartphone. Rafferty quickly dismissed robbery. ‘Nobody’s going to want to steal that,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I could have a quick tour?’

  ‘Sure. We’ve got the living room here. There’s a fold-out table for Mark to work on hidden to your left,’ Faye said.

  Rafferty turned, and sure enough, there was a small table bolted to the left of the sofa that could be flipped up to work on. It seemed as if even the gap under the sofa had been well-used.

  Beyond the living room was a tiny bathroom with just enough space to turn on the spot. The basin was bolted into one corner, and the shower was angled away from the loo roll. His and hers toothbrushes were on a tiny shelf underneath the window. There were no luxuries, no beauty products, none of the myriad potions and lotions that Rafferty had in her own bathroom.

  The next room along was the kitchenette. It was well kitted out, with high-end appliances that contrasted sharply with the empty cupboards.

  ‘And the bedroom is at the back. It’s a bit of a mess. Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Rafferty?’ Faye asked politely.

  ‘Please. Milk, two sugars.’

  The kettle was boiled, two cups fetched from a tiny cupboard that Faye could barely reach, and the last two teabags retrieved from the tea caddy. The fridge was barren. When Faye retrieved from within its depths a tiny one-pint carton of milk, there was only enough for a dribble of milk in each cup.

  Rafferty politely sipped her tea and then put it down again immediately.

  ‘What’s it like living on a boat?’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Faye said. ‘I’m still noticing the vibration underneath me every time we have to move the boat. It’s cold, and it’s cramped. But it beats prison.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I believed you were innocent,’ Rafferty said.

  Faye gave her a wry smile. ‘That makes two of us.’ She looked away as if embarrassed by the subject of her conviction. When she looked back, her face was blank. She quickly changed the subject. ‘I’ll tell you one thing boat owners won’t tell you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ve got to empty out the toilet cartridges.’ Faye pulled a face. ‘Disgusting.’

  ‘That sounds horrific.’

  ‘Between that and topping up the water and diesel, it’s pretty high maintenance. Mark used to do all of it. He knew the boat inside out. He was so good at taking care of me. I don’t know how I’m going to cope without h-him.’ Faye began to well up, and a tear streaked down her cheek.

  Rafferty instinctively reached out to hug her, but Faye recoiled. She looked Faye in the eye and said, ‘We’ll find him, I promise.’

  They concluded their tour with a view of the tiny bedroom, which was little more than a sideways bed, a shelf full of knick-knacks, and a pile of dirty clothing on the floor. There was another door at the rear of the bedroom.

  Rafferty departed determined to do everything she could for the young woman. Poor Faye needed a friend now more than ever.

  Before she headed for the tube, Rafferty nipped into the local Sainsbury’s, bought a bag of essential goods, and trekked them back down to The Guilty Pleasure. She left them on the bow without a word and quietly made her escape into the night.

  Chapter 10: The Search Begins

  Friday 17th June, 15:00

  Rafferty returned to the office that Friday afternoon. Morton was long gone, off liaising with Kieran O’Connor at the CPS about another case. She found DS Ayala and DS Mayberry in the break room, arguing over the last slice of cake.

  ‘H-how about we s-split it?’ Mayberry said.

  Ayala shrugged. ‘Fine, but I get the bigger half.’

  ‘N-no way. It’s my t-turn to choose.’

  Rafferty sighed. Men! ‘Did your parents never teach you anything? One of you cut it in half, the other gets to pick.’ She watched them as their brains slowly ticked over and they realised that her method was right. Neither could out-do the other. ‘And when you’ve done that, I need a favour.’

  Ayala smiled over a mouthful of cake. ‘Anyt’ing.’

  ‘I need one of you to look up the financials of a man called Mark Sanders. Here, I’ve written down everything I’ve got on him. Whoever isn’t doing that, I want his mobile phone data. Whom he’s called, when, and where his phone has been,’ Rafferty said. ‘And one more thing: keep it on the down-low.’

  ‘E-even from Morton?’ Mayberry said.

  ‘Especially from Morton.’ She looked between them, half-expecting to have to referee who would do each task. ‘Call me when you know anything.’

