‘Killed him?’ Naomi said. ‘Went in the room and killed him?’
‘We won’t know until the post-mortem is done, but that’s how it appears.’
‘Wasn’t he under guard?’
‘Yes.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘To report on other progress, our team have concluded their field search for clues at your home.’
‘What have they found?’ John asked.
‘Very little to go on, so far. Footprints. A discarded cigarette butt in the schoolhouse car park that’s been sent for DNA testing. Now, regarding the private jet, a Gulfstream, our colleagues in France have checked out all national and international airports within the jet’s range and there’ve been no sightings. They are trying to obtain ownership details of the plane, but it seems there’s a whole chain of companies involved, starting with half a dozen different ones in Panama. Someone’s gone to great lengths to keep its owner invisible.’
‘I know I keep asking this, but do you think it’s a paedophile ring?’ Naomi asked, looking at Pelham then Humbolt in turn. Neither of their faces gave away anything.
‘We are keeping a totally open mind at the moment, Mrs Klaesson,’ Pelham said. ‘But if it is of any comfort, with the involvement of this aircraft and all the planning that seems to be behind this, it’s too sophisticated for any of the paedophile rings we’ve ever encountered.’
‘What about the Disciples of the Third Millennium?’ John said.
Pelham shot a glance at the detective sergeant then stared back at John and Naomi. ‘I understand from the FBI that they may be close to a breakthrough.’
‘What kind of a breakthrough?’ Naomi asked, her hopes rising.
‘They won’t tell us.’
‘Great,’ she muttered bitterly.
‘One thing I’m not clear on,’ John said, ‘is how you are sure that it was Luke and Phoebe who went through the Channel Tunnel and were on that plane. You seem to be very certain it was them.’
Tom Humbolt responded, ‘I went to Folkestone today and interviewed the immigration officer who claims he saw them. He said he had a bit of banter with them – they were all travelling on American passports and told him they were on a touring holiday of Europe. He said he’d commented that with the kids on the back seat of this small sports car, they couldn’t have much luggage with them. The man he’d presumed was the father had joked back that because the car went so fast, they got everywhere that much quicker, so they needed less luggage.’
‘He wasn’t at all suspicious?’ said John.
‘He said that he felt afterwards that something hadn’t been quite right. But couldn’t put a finger on it,’ Humbolt responded.
‘And he had a really good look at them?’ Naomi quizzed.
‘He’s one hundred per cent certain it was your son and daughter.’
‘Did he say anything about how they were? Did they seem distressed? Anxious? Upset?’
‘He didn’t, no.’
‘Prat,’ she said. ‘What a prat. He’s suspicious and he does nothing? What the hell’s he there for?’
Everyone was silent for a moment.
Then Pelham said, ‘Under the current circumstances, I think it would be inadvisable to return to your home – at least until we know more about the identity of this woman who killed Bruce Preston. With your permission, I’d like to move you to safe accommodation under police guard. We have some facilities at Sussex Police Headquarters, in Lewes. It’s not luxurious, I’m afraid, just a basic room with shower and TV. But I’d feel more comfortable if you were there, until I can be sure you’re not in any danger yourselves. Are you OK with that?’
‘Anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t care.’
Pelham stood up, walked over to his desk and leaned against it, putting his hands behind his back. ‘Dr and Mrs Klaesson, I want to ask you both something, and I need you to answer me openly, however difficult it may be for you. You have been telling me the truth, haven’t you?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Naomi had to contain her anger.
‘You haven’t had a call from the kidnappers that you haven’t told us about? No ransom demand? No communication of any kind?’
‘Absolutely not!’ declared John.
‘Why would you think we would hold anything like this back from you?’ Naomi asked.
‘Because in my experience – and no offence intended – people under the kind of strain you are under do sometimes. Because, quite naturally and understandably, you will do anything to get your children back. Often, if people are told by kidnappers not to mention something to the police, they comply. You need to understand where I’m coming from, and likewise, the reverse.’
After some moments of collecting her thoughts, Naomi responded, ‘Detective Inspector Pelham, so far as I am concerned you are coming from your life, and when you are finished today, you’ll go back home to your life. Until the moment I have my children back, safe and well and in my arms, I don’t have a life. Nor does my husband. Can I make that any clearer to you?’
110
The room in the Sussex Police Headquarters annex building smelled newly decorated and had the damp chill of all rooms that are only occasionally occupied.
Naomi sat on one of the twin beds, hugging herself for warmth, while John fiddled with the electric radiator. The walls were painted a pastel yellow, there were chintz floral curtains, two landscape prints – a view of Lewes Castle, and of the river Ouse – a small sofa, a writing table and a television, which John had switched on. A door opened onto a tiny en-suite bathroom.
In the hall outside the room, two armed police officers guarded them. Their presence should have made her feel safer, Naomi thought, but it didn’t. It just made her feel worse, even further divorced from reality.
Her phone beeped, telling her she had messages, and she played through them. Rosie. Her mother. Her sister. She rang home and checked the messages on the phone there. There were twenty. Some were from friends and neighbours in Caibourne, several from the press, and a couple of work ones for John, which she jotted down on the back of a receipt she dug out of her handbag.
‘That’s better, getting some heat now,’ John said.
She read out the work messages to him.
‘They’re not urgent, I’ll deal with them tomorrow.’
Tomorrow. She thought. Tomorrow was a million years away. Luke and Phoebe could be alive tonight and dead tomorrow. Tomorrow wasn’t a luxury they had. Now, this minute, that’s how it had to be. ‘Will you call Reggie Chetwynde-Cunningham, see if he’s made any progress?’
‘He promised to call the moment he has any news.’
‘He might not have been able to get through.’
‘Hon, he has both our cellphone numbers, OK?’
One of their guards, a cheery Firearms officer in his late thirties, brought them their supper, a tray of lasagne and salad and rhubarb crumble and custard. He had three small kids himself, he told them, and knew what they must be going through.
Naomi, out of politeness, resisted telling him that no, he didn’t know what they were going through, he had no idea, no one could have any idea. Just hold in your mind the worst thing in the world you could imagine and then multiply it by ten billion. And not even that would take you close.
A while later they had a phone call from a doctor, at DI Pelham’s request, he said, asking if they would like sedatives or sleeping pills. Naomi politely declined, telling him she wanted to be fully alert if there were any developments during the night.
They watched each news bulletin in the forlorn hope that they might learn of some progress the police had not yet told them about. They were the lead item and the main story. The killing of the man in hospital. The death of the mystery woman with the false American passport. Speculations about paedophile rings, Disciples of the Third Millennium cult, the world adoption trade in small children. Excerpts from the broadcast John and Naomi had made yesterday. Pictures of Luke and Phoebe. A statement from DI Pelham saying little.