It was hot in the corridor outside where the identification took place. Lock’s head was still pounding. He found a solitary chair, sat down and made the mistake of closing his eyes.
He came to as Richard was led in, eyes rimmed red, hands trembling, the heavy weight of realizing that very bad things could happen to good people bearing down on him. Things that a person might never wholly recover from. Lock had seen that look before, when he’d stood across from the family of Greer Price as her coffin was lowered into the ground. He’d hoped never to see it again, but now here he was, offering a silent prayer that history wasn’t about to repeat itself.
From what little Frisk had told him about the FBI’s investigation, Lock had gathered that they’d garnered the same amount of significant information Lock had managed to glean in his few hours talking to Richard. Almost nothing. So, Lock did something which went against every fibre of his professional being: he made a phone call to a member of the media. A phone call which he knew in all likelihood would get him fired, and might even ensure that he never worked private security again.
That said, he didn’t flinch from it. His approach when backed into a corner was always the same: fast, aggressive action with determination. Which didn’t have to mean using your fists.
‘I need a favour.’
On the other end of the line, Carrie sounded bleary. ‘Ryan?’
‘You know how I said I’d think about giving you an interview. .’
He could see her sitting up, reaching over for the pad and pen that lived on the left bedside table.
‘You’ll do it?’
‘No.’
‘You woke me up to tell me that?’
‘No, I called to make you an even better offer.’
Frisk’s voice echoed so loud against the tiled walls of the mortuary that one of the orderlies actually asked him to keep it down.
Lock wasn’t entirely sure what decibel level had to be reached to wake the dead, but between Frisk’s outburst and the retina-busting strip lights, the headache he’d been feeling since discharge was about to go nuclear.
‘Are you out of your mind? Whackjobs like this love this kind of attention,’ Frisk shouted, poking a finger into Lock’s face.
Lock didn’t react. ‘It’s already out there in the public domain.’
‘So you want to put him on national TV?’
‘International. I’m sure other countries will pick it up.’
‘And what if this pushes the kidnappers over the edge?’
‘If they were going to kill him, if that was the plan, they’d have done it by now.’
‘And what if they haven’t?’
‘Someone has to have seen something. Someone must know where he is. At the very least we’ll get their attention.’
‘You say that like it’s a good thing.’
‘So what’s the alternative? Sit back and wait for a break?’
‘You’re interfering in a federal investigation.’
‘So arrest me.’
‘Don’t be too sure I won’t,’ said Frisk, heading back through to check on Richard Hulme.
As the freezer cabinet clanged shut on the body, Richard shivered involuntarily. ‘I can’t tell.’
Even with the work that had been done to piece together what remained of Natalya’s face, the hollow-point bullet and the river had done their work. It might be Natalya. Likely it was. But he couldn’t be certain.
Frisk put an arm on his shoulder. He was used to this type of uncertainty with witnesses, less so at the morgue. ‘Don’t worry, Dr Hulme, we can do a match with the DNA we picked up back at your place. It’ll take a little longer, but that’s OK.’
*
Outside, Lock paced the corridor. If he’d been a smoker he’d have been breaking open his third pack of the day by this point. He thought about the body laid out a few feet away and tried to reconcile it with the photograph in Natalya’s room. He thought too about her parents and the phone call they’d be getting. Your daughter, the child whose nose you wiped and tears you dried, the one who grew up into a beautiful young woman, the one who had her chance of a new life in America. . she’s been murdered.
Lock took in a lungful of air. He knew he had to pack away such thoughts. He couldn’t afford them right now. There’d be plenty of time for all that later. Too much time. Now he had to focus on the living.
He was still sure that Natalya, even in death, was the key. Perhaps even more so in death. If she had no significance, why take the trouble of killing her? Natalya was the last person seen with Josh. Natalya had led him into the car. Active accomplice, or unwitting rube, Natalya’s story was the story of this abduction. He was sure of it.
The door down the corridor clicked open, and Richard emerged alone. He saw Lock and shook his head. ‘I couldn’t tell. She’d been. .’ His knees folded under him, and he sank to the floor.
Lock wished some of the animal rights people were here to witness this, given how ready they’d been in the past to caricature men like Hulme as heartless vivisectionists who got a kick from inflicting suffering on helpless animals.
Richard looked up at Lock, his skin dishwater grey. ‘They shot her in the face.’
Lock helped him back to his feet. ‘Listen to me, you have to believe that Josh is still alive. If someone had wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.’
‘But say something went wrong? Like they tried to escape and that’s how it happened? Josh can be pretty wilful at times.’
‘In a situation like this, wilful’s not necessarily a bad thing. Wilful might just keep him alive.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely,’ Lock lied.
Fifteen
The room was white and smelled of fresh paint. The door was grey and so heavy that the driver had struggled to open it when they’d arrived. Josh had heard him grunting with the effort, although he couldn’t see him. He’d put a hat over Josh’s head and pulled it down over his eyes for the last part of the journey.
The floor was grey as well. It always felt cold when he stepped on it. There was a bed. It was longer than the one he had at home but not much wider. There was no window, but there was a light. It was a clear plastic dome and was mounted on the ceiling at the farthest end of the room from the door. It never went off. Next to it was a camera, like the kind he had seen in stores sometimes. There was a television, which was hooked up to a DVD player and a selection of DVDs. All stuff for little kids. Stuff he would have watched when he was maybe six.
There was a toilet and a sink. Both of these were silver and shiny. The toilet was directly under the camera so he didn’t think anyone could watch him pee. That was something at least.
And that was it. The entire contents of his room. Apart from him of course. And his clothes. And the photo album. But he didn’t like to think about the album. He didn’t even like to touch it.
It had been there when he arrived. Next to the DVDs. It didn’t look like anything, just an album with a grey cover and a red spine. No title on the front or anything saying who wrote it. He’d made the mistake of opening it. Every time he’d gone to sleep since then he’d had nightmares about the pictures in it. Horrible pictures of horrible things. Now he was afraid to go to sleep.
There was a metal flap at the bottom of the door. It would open and food would be pushed through. Mostly cereal, sandwiches, or potato chips, with juice. If he got down on his knees he could see a man’s hand push it through. He thought it might be the driver’s hand but he couldn’t be sure because the person never said anything.
The worst part of it was being alone. He wondered if people were looking for him. His dad must be. He tried to imagine the door opening and him walking in. He’d close his eyes and think of him scooping him up in his arms and cuddling him. Like Natalya used to do.