The Lost

Chapter 32

Jonah didn’t dare risk going back to his flat after he’d left Wilkes. Now he’d pointed Fletcher towards Eliana Salim it was only a matter of time before her sister was identified, and when that happened he’d have awkward questions to answer. The DI would want to know how he knew about Gavin’s old case, and this time he wouldn’t be fobbed off. Jonah would have to provide answers at some point, but he couldn’t afford to be tied up by a police interview today. However bad it looked, he needed to avoid Fletcher until this was over. After that...

After that, it didn’t matter.

It left him with nowhere to go. Chrissie and her husband would phone him when they’d gathered the money together, or as much of it as they could, and Wilkes didn’t want Jonah with him when he bought the gun. At his insistence, they’d agreed to meet at half past eleven that night on the waste ground at Slaughter Quay. Jonah would have preferred to pick Wilkes up first in the rented Volvo. Stokes had said he should deliver the money alone, so having two cars showing up was a risk.

But only if Stokes saw them. If he went to the quayside by boat like last time, then he wouldn’t know. And even if he didn’t, the chances were that by then he’d already be waiting for Jonah at the warehouse, Wilkes argued. He could follow behind Jonah, staying out of sight but ready to rush to help or call for back-up if it was needed.

Jonah didn’t like it, but the ex-detective had been adamant. Apart from anything else, he couldn’t say how long it would take him to get the gun. If the buy took longer than anticipated it was better for Jonah to be waiting at the quayside than sitting outside Wilkes’s house.

‘What if you can’t make it there by twelve?’ Jonah had asked.

‘Then something’s gone tits up and we’re both fucked,’ he’d answered.

Jonah hated waiting. He could feel the nervous energy running in him like an over-revved engine. It was the same before an op, when the adrenaline was pumping and the imagination was free to think of all the things that could go wrong.

He needed something to occupy his mind.

The last of the light was fading outside as he parked on a quiet street to wait for Chrissie’s call. He’d bought a pre-packed sandwich and bottled water, and he took out his phone as he ate. A search for Daniel Kimani revealed notices on missing persons websites, which meant the police still hadn’t publicly confirmed the identification. There was a photograph showing a plump and smiling young man, cropped to cut out the other people from it, and in addition to the official sites, a Facebook page had been set up by Kimani’s friends and family. Jonah guessed that was how Daly had started the trail. He considered contacting them himself, but if they hadn’t been informed that a formal identification had been made, he didn’t want to be the one to break the news. Always assuming it had, he reminded himself. Neither Fletcher nor Bennet had confirmed it to him.

Regardless, chasing down information on Daniel Kimani would take more time and concentration than he could spare just then. Checking the time, he cleared the search from his phone and then typed in Anna Donari.

The spelling was a best guess, based on how Salim had pronounced the name. There were thousands of results, far too many to be of any use. Jonah added UK and tried again. That reduced the number of hits, but when nothing obvious jumped out he keyed in London as well. He didn’t even know if that was where Donari was from, but he had to try something. Even so, he was still dispirited at the unpromising list of results that filled the screen.

Then one caught his eye. He almost skipped past it at first, because it was a variant of the name: Ana, not Anna and Donauri rather than Donari. The first thing that caught his attention was the date. The entry was from ten years ago.

A week after Theo vanished.

It was a report from a local newspaper. A woman’s body found in an alley near Euston Station had been identified as Ana Donauri, a thirty-seven-year-old Georgian national. The cause of death wasn’t given, but the report said the body’s hands had both been cut off. Jonah frowned at that, but the piece didn’t elaborate. Retyping the name with the new spelling, he searched again. That yielded an earlier report in the same newspaper, from when the body had been discovered. But there were no more details than the later piece. It ended with the stock phrase, ‘Police are continuing with their enquiries.’

That was all.

Jonah’s knee was hurting, cramped from so long in the car. Flexing it, he took out the phone Salim had given him. He weighed it in his hand, tempted to call and ask if this was who she’d meant. But she’d made it clear it was for one-time use only, and he didn’t want to waste the call. If she’d wanted to tell him more, she would have.

So why had she given him the name?

