Without a Trace Page 7

  ‘You’re weird, you know that?’

  ‘But nice.’ She made a crazy face.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘No one’s perfect.’ Kate was grateful that he hadn’t taken offence and was genuinely sorry for having upset him. She checked the corridor, making sure no one was earwigging on their conversation and dropped her voice. ‘Look, whichever way it goes for Jo, if this case turns out to be terrorism – and that’s the way it’s looking at the moment – we’re going to help nail the bastards responsible.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. US authorities will be all over it.’

  ‘Agreed, but if there’s an airport employee that conspired to down that plane, he’s ours. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, but my request to view airport CCTV was signed off. I’ve asked their security bods to send it directly to Maxwell.’

  ‘Signed off by whom?’

  ‘DS Blue.’

  ‘How the hell did you manage that?’

  ‘He’s the Casualty Bureau Manager.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

  Kate shrugged a shoulder. ‘He likes me.’

  ‘He doesn’t know you.’

  ‘He’d like to change that.’ Kate’s expression was coy.

  ‘So, you infiltrate the Casualty Bureau on a false premise, lie to everyone but me, then use your sexuality to gain a pecuniary advantage.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Incorrigible.’

  ‘Needs must.’ She held his gaze. ‘What can I say? I have no morals and an agenda no one – bar you – is aware of. If the job had required me to invent a legend on an undercover operation, I’d have done it without a second thought and with your full support. How is this any different?’

  ‘It is—’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Is Blue aware that you played him?’

  ‘I don’t give a toss. I intend to use every weapon in my armoury until Bright hauls me out of here. Our home base is quiet now. If that changes, our days are numbered. We have to work fast, Hank. Waverley is suspicious and looking for an excuse to send us packing. If the shit hits the fan, we’re history.’

  19

  No one knew Jo like Kate did. At one time they had been inseparable, Kate so smitten she couldn’t bear to be out of her sight for any longer than a few hours. They had met again when Jo walked into the incident room and introduced herself as Northumbria’s new criminal profiler, rendering Kate speechless. From that moment on, they shared everything, except a home and those bits of their past that deserved to remain there. Everyone had dark secrets. Jo had been Kate’s.

  I think we’re done.

  Kate had taken refuge in Fiona’s arms after Jo’s decision to split, and now she wondered if Jo’s emotional response been similar. Had she screwed a stranger for the hell of it, because she could, in order to feel alive? After Hank’s negative reaction earlier, Kate didn’t voice her thoughts a second time, merely tossed them around in her head, hoping that Jo had gone off with the man she’d met at Heathrow, thereby saving her own life.

  Hank’s question nibbled at the edges of a scenario he’d scripted like a deadly piranha: why hadn’t Jo called? Kate could offer no rationale for that. The news of Flight 0113’s disappearance was at the top of the press agenda, the subject of every headline worldwide. The tragedy had been spoken about by families across every breakfast and dinner table, by colleagues in offices and strangers on public transport. Unless Jo was in a monastery with no contact with the outside world, she must’ve heard.

  Falling into the chasm between optimism and realism, Kate was losing faith, floundering in a sea of doubt as she caught Hank’s eye from across the room; a flash of encouragement for her to keep going. It was as if he’d read her mind and seen her head go down. Even though he believed she was chasing rainbows, he’d support her until they had the proof she so badly needed. He already thought that she and Jo were two crazy bitches without the sense they were born with. He’d never understood their on-off relationship.

  For fear that he might read something into her facial expression, Kate turned away. In her head, she and Jo weren’t mad, just madly in love, two women who enjoyed physical contact, women for whom sexual pleasure was as necessary as breathing. Sex was a great release after a row, or the loss of a loved one, whether by death, divorce or separation. It was natural. Obligatory, almost. A rebirth.

  Kate felt no shame for her actions.

  No regret.

