The worst of it all was returning with the FLO to her flat to check that Peter hadn’t left a note, or packed a suitcase of his own volition. Of course he hadn’t. In his bedroom, neat and tidy, he was unusual in that respect, she’d asked the FLO for a moment, closed the door and sunk down to her knees and wept into his duvet, head buried in the material that still smelt slightly of him. There by his bed was the Artemis Fowl book he’d been reading, there folded by his pillow were his pyjamas.
She stood up and dried her eyes. I won’t cry again, not until he’s found, she told herself. She rejoined the FLO.
‘His overnight bag’s still here,’ she said. ‘The one he’d packed to take to Sam’s. I doubt he ever came back here.’
The FLO nodded, then asked hesitantly, ‘Could you let me have his toothbrush and maybe his comb or hairbrush?’
‘Of course,’ Kathy said, then in puzzlement, ‘Why?’
‘For the DNA,’ the FLO said simply. She saw Kathy’s face crumple. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. It was all she could think of.
Then it was back to the police station. It was painfully obvious to Kathy that they had very little information, and any steps were essentially constrained by this lack of knowledge. One part of her brain was still working analytically, although the rest of it was frozen with disbelief and misery. She was assured that an expert profiler was being brought in to help the investigation, that Peter’s description and photo (taken from a file on Annette’s laptop, recent and a good likeness of him) had been circulated nationwide to press and media. She said she was happy for it to be used from now on; she didn’t have a better one. They told her all ports and airports had been informed, he had been entered on to the PNC, that it was only a matter of time before he was found. She wished she had more faith in any of these measures.
Kathy had impressed everyone with her dry-eyed stoicism, her bravery in the face of every parent’s worst nightmare. The reality behind the facade of calm was one of nearly utter hopelessness. In her heart, she did not believe that, barring a miracle, she would ever see her son alive again. And she was not the kind of person who believed in miracles. She felt totally vacant, a shell of a person. The mantra, this can’t be happening, was running over and over in her head. Without much hope she prayed to God, as a policewoman brought her tea and the others tried to look busy and purposeful. It was a simple prayer, a plea bargain. In return for going to church every day for the rest of her life, let him be found now. Alive. Or even better, if You exist and You’re omnipotent, make it so none of this ever happened. You could do it with a blink of Your eye. It would be as simple as pressing ‘return to last scene’ on a DVD remote control.
Her tea grew cold. The clock ticked. Nothing changed. The asked for miracle didn’t happen.
First Dan had died, now Peter had been taken from her. It was that simple. Well, Fate was in the running for a hat trick. If Peter didn’t come back alive, she had no intention of carrying on without him, that was for sure. And she knew exactly how she would do it. No suicide bridge for Kathy. No need for that. She had enough insulin at home to kill an ox. She would leave a note on the bedroom door, swallow a handful of Valium, get into bed and inject herself with twenty-five units of NovoRapid. Within a few minutes her body would be rapidly exhausting all the sugars in her blood, she would black out and enter a coma from which she wouldn’t wake up. If Peter died, she would too. She had no doubt in her mind whatsoever. What would be the point in carrying on? She nodded her head to herself in confirmation of her plan. It seemed quite foolproof.
The police in the room watched her solicitously but almost nervously, as if she were suffering from something that might be contagious. No one could think of anything particularly helpful to say.
Kathy’s mobile phone and her BlackBerry sat side by side in front of her in case the kidnapper called. Both had rung several times but she had recognized the caller in each instance and let it go through to voicemail. An officer was at her flat for now, another family liaison officer (what family? she thought bitterly) and she would monitor the landline. None of the police really expected the perpetrator to call. One of the police was saying something about a press conference that had been convened, was she up to doing it? It was always good to get the media involved.
‘Yes,’ she said in a clear voice immediately. She’d always been good at making decisions; it was one of the reasons she was so valued at work.
On the street in North Holloway, Enver stroked his heavy, drooping moustache. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. He turned round to face her.
Hanlon’s face was inscrutable, her grey eyes cold, devoid of expression. Her hair was still damp from the shower at the gym. It was very thick, he thought, it would take a long time to dry. He suddenly wished he could touch it. The street around them was quiet. A few people passed by on the broad North London pavement; one glanced at the two of them curiously. Enver thought, we probably look like a married couple about to have a huge fight. She’s furious and I’m standing here looking guilty.
‘I take it this wasn’t your idea?’ she said with an air of menace.
Now there was a distinctly ugly look in her eyes and she moved closer to Enver. He was beginning to understand why people who knew Hanlon were wary, to say the least, of upsetting her. The ex-fighter in him understood why, either consciously or subconsciously, Hanlon was moving herself into his range. She was six inches shorter than him at least, so she was positioning herself for where her reach could make contact. Enver hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If it did he’d most certainly fight back. There’d be no mercy from Hanlon and he didn’t want her doing to him what she’d done to the heavy bag at the gym. He decided he would flatten her with no compunction if he had to. He was a slow mover but he had fast hands and there was no way she would be able to block a punch from his sledgehammer fists. She was too light. He thought, and because it’s her, I probably wouldn’t even get into trouble officially. I’d be offered counselling. Maybe a promotion.
‘No, ma’am.’ He moved back a step. He felt slightly more comfortable now he was out of her reach.
‘Did Ludgate send you?’ The two syllables of the DCS’s name were virtually spat out. Enver could almost see them lying on the pavement.
‘Ludgate?’ he said, amazed at the thought. Hanlon stared up at him impatiently. Enver realized she’d had enough of asking questions. It was time to come clean. ‘Corrigan, ma’am, the assistant commissioner, he told me to follow you.’
Hanlon snorted derisively through her nose. Enver wondered if this were a Hanlon version of laughter.
‘Corrigan,’ she said, shaking her head. She stood before him, irresolutely. Enver could almost see the tension, the adrenaline, drain from her arms as she relaxed. She breathed deeply. ‘Come with me, Sergeant,’ she commanded. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do.’
He followed her a hundred metres or so down the street until they stopped outside one of the large terraced houses, and suddenly Enver understood where they must be and whose flat they were going to. Hanlon let herself in with a key. Enver realized, with a pang of jealousy, how close the two of them must have been and he followed her inside.
The house had been divided into flats and in the entrance hall was an internal door that obviously led upstairs. You could see the panelling in the hallway where a narrow staircase had been boxed in. Police crime-scene tape sealed the door. Hanlon reached into the pocket of her jacket and took something out that fitted snugly in her hand. There was an audible click as the blade sprang out of the flick knife. She severed the tape and opened Whiteside’s door. She looked at Enver,