You Will Never Find Me (11 page)

‘I spoke to him as soon as I heard from the Spanish, told him that Amy had been seen on CCTV arriving in Barajas Airport and taking the Metro into the city. He'd already spoken to his friend at MI6, who asked Spanish intelligence if they'd help find out where she stayed on Saturday night, and he's got a hotel name. If anything comes from that, Charlie will deal with it. If I don't go back to work I'm going to go nuts. You know what I'm like, sir. Need a job to keep me focused.'

‘You're in an emotional state, Mercy, and that's no way to be for a kidnap consultancy job.'

‘I
was
in an emotional state. I've come to terms with what's happened now. I've rationalised it. Amy told the police officer she had money and wasn't going to be on the streets. She's not in any danger.'

‘Look, I don't want to distress you unnecessarily but I have to ask you these questions,' said Makepeace. ‘What if you get bad news about Amy?'

‘No, that's fair. You're right. I would not be in a strong mental state.'

‘You'd be devastated.'

‘That's true,' said Mercy, changing tack. ‘And for that reason I would not ask you to put me on any consulting job where negotiations could be jeopardised. I'd be quite happy with a role on a special investigation team. Just as I did on the D'Cruz case when Charlie was the lead consultant.'

‘You're happy with that?'

‘Anything that takes me outside my head. I need process, sir, more than anything else. Logical process to counteract emotional turmoil.'

‘Are you happy working with George Papadopoulos again? He said he learned a lot from you.'

‘Did he?' said Mercy. ‘O.K., I'll take him under my wing again, sir.'

‘This is an extremely sensitive job,' said Makepeace. ‘I got a call from a Home Office official yesterday morning telling me that he needed someone from my department to consult on negotiations for the release of a ten-year-old boy. His name is Alexander ‘Sasha' Bobkov. He was kidnapped on his way to school in Hampstead at around eight thirty yesterday morning.'

‘I assume we're talking Russian.'

‘Mixed. His father, Andrei Bobkov, was married and is now separated from Tracey Anne Dunsdon. The boy lives with his mother in Netherhall Gardens and attends Northwest International School, which is down the end of the street.

‘It's only just come to light that for the last few years the boy has been getting himself up and out of bed every morning, dressing himself, making his bed and his own breakfast and going to school on his own. I know it's only down the end of the road but you know what parents are like these days.'

‘So what's wrong with the mother?'

‘Alcoholic.'

‘And the kid's been hiding that from the world?' said Mercy. ‘Where's the father in all this?'

‘Until yesterday he didn't know how far gone she was. When the boy didn't show for school they called the mother. Tracey was incomprehensible. Someone from the school went to the house, couldn't gain entry. The father was called. He had keys. They went in. Tracey was in her nightie on the living-room floor, surrounded by bottles, with the telly going. Her bed had been slept in so they think the call woke her and she'd gone straight back to the booze. The living room and bedroom were a tip. The rest of the house is unused except the boy's room, which was described as “heartbreakingly neat and tidy”. Bobkov senior was stunned to find this state of affairs, but because he is who he is he reckons his son's disappearance has nothing to do with the chaos at home.'

‘So who is he?'

‘We're getting to that. The school told him to call the police and report the boy missing, but Bobkov can go one better than that. He has a special number which puts him in touch with all sorts of people—the intelligence services, the Home and Foreign Offices—you name it. The police are round there in fifteen minutes treating it like an ordinary disappearance to start with. A bit later on a “close friend” of Bobkov's turns up. An English guy, businessman, speaks fluent Russian and is Bobkov's chess partner in London. His name is James Kidd.'

‘And what's he? A spook, or something like it?' said Mercy.

‘It's not meant to be quite that obvious, and we don't know, but we assume. What we do know about Andrei Bobkov is that he's an old friend of Alexander Tereshchenko, and we're talking proper close friend. Bobkov named his son after him.'

‘Are we talking about the same Alexander Tereshchenko who fled Moscow, came to London, made all sorts of uncomfortable revelations about the Russian government's involvement in the Moscow apartment bombings, the Beslan school hostage debacle, the Russian mafia and the assassination of crusading journalists. And who then had a tea party in the Millennium Hotel where two of his old FSB mates stirred in something a lot more radioactive than two sugars?'