  Taking a walk outside, she punched Fiona’s number into her mobile, for no other reason than to talk to someone who fully understood not only the complexities of her relationship with Jo, but the strength of it, even at the times when they weren’t together.

  The ringing tone stopped, the artist’s phone switching to voicemail. Kate didn’t leave a message. What was there to say beyond the fact that she was losing the will to live, slowly and painfully, as each hour passed?

  Shaking herself free of rising pessimism, Kate made another call. Carmichael answered immediately. It was good to hear a cheerful voice.

  ‘Any update from EE, Lisa?’

  ‘Still no joy, boss. The phone is switched off. No calls in or out.’

  ‘What about Santander?’

  ‘No movement on her account since Jo left Newcastle, though she’d made withdrawals a couple of days before: three hundred quid on two consecutive days. No US dollars, all sterling. By the way, her car is parked outside her house – I checked.’

  ‘Any news on her travel plans?’

  ‘BA said she booked through a local firm.’

  ‘Hays Travel, Acorn Road?’

  ‘How did you know?’ Carmichael tripped over herself to apologise.

  Of course Kate knew. The agency was right around the corner from her house, not much further from Jo’s. It’s where they booked the majority of their holidays together.

  ‘Lisa, it’s OK. I take it the travel agent is closed today?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve tried calling the keyholder but she’s not picking up. I’ll forward Jo’s booking form as soon as I have it. By the way, Robbo sends his love. He was wondering if you’d been getting his texts.’

  ‘Yes, thank him for me.’

  ‘He’s worried about you.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘And Maxwell?’

  ‘Really well. He volunteered to come in.’

  ‘On a Sunday? I’m touched. How far has he got with the CCTV?’

  ‘He’s about a third of the way through. Heathrow sent him footage thirty minutes either side of your suggested timescale in case your calculations were out. Within an hour of receiving the footage, he nailed Jo at the information desk. It’s a question of tracking her movements through the airport now. That’s trickier, different cameras are involved. He’ll get there. It’ll take time.’

  Kate thanked her and hung up.

  Moments later, a video clip arrived from Lisa via email. She was such a good cop. Level-headed, with a maturity way beyond her years. Taking a deep breath, Kate pressed play and the footage started to roll, a busy airport information kiosk the location on view. Her heart skipped a beat as Jo walked into shot, leaning in to ask a question. The image was slightly out of focus but not so blurred that Kate couldn’t make the ID.

  Definitely Jo.

  No doubt about it.

  It made Kate’s heart ache to see her standing there, listening intently, straining to hear what the woman behind the counter had to say against the hum of the travelling public, a concerned look on her face as she received Kate’s message to get in touch urgently.

  Pressing pause, Kate stared at the image, praying that their subsequent conversation, albeit work-related, had given Jo cause to alter her plans to travel to the US. Three thousand miles was a bloody long way to go to prove a point.

  Kate replayed the image one more time. On first viewing, she had eyes only for Jo. On the second run-throug
h, she saw something she hadn’t picked up on: a tall businessman arriving to Jo’s left. He didn’t speak, to her or to anyone else, but, as she walked away, he seemed to lose interest in talking to the information clerk and wandered off in the same direction. Now Kate had something.

  20

  Adriana Esposito came to the door wearing sports gear and a towel round her neck. As the name suggested she was of Italian descent. She lived in a fifth-floor studio apartment in High Point Village, a contemporary block complete with swimming pool and spa. Close to Hayes and Harlington railway station in the west London Borough of Hillingdon, it was only a few miles to the airport and a short hop to Paddington.

  Esposito was mid-to-late thirties, petite in stature with smouldering eyes, olive skin and a mass of dark hair worn half up, half down. She had no need for make-up and wasn’t wearing any. She offered the detectives a cup of coffee, which they accepted. Neither had managed to grab a decent drink all day, just an insipid mug of something that tasted vile. Queues at Heathrow were a mare, staff facilities at the Casualty Bureau no better than any force canteen Kate had ever had the misfortune to frequent.