Putting Salim’s phone away again, he jumped as his own rang. He snatched it up, expecting it would be Chrissie. Or even Wilkes, contacting him to say there was a problem.

But it was Fletcher’s number on the screen. Shit. Jonah let it ring. If he answered Fletcher would ask him to go in or want to see him at his flat. Jonah couldn’t do either, and he didn’t want a lengthy conversation with an irate detective inspector when he was waiting for Chrissie to call. Still, avoiding the DI made him feel uncomfortably like a fugitive.

When the ringing stopped, even the silence felt accusing.

It was fully dark outside now, the streetlights casting a sickly light into the car. Jonah had been avoiding checking the time again, but he gave in now and saw it was half past seven. Only a few hours to go. The realisation brought an acid burn in his gut. Come on, Chrissie, where are you?

As though in response his phone rang again. This time it showed Chrissie’s name on the screen. Her voice sounded cracked and broken when Jonah answered.

‘We’ve got it,’ she said.

There had been an accident on the dual carriageway. One lane had been closed and traffic was backed up, which meant it was almost nine o’clock when Jonah pulled up outside the white-painted Georgian terrace. Fretting at the delay, he limped up to the gate and pressed the intercom. There was no answer, only a click as the lock was released. The glossy front door opened before he reached it, and Jonah felt a shock when he saw Chrissie.

She seemed to have aged years since that morning. The emotional toll was etched on every feature, prematurely turning her into an older version of herself. Neither of them spoke as he followed her to the open-plan kitchen and dining room. It seemed that every light in the house was on, as though driving out the shadows might usher in an illusion of normal life. Waverly was at the table, smartly dressed as though he’d just got in from work. But the strain was visible on his face as well. His cheeks looked sunken, the flesh of his face even more pallid than it had been that morning. Bank statements and spreadsheets were set out in front of him, and there was a tumbler of what looked like whisky on a slate coaster to one side.

‘Jonah, thanks for coming,’ he said, straightening. It might have been a social visit, but Jonah could see the effort it was taking to keep himself together. ‘Can we get you a drink?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Tea or coffee, then?’

There was a strangled noise from Chrissie. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

Her husband looked blankly at her, his mouth working as though gears had slipped.

‘Actually, a coffee would be great,’ Jonah said.

Waverly seized on it. He nodded, as though something momentous had been decided. ‘OK, then. Good.’

But neither he nor his wife moved. The atmosphere in the kitchen was suffocating. ‘You managed to get the money?’ Jonah prompted.

‘Not all of it.’ Waverly faltered. ‘I managed to get a little over a hundred thousand.’

‘Jesus,’ Chrissie said, shaking her head.

‘We’ve been through this. I told you, it’s the best I could do.’

‘The best? We’re talking about your kids’ lives!’

Her husband looked stricken. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘Do you have it here?’ Jonah asked, hoping to head off a row.

‘Yes, of course.’ Waverly picked up a leather laptop bag and put it on the table. He unzipped it, showing Jonah the bundles of notes inside as though for his approval. ‘I didn’t know what denominations he... Anyway, I got fifties. They take up less room, so... you know.’

‘That’s fine,’ Jonah told him. Stokes hadn’t specified, and he didn’t think it would matter. If all went well it wouldn’t make any difference anyway.

Waverly pushed the bag across the table towards Jonah. ‘So what happens now?’

Jonah hesitated. He hadn’t told them about the gun, and he still hadn’t decided if that was something they needed to know or not. But Chrissie didn’t give him a chance to answer.

‘I want to tell the police.’

She was hugging herself, her face white. Her husband looked stunned.

‘What? But you said—’

‘I don’t care what I said, this isn’t right.’ Chrissie was shaking her head repeatedly, as though trying to dislodge her thoughts. ‘We need to tell them. Before it’s too late!’

‘Are you serious? It is too late, you can’t change your mind now.’

‘Yes, I can. We can explain! Tell them why we, why we...’

She was starting to shiver, like a broken machine shaking itself apart. Waverly went to her.

‘Chrissie—’

‘I can’t do this! I can’t, not again. Please!’

Her husband put an arm around her, gently steering her to the hallway. ‘I know. Come on.’