  ***

  From Rafferty’s chat with Faye, she knew that Mark was one of two siblings. Less than two years ago, they’d been living at home in Ilford. When their Dad died, they each came into a small fortune. Much like their dad in his youth, both chose to make their homes on the waterways.

  Jake Sanders was two years Mark’s junior, and baby-faced along with it. From his website, Rafferty had found out that Jake described himself as an accountant of sorts, but really was little more than an outsourced payroll processing service. It seemed Mark wasn’t the only brother with a habit of using a misleading job title. Jake’s unique selling point was that he offered a ‘floating office’ service, moving his boat back and forth to meet up with wealthy clients all over London. Rafferty found him at his home mooring in Limehouse Basin.

  His boat was much smaller than Mark’s, with no dedicated kitchen. The lounge had been laid out like an office, forgoing a sofa in favour of a small partner desk and two chairs.

  ‘Mark has always been a free spirit,’ Jake said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was off partying somewhere. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘When was the last time he disappeared?’

  ‘He had a business trip a few years back, State-side. He disappeared for a week in Vegas. He came back a week late, wearing the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. He thought it was hilarious. Mum and Dad were worried sick, of course,’ Jake said. ‘Not that they’re around anymore.’

  ‘Would he ever blow off a business meeting?’ Rafferty said.

  Jake frowned. ‘No. Never. Mark has a “work hard, play harder” philosophy. He’ll get wrecked, but only after he’s made the cash to pay for it.’

  ‘Is he good with money?’

  Jake snorted. ‘He’s good at spending it. We both got a load when Dad died. Mine was invested in my business. Mark blew his on women and fancy holidays.’

  Rafferty looked around the boat. It wasn’t much of a business. ‘He’s a womaniser, then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No, but you said he blew his inheritance on women. Your dad died after Faye went to prison, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘So, it follows that he spent money on other women behind Faye’s back.’ Rafferty jabbed a finger towards him accusingly.

  ‘Fine. Mark likes to have a woman on his arm. Is that so wrong? Faye was in prison. Can you really expect a man to go four years without so much as looking at another woman?’

  ‘I expect a man to be honest about how he feels.’

  ‘I’m guessing you’re single, then,’ Jake said. ‘Not that it’s any of my business. Is there anything else I can do for you today?’

  ‘Don’t leave London without telling me. Call if you hear anything.’

  Rafferty placed a business card on his desk and let herself out. I’m guessing you’re single, then. Cheeky bastard.

  Chapter 11: The Note

  Saturday 18th June, 06:00

  There was
a creak on the deck that morning. Faye awoke with a start, wondering if Mark was finally home. She leapt from their shared bed, threw on her dressing gown, and stumbled out of the bedroom.

  The sun blinded her as she headed for the door. A quick glance at the clock on the sitting room wall said it was five past six in the morning. She expected Mark to walk through the door any minute and give her some half-arsed excuse about why he had been gone all week.

  Faye unlocked the front door and squinted into the sunshine. Her eyes sought out the source of the creak.

  ‘Meow!’ Fabby the cat was sitting outside. She ambled over and wrapped herself around Faye’s legs.

  ‘How on earth did you get out here?’ Faye said. Then she caught sight of the newspaper that the cat had been curled up on. It was a copy of Friday’s The Impartial newspaper. Black ink was splashed across the front in a bold, masculine font. It read:

  BRING £100,000 IN CASH TO THE DUELLING GROUNDS AT HAMPSTEAD HEATH AT MIDNIGHT TONIGHT. COME ALONE. DO NOT INVOLVE THE POLICE, OR MARK WILL BE DEAD.

  Faye’s heart sank as she read the note. She quickly dialled Rafferty. ‘Come on, come on! Wake up!’

  Despite the early hour, Rafferty answered. ‘I’ll be right there. Stay put. Put the note down and do not touch it again.’

  ***

  Saturday 18th June, 07:25

  Rafferty had to call it in. A man’s life hung in the balance. She hit the hands-free button on her phone as she leapt into her car and sped towards Alperton.