  If you want proper coffee, ask an Italian.

  A crucifix swung loosely from Esposito’s neck as she bent over and slipped off her trainers. Tucking her feet beneath her, she curled up in a sumptuous white leather armchair, the Grand Union Canal shimmering in the moonlight behind her through floor-to-ceiling picture windows. All very nice, but Kate hadn’t come to admire the view.

  Rejuvenated by caffeine, she was about to cut to the chase when Esposito morphed in Kate’s mind into an image of Jo in the same relaxed pose, then shifted to one of her strapped into her seat belt on the plane, treating herself to a glass of wine, reading a novel, enjoying the journey. Unlike Kate, who flew because it was necessary to get from A to B, Jo loved flying. She saw it as part of any holiday, not the means of getting to her chosen destination. In Kate’s head, Jo put on her specs, turned a page of her book, took a sip of wine, before checking out white fluffy clouds through the cabin window. She could watch those all day.

  ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t see you before nine,’ Esposito said. ‘Dance class.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Hank said.

  Don’t mind us, Kate thought. Carry on having fun, why don’t you? Nothing that important happened yesterday. A plane fell out of the sky. So what? There are plenty more where it came from. Through the bitterness, Kate was vaguely aware of Hank making the introductions and getting down to business. She tried to shake the sarcasm free and concentrate, but Jo was still there, boarding an aircraft bound for New York.

  Dropping her head, Kate took a moment to regroup. If she allowed herself to get sidetracked, the images in her head would fast-forward to the point at which a terrorist made himself known, or a radio announcement was broadcast to passengers by a concerned captain struggling with a serious technical fault. Such a horrifying prospect scuppered her resolve, squeezing the remaining dregs of hope out of her, rendering her ineffective. She preferred to think of Jo with her eyes shut, earphones in, listening to music, unaware of the unfolding situation.

  Music was their passion.

  The sound of Hank’s voice made Kate look up. He was staring at her, aware that she hadn’t been paying attention. His eyes sent a message: if you insist on being here, do your bloody job. Kate tried to stem her agony. Hank’s angry expression changed to one of concern as he realised she was in trouble, an unprecedented loss of control, behaviour unbecoming a police officer in the company of a witness. It had never happened in all the years he’d known her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Now their host was staring at Kate. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  Covering for his SIO, Hank turned to Esposito. ‘Sorry, Adriana, it’s been a long day. My boss has many balls in the air. Can you repeat what you said a moment ago? Then we’ll be on our way. We have your number if we need more.’

  ‘Of course.’ Esposito focused on Kate, no doubt aware that the detective chief inspector had missed everything she’d said. ‘I was telling your sergeant that there were a couple of passengers who didn’t board.’

  Kate’s heart almost stopped.

  In control now, she prayed that Esposito – a woman who so obviously appreciated style – would remember Jo. Removing a photograph from her bag, Kate passed it to her. ‘Was this woman one of them?’ Her hopes faded as the Italian shrugged, unable to make the ID.

  ‘I’m sorry. We see so many people.’

  Kate probed further. ‘But there were two missing passengers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Both women?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She thinks so?

  ‘This was your last shift at work and you can’t recall? Please look again.’

  Esposito took the photograph, another shake of the head. ‘As I said, she’s unfamiliar to me.’

  ‘For God’s sake! You’re part of airport security. How the hell do you people sleep at night?’

  ‘Kate!’ Hank apologised on her behalf.

  The Italian was already responding. ‘I sleep very well, Detective.’ Esposito fiddled with her crucifix as if it might protect her from the unfriendly copper sitting in her living room. Affronted by Kate’s outburst, she tapped the image in her hand. ‘I don’t remember seeing her. Do you recall every member of the public you come across?’

  Kate’s frustration grew.

  What planet was this woman on?

  An idea occurred.

