‘Seven?’ John exclaimed.
‘I’m waiting for confirmation back about one set in Dubai; the total may be up to eight now. And I suspect there are a lot more.’
Naomi swivelled on her chair to face the policewoman. ‘DI Pelham said three sets – he said three, yesterday. How could it be seven – eight?’
‘When you say disappeared,’ John asked, ‘surely there must be people who have seen something?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘All about the same age?’ he asked.
‘Their ages range from three to five.’
‘And-’ John said. ‘Are – Naomi – and I – the only people to have any evidence of their children’s disappearance?’
‘Incredibly, it would seem so. I’ve had telephone conversations with five of the parents – I’ve been up half the night with different time zones around the world – and in every single instance they tell me their twins have literally vanished. Not even one sighting so far by any security camera, anywhere.’
‘Why us?’ Naomi demanded. ‘I mean, why do we have evidence and no one else?’
‘There doesn’t seem to have been any violence involved in the other instances,’ Sheila Michaelides said.
‘So who were these people who shot this Disciple on our doorstep then took Luke and Phoebe away? The Good Samaritan and his Best Friend?’ Naomi said in an outburst of frustration. ‘Did they just happen to be out for a stroll across the fields, carrying a handgun and wearing night-vision goggles?’
There was an uncomfortable silence. No one seemed to know how to respond. Finally the psychologist said, ‘Naomi, I’m hoping during the course of the day to speak to more of the parents of the children who have gone missing. I can’t believe it’s coincidence, so there has to be some linking factor. Something will come to light.’
‘Could we speak to these parents ourselves?’ John asked.
‘I can conference you in, with their permission,’ she said, seeking and receiving a nod of approval from Renate Harrison. ‘I think it would be a very good idea.’ Then, again looking at the police officer, she said, ‘Meantime, what is the next step you anticipate from your American colleagues?’
‘I think at the moment,’ Renate Harrison said, ‘they’re as baffled as we are.’
*
The policewoman drove through Caibourne, and on up the lane. Neither John nor Naomi had said more than a few words since leaving the psychologist’s consulting room. They were both inside their shells, thinking, trying to pull together something that made sense out of all they had heard, and getting nowhere.
DI Pelham was allowing them to go home today, with the suggestion that Renate Harrison, relieved by another colleague during the night, stay with them for the next few days, and patrols would be stepped up around their house. They would be guarded as much as resources would allow.
They made a right turn into the driveway, and Naomi felt an immediate lump in her throat. They were coming up to their house.
Their empty house.
It was a fine day, sunlight glinting on the damp grass. She barely noticed. Barely even noticed the unmarked maroon police car parked in the drive, close to her Subaru and John’s Saab, and a lone policeman in a uniform that looked too bulky for him sitting inside it.
Post and newspapers slithered across the tiled floor of the hall as John pushed open the front door. Naomi looked at her watch. As if on autopilot, she said, ‘Almost one, lunchtime. I – I’d better – make something, I suppose.’
‘Would you like me to do it?’ Renate Harrison offered. ‘If you just show me where everything is and tell me what you’d like?’
John set down their holdall and his laptop bag, and scooped up the mail and papers, sifting through those that were for him and Naomi, and those that were for the owners of the house, putting them aside in a separate pile. Then he went through to his den, set his computer on his desk and went back out again, to carry in the children’s computer from the boot of the car.
Back in his den, and logged on, he saw that he had sixty-two new emails. Wearily, he slumped back in his chair and scrolled down through them.
Then he froze.
He leaned forward, hands poised over the keyboard, staring at the screen, barely able to believe what he was seeing.
It was an email from Luke and Phoebe.
116
From: Luke amp; Phoebe Klaesson
Subject: Safety
Dear Parents,
Please do not fret about our whereabouts.
We are here because we consider you incapable of providing us with adequate protection against the Disciples of the Third Millennium and other fanatical groups. And because you are unable to provide us with the levels of stimulus and education we require – although we know you have been trying and we are grateful to you for that.
Don’t waste energy trying to trace the source of this email – as any geek will tell you, it will take you years. We are safe and well and happy for the first time in our lives and that is all you need to know.
You will not be able to reply to this email. If you wish to meet with us, we will grant you one visit because we believe as our birth parents you are owed that courtesy. We know it may be hard to believe, but we do love you – but in our own way, which you won’t understand.
Two seats have been reserved for you on Alitalia flight 275 to Rome today, departing London Heathrow at 1810 hours. In Rome you will take a taxi to the Hotel Anglo Americano and wait in the room reserved for you for further instructions. Come alone, bring no camera. If you are accompanied or followed, there will be no further instructions for you in Rome.
As proof that we are fine, a short video clip is attached.
Your children,
Luke amp; Phoebe
117
On a computer monitor, in a room at Sussex Police Headquarters, Luke and Phoebe stood side by side, each with an arm around the other. They appeared to be in a small studio, with a plain grey background, which gave nothing away about their location. Luke wore a sweat shirt, jeans and trainers, Phoebe a purple tracksuit and trainers. Clearly visible beside them was a television screen, with the CNN morning headlines of today.
The children looked, Naomi had to admit to herself, happy and relaxed.
‘Hallo, Parents,’ Luke said. ‘See! We’re fine!’
‘Hallo, Parents!’ Phoebe said. ‘Actually, we’re great!’
At the end of the clip the image froze. Naomi stared at it through tears. My children, she was thinking. Luke, Phoebe, my babies. Then she closed her eyes, unable to look any more.
Please, God, let me wake up and find out that this has all been some horrible dream.
Pelham, Humbolt, Renate Harrison and the computer geek, Cliff, were in the room with John and Naomi, seated around a table.
‘What are your chances of tracing the email, Cliff?’ the detective inspector asked.
Cliff, in clothes as grimy and crumpled as before, looked no less tired at two thirty on a Monday afternoon than he had at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Pushing his hair back with his hands, he said, ‘The thing is, if you want to make an email anonymous and you know what you’re doing, you can make it anonymous. It’s not a problem.’
‘Can you explain how to us?’ Tom Humbolt asked.
The computer analyst gave a nervous laugh, then, blinking furiously at the table, said, ‘There are several different ways. They mostly involve routing an anonymous email from server to server around the world, with software designed to delete its own footprints as it goes. If I’m right in the way I think this has been sent – and it’s the way I would have done it – you’d have to physically send me round the world, tracking it back, trying to find the footprints in every server it’s been through.’
‘How long would that take?’ Naomi asked.
‘Assuming we could even find every server, gosh, I don’t know.’ He gave another nervous giggle. ‘Months.’ Then, staring at the table again and blinking furiously, he said, ‘That’s not the answer you want to hear, is it?’