She didn’t resist as he led her out. Jonah heard Waverly murmuring softly to her as their footsteps sounded on the stairs. God. Suddenly drained, he eased himself onto one of the bar stools at the island, his bad leg held stiffly out to one side. There was a framed photograph of the twins. One dark-haired and grinning broadly, one blonde with a shy smile, both in private school uniforms. Seeing them, Jonah felt his own doubts threaten to overwhelm him. He thought about calling Bennet. He’d find it easier explaining to her than Fletcher, and for a moment the temptation to hand this over to someone else was almost too much.

But if the police were going to be brought in, it should have been that morning, when the twins were first snatched. Not with — he checked his watch, though he knew to the minute what the time was — under three hours left until he had to meet Owen Stokes. For better or worse, they were committed.

It was another twenty minutes before he heard someone coming back down the stairs. Waverly reappeared in the kitchen doorway, his eyes red.

‘Is she OK?’ Jonah asked.

‘She’s under the shower. I think that’s her fifth today.’ He went to the table, picked up his glass and drank it off. He gave a shudder and turned to Jonah. ‘You sure you don’t want one?’

More temptation, but Jonah shook his head. He needed to stay sharp. ‘No thanks.’

Crossing to a low wooden sideboard, Waverly opened a door and took a bottle of single malt from inside. He poured himself a good measure, hesitated, then poured again before replacing the bottle.

‘I don’t think I’ve thanked you for doing this,’ he said, taking one of the other bar stools.

‘There’s no need.’ Jonah was beginning to wish he’d accepted the offer of a drink. ‘Chrissie’s right. If not for me, none of this would have happened.’

Waverly sighed. ‘She didn’t mean that. You couldn’t have known what this... this sick fucker would do.’

He was slurring slightly, and Jonah wondered how many he’d had. Not that he blamed him. Waverly raised his glass again, then lowered it without taking a drink.

‘Do you think the police got it wrong? You know, ten years ago?’

He didn’t have to say what he meant. Jonah shook his head. He couldn’t afford to let himself get into that, not now.

Waverly didn’t take the hint. ‘How did you stand it? I don’t think I could... you know, if this...’

‘You need to stop thinking like that.’ It came out harsher than Jonah intended, but this wasn’t helping either of them. ‘And maybe ease up on the whisky, as well.’

‘Yes, you’re right.’ Waverly nodded. He set his glass down again. ‘I did try, you know. To get the rest of the money.’

‘I’m sure you did.’

‘Do you think it’ll be enough?’

‘It’s a lot of money,’ Jonah said, ducking the question.

Waverly nodded, as though trying to reassure himself. ‘But what if it isn’t? What will you do if he tries anything, or takes the money but doesn’t... you know...’

Jonah did. ‘Like I say, try not to think about that.’

‘But have you got some sort of contingency plan if he doesn’t make the exchange? God knows, I’m grateful you’re doing this, but...’ He gave Jonah’s crutches a fearful, almost furtive look. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

It was a little late for him to ask that, but Jonah could understand why. Until now Waverly had been focused on raising the ransom money, blocking out any thoughts beyond that. Now there was nothing to keep them at bay.

‘I’m not going to lie to you about the risks,’ Jonah told him. ‘But I’m not stupid enough to just walk in there and hope for the best. Trust me.’

‘I do, but... well, perhaps I should come with you?’

That was the last thing Jonah wanted. He’d been wondering how much to tell them. The less they knew the less trouble they’d be in afterwards, especially if things went wrong. But if the situations were reversed, Jonah knew he wouldn’t want to be kept in the dark.

‘I’ve arranged for someone to back me up,’ he said. ‘An ex-police officer who knows how to look after himself. He’s going to stay in the background unless he’s needed, but he’ll be there if Stokes tries anything.’

‘Right. Good, that’s... that’s...’ Waverly nodded but his thoughts were still running ahead. ‘Will that be enough, though? What if Stokes is armed?’

Jonah had hoped he wouldn’t have to get into this. But they’d a right to know when it was their children’s lives at stake. Even so, the admission weighed heavily on him.

‘I’ll be armed as well.’