  Jo looked very different depending on the mood she was in or what she was doing. Sometimes she was made up. Often she was not, especially if she was on the move. If she wore her hair up, people tended not to recognise her. In the picture she was dressed for a business conference: smart suit, hair tied back, make-up on. Travelling she’d be wearing casual clothes, hair down, not a shred of make-up in sight.

  Poles apart.

  ‘I’m tired.’ It was a heavy hint that Esposito wanted the detectives to leave.

  Hank stood up. ‘Kate?’

  ‘Just a moment longer …’ Remembering the video she’d received from Carmichael, Kate bent down and rummaged frantically in her bag. It took a moment to find her mobile, a moment more to access the clip and play it for Esposito. In it, Jo was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, hair loose. ‘Now do you recognise her?’

  Suspicious of the DCI, Esposito glanced at Hank.

  He explained: ‘This lady is a close colleague, a very dear friend of ours. She’s particularly close to DCI Daniels. They’ve known each other for a very long time.’

  Don’t overdo it, Kate thought.

  Esposito got the message but the response was the same. Still, if the Italian was right, and two women failed to board Flight 0113, it was enough to keep the dream of finding Jo alive.

  21

  ‘Are you trying to throw your career down the pan?’ Hank said as they got in the car and buckled up. He was seething and didn’t try to hide it. ‘Because if you are, you’re going the right way about it. What the hell happened in there? You’re more diplomatic with the unsavoury prigs we normally deal with. You didn’t give Esposito the lickings of a dog. The woman didn’t know where to put herself.’

  ‘OK, so I was out of order.’

  ‘Apologise to her, not me. And do it quickly. She’s probably calling Waverley as we speak.’

  Kate looked up at Esposito’s flat, hoping he was wrong, unwilling to climb down despite the risk. ‘She’s a professional. She should act like one.’

  ‘Did you really say that out loud?’

  Kate shot him a dirty look. ‘You’ve got to admit she was a bit flaky—’

  ‘And you weren’t? She lost colleagues too, don’t forget. You have no idea how close they were—’

  ‘Yeah, she’s so upset she had time to fit in a fucking dance class. Wait here, I’ll fetch my ballet shoes.’

  Hank stifled a grin. ‘You need to take it gently, Kate. She’s wondering why you’re so interested in one p
assenger and not the other three hundred and fifteen souls on board. If she repeats that, it won’t look good on your CV. Waverley will throw the book at you.’ He paused. ‘Maybe our witness isn’t as stupid as she makes out. She might have other interviews lined up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  She did know and it stung.

  Hank said it anyway. ‘Why would Esposito talk to a mouthy copper who gave her a hard time when she can tell her story to someone more sympathetic, possibly even get paid? You said yourself the press are all over airport staff. Do you want her shouting her mouth off about a Geordie polis treating her like shit in her hour of need?’

  ‘Oh, pleeease.’

  ‘I mean it, Kate. All she has to do is turn the tears on. Journalists would love that and so would a certain Gold Commander looking to burn you. All I’m saying is—’

  ‘I know what you’re saying,’ Kate snapped. ‘You’re as subtle as a brick.’

  ‘And if Esposito embellishes her experience—’

  ‘Then she’d be lying.’

  ‘People do, for all sorts of reasons, and sometimes it gets them in deep shit. If Tony Blair can fabricate weapons of mass destruction to impress a US president, Gina Lollobrigida can make you look bad for the hell of it. If you ask me, she was enjoying the attention. Probably wants her name in the papers, her rather gorgeous face on TV.’

  ‘Noted,’ Kate said.

  They parked the car at the Premier Inn, then walked out onto the main road, turning right past a Costa Coffee house. Kate felt revitalised by the chilly evening air and the exercise. Her run that morning seemed light years away. Crossing the road, they went left into a wide avenue where north–south carriageways of a private estate were separated by a strip of neatly cut grass dotted with mature trees. When they didn’t find the pub they were hoping for, they returned to their hotel resigned to a sandwich and a beer.