  ‘Come on, Morton. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!’

  He did. ‘Rafferty, aren’t you supposed to be on leave?’

  ‘He’s been kidnapped,’ Rafferty said. ‘She’s got a ransom demand. What do we do?’

  ‘Slow down a second,’ Morton replied. His voice was infuriatingly calm. ‘What does the note say?’

  Rafferty put her foot down as the lights ahead turned from red to green. ‘I’ll text you a picture when I get there. The kidnapper wants a hundred grand, tonight, or Mark Sanders is dead.’

  ‘A hundred thousand pounds? Is Sanders rich?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Then, why does the kidnapper think your girl can come up with a hundred thousand pounds at a few hours’ notice?’ Morton asked.

  The question hung in the air. The kidnapper knew enough to take Mark from his own boat and to find the boat again to leave the ransom note. That spoke to a personal connection. But, apart from the life insurance money that Mark had used to purchase The Guilty Pleasure, neither Mark nor Faye had ever had money. She had nothing at all, and Mark wasn’t doing much better. Mayberry’s enquiries into his finances had shown his bank balance swinging above and below zero on a monthly basis. Mark Sanders was living a strictly pay-cheque-to-pay-cheque existence.

  ‘What should I do?’ Rafferty demanded.

  ‘Go to her,’ Morton said, still infuriatingly calm. ‘Plain clothes. Don’t park too near. If the kidnappers are watching, and we should assume they are, then we need to keep our involvement to the minimum. I’ll get hold of SCD7. They’ve got specialists in this sort of thing. Until then, we’re assuming jurisdiction. Can you handle babysitting Miss Atkins until then?’

  ‘On it.’

  ***

  The Guilty Pleasure was exactly where she’d been when Rafferty had visited earlier in the week. Another boat had moored up a few hundred yards farther along, just about far enough away for privacy, but close enough to be near the footbridge for easy access to either side of the canal.

  She found Faye sitting in the living room. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her mascara had streaked.

  ‘A-Ashley!’ Faye sobbed, and threw her arms around the police officer. She was clutching the note in her fist. She hadn’t put it down since Rafferty’s phone call. Rafferty broke away, donned a pair of plastic gloves, and gently coaxed the ransom note from Faye.

  She put the note straight into an evidence bag while a quivering Faye sobbed uncontrollably. Rafferty examined the writing through the plastic to confirm that Faye had relayed the message correctly, and then placed the bag down on the sofa so she could complete the chain of custody seal. The note was crumpled, dirty, and looked as if it had been trampled upon. Forensic countermeasure? Rafferty wondered.

  ‘I’ve lost him, haven’t I?’

  ‘We’ll do what we can.’ Rafferty held up the evidence bag containing the note. ‘Where exactly did you find it?’

  ‘On the well deck at the bow. The cat was sitting on it.’

  Rafferty looked around the small sitting room. There was no sign of Fabby. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’ll be here somewhere. She likes to hide under tables and attack the legs of anyone who walks by.’

  ‘Mine’s like that too,’ Rafferty said. ‘Sweetest thing in the world, and then she’s trying to kill you. Shall we go find Fabby?’

  It wasn’t really about the cat. Rafferty wanted to snoop around the boat, and this seemed like an inconspicuous way to distract Faye and look for any clues.

  She took Faye’s silence as consent and made a beeline for the stern. The last time she’d been on the boat, Rafferty had made it as far as the small kitchenette. Through the undersized doorway at the back, she found the bedroom.

  It struck Rafferty as remarkably cosy. There was a double cross bed folded down from one wall, with thick blankets in a topsy-turvy pile. The space underneath the bed seemed to have been stuffed with dirty clothes, mostly Mark’s, and it was there that Rafferty found Fabby the cat. Big eyes looked up at her dolefully, and then a tiny paw swiped at her left boot.

  ‘Easy, little one. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Rafferty crouched down and held out a perfectly-manicured hand. The cat sniffed it cautiously and then edged out from under the bed. Her fur was matted, and she was thinner than Rafferty would have liked, but Faye did seem to be looking after her.

