The Vanishing Point

29

Nick had learned early on in his police career that nobody appreciated a copper on the doorstep late at night unless it really was a matter of life or death. He suspected that as far as Joshu’s parents were concerned, he’d be unwelcome at any time. They were under no obligation to talk to him, and he reckoned they would exercise their freedom of choice, not least because his was the face they would associate with the investigation into their only son’s death.

But there were other sources for information about the Patel family’s circumstances. During the inquiry into Joshu’s death, Nick had also spoken to both of the dead man’s sisters. Unlike their brother, Asmita and Ambar had fulfilled their parents’ ambitions. Asmita was an accountant with an international consultancy; Ambar had been on the point of qualifying as a barrister specialising in tax affairs. Dismayed but not surprised by her brother’s death, Ambar spoke about him with a world-weariness depressing in one so young and privileged, suggesting he had been a tragedy waiting to happen. ‘We washed our hands of him years ago,’ she’d said. ‘He made it clear he despised all of us, and frankly, I’d had enough of it. When he took up with that vile woman, that was the last straw. I never even told my friends we were related.’ It was a depressing epitaph for a young man who had been, in Nick’s view, essentially harmless. A waste of space, perhaps. But not a bad man. Not by the standards Nick was familiar with.

Asmita had been more upset. ‘I keep remembering what a funny little boy he was,’ she said. ‘My sweet little brother. I wish my parents hadn’t cut him out of our lives. We should have been there for him.’ Her regret was eating her up, that much had been clear. What depressed Nick more than her sister’s cynicism was that this grown woman hadn’t been able to find the courage to defy her parents and maintain contact with the brother she’d clearly still cared about. He wasn’t sentimental; he didn’t think Asmita could have saved Joshu from his burning drive towards self-destruction. But he didn’t think Joshu had deserved such an almighty fall from grace and he thought he’d let Asmita see that. If anyone in the Patel family was going to talk to him, it would be her.

This time of night wasn’t ideal, but child abduction changed all the rules. He hoped Asmita would appreciate that. She was still living at the same address, according to the council tax roll. As he drew near to her address, Adrian Legg’s polyphonic guitar blasting from his speakers, Nick’s memories of Asmita’s flat took shape. The building where she lived had been a primary school, built in the year of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, which probably explained the extravagance of the architecture. It looked more like a church with cathedral aspirations than an education factory for the children of the London poor. Nick pulled into the car park that had started life as the girls’ playground and found a guest slot in the furthest corner.

Asmita’s apartment was housed in the former infant department, occupying the upper floor of what would have been the nave if it really had been a church. He remembered high arched windows, a ribbed wooden ceiling like an upturned boat and wood everywhere – stripped floors, panelled walls, furniture in sympathetic shades. He pressed the intercom and waited. The voice that answered him was firm and slightly peevish. ‘Yes? Who is it?’

‘Ms Patel? It’s Detective Sergeant Nicolaides from the Met Police. I spoke to you after your brother died. I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, but I do need to talk to you.’

‘Can’t it keep till tomorrow? Don’t you know what time it is?’

Nick tried for the right mix of apology and insistence. ‘I’m afraid it’s urgent. I wouldn’t be here this late in the evening if it wasn’t.’

The only response was the loud buzz of the door release. It was so abrupt that he almost didn’t catch it in time. Lights came on in the stairwell as he climbed the flight of stairs that led up to the interior door of the flat. The walls were painted in broad stripes of warm earth colours, a statement of welcome as well as taste.

Asmita was standing in the doorway waiting for him. She was wearing a long kaftan with a hood. Nick had seen Arab men wearing something similar but he didn’t know what it was called. The material was a blend of shades – saffron, cinnamon, chocolate – with gold threads running through it that caught the light when she moved. Her hair was caught up in a scrunchy on top of her head, making the resemblance to her late brother more obvious than when it was loose. Her eyes looked tired, her skin drawn. Her face was scrubbed of makeup, ready for bed. ‘Come in,’ she said. It sounded more like, sod off.

He followed her into the main living space. Squashy sofas focused on a giant plasma-screen TV. Behind them a long table was set against the wall, clearly functioning as a desk. Neat piles of papers flanked an ultra-thin laptop. Two small speakers sat on the desk, playing quiet, minimalist piano music. The sort of audio wallpaper Nick despised with all of his musical soul.