‘Yes,
that
Alexander Tereshchenko. Bobkov and Tereshchenko were in the FSB together. Bobkov left the security service before it got really ugly while Tereshchenko did some time in prison for giving an unauthorised press conference about FSB activities. On his release in 2000 Tereshchenko came to London with his wife and son and has lived here ever since. Meanwhile Bobkov got a job in the Russian oil and gas company Gazprom, before moving out in 2001 and setting up his own business. He now trades in chemical gases from an office in London. In 2002 Bobkov married Tracey and their son was born later that same year. Tereshchenko was at the christening. In 2006 Bobkov was graveside in Highgate cemetery when they lowered Tereshchenko's sealed coffin into the ground.'

‘So Bobkov and Tereshchenko are very close,' said Mercy.

‘It's believed that after the funeral Bobkov made a promise to Tereshchenko's widow that he would find out who had poisoned her husband with the polonium 210 and who ordered it.'

‘I thought they already knew that. Wasn't it this guy Lubashev and his sidekick under orders from the president?'

‘Whatever you do, Mercy, don't do a press conference on this without speaking to me.'

‘I thought I was quoting the CPS, sir.'

‘What you've just said is not what the Russian government want to hear, nor their henchmen in the FSB. They really are the last people you want on your back,' said Makepeace. ‘What
is
our business is that we have to make this look like a perfectly kosher kidnap and rescue operation.'

‘Did I miss something, sir?'

‘There was a phone call before the police arrived. Bobkov took it. An electronically manipulated voice asked to speak to Tracey. There was a lot of background noise as if it was from a call centre. At first Bobkov thought it was a sales call. He said she wasn't able to come to the phone, which was true. An ambulance had been called. She was confused, undernourished, dehydrated . . . whatever. The voice insisted it was very important and would only speak to Tracey Anne Dunsdon. Bobkov reiterated that she was incapable and on her way to hospital. The voice asked him who he was and he replied. There was a short silence. The phone was muffled by hand. The voice came back and made a demand for five million euros in used notes in denominations no greater than fifty. The money was to be ready for delivery by 17:00 today. Instructions were to follow.'

‘Is Bobkov worth anything like that or is that just a mad first demand?'

‘He's not at the Premiership-football-club-owning level, but he's very well off. He gave that house in Netherhall Gardens to his ex-wife. And that's got to be a few millions' worth.'

‘So how did Bobkov react to the demand?'

‘Possibly because of his long-standing friendship with Tereshchnko, he'd been expecting something like this, or maybe it was just his old FSB training kicking in, but he had the presence of mind to ask for some kind of proof of capture. The voice asked him for a question to put to the boy. Standing in the living room, surrounded by bottles, he asked them what Tracey's favourite drink was. The caller said he would come back to him and hung up. Within minutes he was back with the answer: Harvey's Bristol Cream.'

‘God almighty,' said Mercy.

‘Can you imagine? She had cases delivered by Tesco.'

‘It's not a conclusive proof-of-capture question,' said Mercy. ‘If somebody had been watching the house they could have known that.'

‘It was the best he could come up with at the time.'

‘Is anybody jumping to conclusions yet?'

‘No. They're open-minded so far, but wary. Despite this spook dimension we're going to run it as a completely normal kidnap and rescue operation by the SCD 7 Kidnap and Special Investigations Team. Bobkov's friend James Kidd is staying with him, as is his lawyer, Howard Butler. They're the Crisis Management Committee.'

‘Who's been appointed the consultant?'

‘Chris Sexton,' said Makepeace, naming a colleague.

‘This is his first case flying solo, isn't it?'

‘He's proved himself,' said Makepeace, ‘and it will be good for him to have you and George in support. Doing your usual brilliant investigative work around the boy's disappearance. Door-to-door, school, teachers, pupils, parents. You know what to do. While you do the routine stuff MI5 will try to find out whether this has got anything to do with his . . . interference in the Tereshchenko affair.'