He’d thought Waverly looked pale before. Now the other man’s face turned bone white. His hand went to his mouth.

‘You mean you’re taking a gun? Oh, Jesus...’

‘It’s just a precaution. I probably won’t need it.’ Jonah spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel.

‘But a gun!’ Waverly looked as though he might throw up. He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t... I mean, this isn’t—’

‘Good!’

Jonah hadn’t heard Chrissie come back downstairs. She’d showered and was wearing a thick white bathrobe, her still-wet hair brushed straight back as she walked into the kitchen. Waverly had half risen to his feet, looking shell-shocked.

‘Chrissie, we can’t—’

‘Shoot him,’ she told Jonah, as though her husband wasn’t there. She stopped in front of him, her eyes bright and hard. ‘I don’t care if he begs for his life, I want the bastard dead.’

‘I’m not going to shoot anyone, if I can help it.’

‘Why the fuck not? You think he won’t do the same to you? Look what happened to Gavin!’ Chrissie grabbed the front of Jonah’s jacket in her fists. ‘I know you, Jonah, I know what you’re thinking! You want Stokes alive in case he knows something about Theo. But this isn’t about him anymore. This is about Harry and Abigail, so the first chance you get I want you to put a bullet in that bastard’s head! You hear me?’

Tears were rolling down her face. Jonah took hold of Chrissie’s knotted hands, rubbing them before gently disengaging them from his jacket. Waverly had gone to her as well. He laid his hands on his wife’s shoulders, trying to ease her away.

‘He’ll get them back,’ he told her. ‘Won’t you, Jonah?’

‘I will. I promise,’ Jonah heard himself say.

It was only then he remembered how Gavin had once said the same thing to him.

The journey to the quayside felt unreal. The lights from the other cars seemed more dazzling than usual, the darkness more absolute. He’d put the laptop case in the passenger seat footwell, unwilling to have it out of his sight even while he drove. It was more money than he’d ever had in his life, and he found himself constantly glancing at it as he drove, reassuring a subliminal fear that it might somehow have vanished.

But he knew that was only a symptom of his tension, not its cause. The thought of where he was heading, what he was about to do, made his hands clammy on the steering wheel. In all his years as a firearms officer, Jonah had never shot anyone. He’d hoped to keep it that way, and now here he was. On his way to collect an illegal weapon, with a good chance he’d need to use it in the next couple of hours.

Yet as he neared the quayside Jonah felt his nerves begin to quieten. The confrontation with Stokes was no longer something abstract, still hours in the future. It was happening now, and in accepting that a sense of clarity came over Jonah. He hadn’t been able to save Theo, but history didn’t have to repeat itself. Questions of morals and legality, all his doubts, fell away. It was simple, really.

He would either save Chrissie’s twins or die trying.

As he pulled onto the waste ground at Slaughter Quay, a glance at the dashboard clock told him it was just after eleven. He was early. He couldn’t see Wilkes’s car at first, but after he’d switched off his headlights he made out the dark shape of an unlit vehicle at the far side. Good. If he had to look for it there was less chance of Stokes seeing it either.

Climbing out of his car, Jonah slung the laptop bag’s strap over his shoulder and made his way over. It was slow-going on the uneven ground. The night was cloudy and he didn’t want to switch on his torch, so he had to be careful where he put his crutches. It was only when he was a couple of metres away that he was able to recognise the ex-detective’s old Vauxhall. There was no cabin light showing, and as he went to the passenger side Jonah hoped Wilkes had thought to switch it off so it wouldn’t come on when the door was opened.

As he approached the dark car he could make out the bulky figure behind the wheel. With a last glance around the waste ground, Jonah gave a light rap on the window before opening the passenger door and climbing in.

‘Did you get it?’ he asked, keeping his voice down. ‘What did you...?’

His voice failed. Wilkes was slumped in the driving seat. He might have been sleeping, except that there was something on his head. Under the transparent film of a plastic bag Jonah saw the blank eyes and gaping mouth, and then there was movement behind him. He twisted round, already starting to react as a pale, shaved head rose into view from the back seat. Then he caught sight of an impossible, familiar face and shock wiped all thought from his mind.

Something crashed into his head and the world turned black.