  ‘Faye! Do you have any of the cat food I bought for you left in the cupboard?’

  She hollered back from the little lounge. ‘Yes, Miss Rafferty. It’s in the top cupboard!’

  Rafferty paused. It was a moment of normalcy amid the stress. For a moment, it felt like Rafferty was simply visiting an old friend. She made her way back into the kitchen, found the cat food in the cupboard, and promptly broke the pull-ring on the cap.

  ‘Bugger.’ Rafferty quickly opened the drawers in front of her. There had to be a can opener around somewhere.

  ‘What have we here?’ Rafferty whispered to herself. In the back of the cutlery drawer, she found a mobile phone.

  Faye appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry. Did you say something, Miss Rafferty?’

  ‘Is this Mark’s phone?’

  Faye nodded. ‘That’s it. Wherever did you find it?’

  ‘It was in the cutlery drawer.’ Rafferty eyed Faye, watching her body language.

  ‘Ohh. He always puts his phone in odd places like that. If you leave anything on a table around here, it’s liable to end up on the floor.’

  ‘Right...’ Rafferty said.

  Faye seemed to have an answer for everything. For now, she wasn’t distraught, either. The boat had yielded no real clues, and the note was wholly generic. To Rafferty’s untrained eye, the note seemed masculine, uncompromising, and direct.

  ‘Faye, I’ve got to show the note to my colleagues. Let me take it back to them, and then we can work out what to do.’

  ‘Please! We can’t involve the police. It’s got to be just you.’

  ‘At least let me send them a photograph.’

  Faye acquiesced, the note was photographed, and then the photograph was promptly emailed to Morton and the team.

  Chapter 12: Jurisdiction

  Saturday 18th June, 09:00

  BRING £100,000 IN CASH TO THE DUELLING GROUNDS AT HAMPSTEAD HEATH AT MIDNIGHT TONIGHT. COME ALONE. DO NOT INVOLVE THE POLICE, OR MARK WILL BE DEAD.

  The photograph was displayed at one hundred times magnification on the big
screen in Morton’s Incident Room. A specialist from the Kidnap Unit, part of SCD7, was on the way. Morton, Ayala, and Mayberry were waiting for them.

  ‘It’s short and to the point. It sets out the demand without giving away any extra information. What do we think of the handwriting?’ Morton asked, turning to Ayala and Mayberry.

  Ayala held five fingers aloft and began counting off the details. ‘One: all caps. Two: they’ve used a broad, fibre-tipped black pen, so there’s not much final detail. Three: the penmanship is bold, confident, and unstyled. Four: the writer applied even pressure and shading. Five: there is no hint of hesitation marks. It’s a professionally put-together note.’

  Morton stroked his chin. ‘You think so? The grammar is off: “or Mark will be dead.” That doesn’t throw up any red flags for you? Why not “or Mark will die”? Why not “or I will kill Mark”? It’s a weird turn of phrase.’

  ‘M-maybe they’re trying to hide how many kidnappers there are?’ Mayberry said.

  ‘Could be. The use of “I” or “we” would indicate whether we’re looking for one kidnapper or multiple kidnappers. Any other theories?’

  ‘I have one.’ The voice that came from the back of the room belonged to a woman who had once fired Morton. Morton’s mind flashed back to his time working for her as an undercover officer. That hadn’t ended well.

  Morton turned to see that his kidnapping expert had slipped in without them noticing. She was tall for a woman, almost edging out Ayala in height, with long silver hair and a face that had aged gracefully despite the ravages of the two decades since Morton had last seen her.

  ‘Anna Silverman, as I live and breathe! You’re with the Kidnap Unit these days?’

  ‘I am,’ Silverman said simply, and turned to focus on the screen. ‘This note isn’t just neutral. It’s impersonal. The author isn’t taking responsibility for what’s going on. Look at the final clause. The author doesn’t threaten to kill Mark. They’re simply stating, dispassionately, that he will die if they don’t get what they want. It’s like they’re distancing themselves from the consequences that they’re threatening.’