‘If this gang are straight criminals and have nothing to do with Tereshchenko, you don't want them to think they've bitten off more than they can chew and get frightened into some sort of drastic action.'

‘Everybody's aware of the situation.'

‘Has Bobkov made any recent breakthroughs in his Tereshchenko research and, now that the Russian prime minister has been re-elected president, has that—?'

‘Don't even think about it, Mercy. Leave that to MI5. You and George just do your work. Don't tell George the bigger picture just yet; get him concentrated on the detail.'

W
e're still in shock,' said the principal. ‘I've taught in schools all over the world and never in my career has a child been kidnapped. And Sasha, such a lovely boy. Do you know what time he was . . . taken?'

‘We've got a problem with that,' said Mercy. ‘The boy's mother, Tracey Dunsdon, was in no fit state to speak to us.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘What I mean is she's an alcoholic. Has been for a while. So we're having to work back from when Sasha's teacher first called her to find out where her son was. That was at 08:55.'

‘Sasha's mother is an
alcoholic
?' said the principal, aghast. ‘There's nothing in his file about that.'

‘I'll be interested to hear what his teacher's got to say about it.'

‘Mr. Spencer will join us in a minute,' said the principal. ‘He's only been with us since last September. A young chap. Cambridge. English degree. Goldie. It's not easy to find male teachers at primary-school level so we grab the well-qualified ones when we can.'

‘Goldie?' asked Mercy, who could tell the principal had a soft spot for Mr. Spencer.

‘The Cambridge University second crew . . . in the Boat Race,' she said, stunned at the ignorance.

A knock at the door and Jeremy Spencer, a colossus, came in. He was the sort that made ordinary folk lean back, as if looking up at a tall building, to talk to him. Introductions made, they sat down. His trouser material strained over his massive quadriceps. Solemnity sat awkwardly on what would normally have been a cheerful demeanour. He sat very still as if one false move and he would crack.

‘Detective Inspector Danquah tells me that Tracey Dunsdon is an alcoholic,' said the principal.

‘Maybe it would be better if I spoke to Mr. Spencer alone,' said Mercy. ‘I think we want different things from the same interview. It could be confusing.'

‘As you wish,' said the principal, swishing out of the room in her crisp trouser suit.

‘You're in shock,' said Mercy.

‘Doubly so,' he said. ‘Sasha's been kidnapped
and
Tracey's an alcoholic.'

‘Is that what you called her—Tracey?'

‘I started with Mrs. Bobkov, but she didn't want that. She insisted on Tracey,' said Spencer, gnawing on his thumbnail, staring into the floor between them. ‘She came to every parent–teacher evening. She listened. She was attentive. She even asked questions. I can't say she looked that great. Heavy bags under the eyes. Thin hair. People told me that she'd taken the bust-up with her husband very badly. I thought she was probably depressed. And she struck me as lonely.'

‘I understand from the principal that she was friendly with one of the other mothers, whose son has since moved to the Westminster school of Northwest International. A Russian woman. Irina Demidova. Perhaps they—'

‘Before my time,' said Spencer quickly. ‘The school secretary will more than likely know about that.'

‘Tell me about Sasha,' said Mercy. ‘Let's start with his routine. Was he ever late for school?'

‘No, no, the opposite. Registration is at 8:45 every morning, but the school is open by eight o'clock. Sasha was always the first here at eight or eight fifteen,' said Spencer, slowed down by his thoughts. ‘Now that I think about it, with your new information, he was probably desperate to get out of the house. You know, not easy for a kid to be around that sort of thing. I still can't believe it of Tracey. She must have really pulled herself together to be able to handle those parent–teacher meetings. They're not easy. I mean, I know when someone is drunk, and she was never . . . '

‘When you know you're going to lose your kid if there's the slightest suspicion that you're incapable you make sure you present a perfect image to the outside world,' said Mercy. ‘Don't blame yourself. Alcoholics are very practised at that kind of thing. And Sasha was protecting her too. I doubt the state she was in this morning was that unusual. When they went into the house all the washing-up had been done for dinner and breakfast. One setting for each.'