She walked past him and into the bathroom. There was a tub and a separate shower, a washbasin and toilet, even a bidet. The tiles were green, yellow and red. The door closed behind her. Without thinking she walked back to it and turned the key. She had gone from one locked room to another, but this time she had secured the door herself.
As she ran a bath, she sat on the toilet and thought about what the man had said. If she did as they said and didn’t try to escape, she might be released. He had sounded so sincere when he had said it. She hadn’t thought to question him.
Forty-three
Walking into the small resort hotel, Rafaela had to steel herself for what lay ahead. For those who never knew the fate of a loved one, hope obstructed healing. As the days passed, hope itself became twisted and cancerous, an emotion that turned in on itself. Rafaela had seen it more times than she cared to remember. It was a cliche, but not knowing what had happened to someone you loved was the worst part of an abduction. With human remains came certainty. And certainty gave grief a starting point. That wasn’t to say that someone who lost a child was ever free of the pain, they weren’t, but knowledge of what had happened during a loved one’s final hours was almost always preferable to what the imagination conjured.
Of course, Julia’s family were only at the beginning of the road. Hope was there, and hope was real. They still had that glimmer of light in the darkness. It was Rafaela’s job to convince them that the best way of keeping it burning was to do as she asked. And she was about to ask them to do the one thing that went against every single parental instinct. For now the best thing they could do was nothing. No press. No public plea. No drawing attention to their plight. All it would do was make Julia’s survival less likely — assuming she was still alive.
Julia’s parents and a young man from the US consulate were sitting outside in the sun as the hotel staff scuttled around their table, trading anxious glances. It wasn’t just that a guest at the resort had gone missing — presumed abducted: it was akin to having wealthy relatives visit, when their worst suspicions about how you lived were confirmed and your dirtiest secrets were laid bare before them.
Julia’s father was a tall, lean man in his fifties with a shock of white hair and frameless glasses. The girl’s mother was, Rafaela guessed, a few years younger, with long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was clutching a picture of her daughter, taken only a few days before, the backdrop of the hotel’s pool visible from where they sat. Julia was standing next to her father, one hand raised to shield her eyes. She looked tanned, happy and relaxed. Her smile, a little forced, a little over-sincere, suggested a young woman who was mature enough to understand her parents’ need to cling to her as she began to carve out a life apart from them.
Rafaela began by asking the father to take her through the period before his daughter had gone missing. She didn’t interrupt him. He was already frustrated at having to tread again over old ground. He wanted his daughter back.
She made notes as he talked. The young man from the consulate tapped his fingers on the table. A glance from the mother stopped him as the father concluded his story, his voice cracking as he told of the last time he had seen Julia.
Rafaela cleared her throat and thanked him for his patience. Her next job was to offer some reassurance. ‘I already have at least a dozen officers making enquiries. I want you and the US government to know how seriously we’re taking this. That’s the first thing.’
The mother leaned forward. ‘So you think something’s happened to her?’
This was where things got difficult. Rafaela didn’t think, she knew, but sharing that information wasn’t going to help them.
Straightening in her seat, Rafaela made sure she met the woman’s gaze. ‘I don’t know anything for certain other than that your daughter is missing.’
The father stiffened. ‘I don’t believe you.’
The young consular official intervened: ‘I think for now we have to-’
The father cut him off: ‘I’m believing shit from these people.’ He stared straight at Rafaela, whose heart was racing now. ‘You know something, and don’t tell me you don’t because I can see it in your eyes.’ His hand shot out across the table and grabbed her wrist.
‘John, please!’
Rafaela made a quick calculation. ‘I don’t know anything for definite,’ she said, ‘but I have my suspicions based upon recent events here.’
His grip loosened a little. He must have felt he was getting somewhere. ‘What events?’
‘Kidnap for ransom is a growing problem. I’m not saying that’s what this is but it’s a possibility.’
He let go of her and slumped in his chair. ‘I’ll pay whatever it takes. You hear me? I’ll sell the house, take out a loan if I have to.’
‘It may not be that. But, as I said, it does happen now. And if someone has Julia, you can help me.’
The father looked at her, his eyes wet. He swiped at them with his sleeve. ‘How?’
‘By staying away from the press for a start. Often these cases can be resolved quietly. A lot of publicity can spook the kidnapper,’ she said.
The official raised his hand, palm open. ‘She’s right. This is something that needs to be handled carefully.’
‘So if we do what you tell us we’ll get Julia back?’
‘I can’t promise you that. It wouldn’t be fair if I did. But there will be a better chance, yes.’
The father’s chin was resting on his chest. He took his wife’s hand. ‘We understand.’
Outside the hotel, Rafaela sat alone in her car for a few moments. She could have told them that she knew where their daughter had last been seen and whom she had been with. She could have told them those things and more. Would she have wanted the truth if she’d been them? It went without saying.
What right had she to deny them the truth? Who was she to decide?
Questions. Those were her problem. Did the men behind these things calibrate their choices like this? No. They took action. They made decisions. They stuck to them.
She was about to turn the key in the ignition when she stopped. She’d been so preoccupied that she had forgotten the routine that had become like a reflex. She opened the driver’s door and, using a mirror she kept on the back seat, checked beneath the car.
Her husband had died four years ago when the cartels had ramped up the violence. A bomb had been planted under his car. He had been a newspaper reporter whose crime had been to report the news. At first he had reported on the cartels with no problems. But as the violence had escalated the public had become more indignant at the failure of government and politicians to stop it. In turn, the cartels had grown more sensitive to how they were covered in the newspapers and on television. Like pushy celebrities, they wanted to use the media but on their terms. Her husband had received two threats. The third time they had made good on their promise and blown him up. She even knew who had planted the bomb but, as she had told Lock, knowing wasn’t enough. Not if the person was powerful or connected to those who were.
Satisfied that there was no bomb, she got back behind the steering-wheel, started the engine and pulled away from the hotel, leaving the girl’s parents to their tear-stained vigil. No more questions, she told herself. That time was gone.
Forty-four
They met in a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. The first there was the chief of police, Gabriel Zapatero. He slid into a chair and immediately ordered a whisky, which evaporated almost as soon as it was placed in front of him. He ordered another, then a third.