Asmita stood by the sofas, one hand on her hip, lips pursed. It didn’t look as though she was going to invite him to sit down. Maybe he hadn’t done as good a job last time as he’d thought. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

‘I’m working on an investigation that—’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘This is an incredibly long shot, but we’re short on leads, so here I am.’ Nick tried his best puppy-dog look, one he’d been reliably informed was a bit of a heartmelter.

Asmita was not moved. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ Nick said. ‘Your nephew has been abducted.’

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. ‘Rabinder?’ Her hands flew to her face, pressing against her cheeks. ‘Oh my God, what’s happened to Rabinder?’

Nick was taken aback. ‘Who’s Rabinder?’

‘What do you mean, who’s Rabinder? He’s my nephew.’ She frowned, bewildered. ‘You said he’s been abducted. How can you not know his name?’

‘It’s not Rabinder,’ Nick said hastily. ‘Can we just back up here? We’re at cross purposes. I’m talking about Jimmy. Joshu’s boy. I don’t know who Rabinder is.’

Panic visibly drained away from Asmita, leaving anger behind. ‘You really freaked me out there. I can’t believe you did that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Nick said. ‘I genuinely had no idea you have another nephew. Has Ambar had a baby?’

Asmita turned away, shaking her head. ‘Who trains you people? You come barging into my home at this time of night, scaring the living daylights out of me because you haven’t bothered to brief yourself properly, then you start chatting away like it’s a social call. Your people skills are in the negative numbers.’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’

She faced him again, back in complete control of herself. ‘Ambar got married about six months after Jishnu died.’ Nick had to think for a moment who she meant, then remembered Joshu hadn’t always been called Joshu. To his family, he would always be Jishnu. ‘Rabinder was born about a year later. He’s seven months old now.’ Asmita couldn’t resist a smile. ‘We all adore him. That’s why I was so freaked out. He’s the only person I think of as my nephew.’

‘But Jimmy is too, whether you like it or not.’

‘But I don’t know him. He’s never been part of my life. And I do regret that, but I have to respect my parents’ wishes. And they wished to have nothing to do with him. My mother is adamant that Jimmy isn’t even Jishnu’s child.’ This time her smile was apologetic. ‘She has a very low opinion of Scarlett Higgins and her personal morality.’

‘So you’re saying your family really don’t consider Jimmy to be one of you?’

Asmita folded her arms across her chest. ‘Biologically, he might be. But he’s not part of our family in any meaningful sense. He’s not part of our culture, our family traditions. He doesn’t belong.’

‘He looks like one of you,’ Nick said. ‘He looks more like a Patel than a Higgins.’

‘Maybe. But looks are only skin deep.’ She cleared her throat. ‘You say he’s been abducted? How did that happen?’

‘His guardian took him on holiday to America. While she was waiting for a security pat-down, a man walked away with Jimmy. It was very well orchestrated. By the time anyone realised what was happening, they were gone.’

There was a long silence. Asmita crossed to one of the tall windows that looked out towards the glittering skyscrapers of the City. ‘What has this to do with me and my family?’

Not a question that would be easy to answer without treading on cultural sensibilities. ‘Like I said, it was a long shot. And you kind of answered my question when you told me about Rabinder.’

She swung back to glare at him. ‘I get it.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You think we’re some primitive hill tribe who need a male heir to preserve the family line. Do you have any idea how insulting that is?’

‘It wasn’t meant to be an insult. Quite the opposite,’ Nick said. ‘I was trying to be sensitive to what might seem important to someone from a different cultural perspective. I’m not an expert in these nuances, I’m a detective trying to do my job. And that job is all about trying to rescue a small boy who has been snatched from the person he loves and the life he knows. If I’ve trod on your toes, I’m sorry. But that’s not my number one priority at the moment.’ He started to head towards the door.

‘Wait,’ Asmita said. ‘I think we both got off on the wrong foot here. I’m sorry to hear about Jimmy, but only in the way I’d be sorry about any other stranger’s kid being abducted. I can’t pretend to feel an emotional connection that doesn’t exist.’

‘I understand,’ Nick said. He couldn’t help thinking that if she spent so much as an afternoon in Jimmy’s company she’d be singing from a different song sheet.

‘But you’re right to think a male heir is important to my father. Although he couldn’t admit it, he was devastated by Jishnu’s death. And Rabinder’s birth was an obvious relief to him. It eased the pain of his loss and it gave him hope. But even before that, Jimmy wasn’t the answer. You have to believe me on that.’

It sounded like the truth. And Nick had no reason to disbelieve her. He wasn’t sorry that nothing had come of his idea. It simply strengthened his belief that Pete Matthews was the most credible suspect. Now all he had to do was find the bastard.