Behind Closed Doors (17 page)

The first drops of rain hit the Frogeye's windscreen as I was crossing Putney Bridge. A minute later, just as it came on heavy, Lucy rang through with Philippa's information on the McCabe family.

‘The guy's a builder turned property developer,' she reported. ‘Made his first million at thirty-two. Took an award for a restored Georgian on the top end of Blackheath. The house has been in
Ideal Home
twice. He has a wife and two kids. The family are in the society pages a couple of times a year. Philippa has a whole library on them.'

I struggled to catch the words against the noise of the rain on the soft-top.

‘Tell me about the wife and kids,' I yelled.

‘Wendy is forty-five, the same age as John. She's a housewife. Supports local causes. They've two girls, fourteen and seven. Both at the Mayfield School on the Common. They sound like the ideal family.'

I wondered how McCabe's trips to Brighton fitted “ideal”. Be interesting to find out. I swung right at the top end of the Common and headed towards the McCabes' Wimbledon address.

‘Anything on the Hanlons?'

Lucy's words were almost drowned in the din of the rain. ‘They're out of Philippa's area. But she promised to keep trying. I'm searching from my end.'

‘Anything you can get,' I said. ‘The picture's coming into focus. If the families both fit what I'm looking at then we're nearly there.'

I killed the line and focused on the road. The rain turned torrential and made it hard work spotting the turning. I finally located it – a tree-lined lane at the south end of the Park. The McCabe house stood behind brick walls that sported a gateway not so different from the one that had blocked me at the Hanlons', except that these gates were open. I parked on a forecourt in front of a redbrick Victorian mansion that promised
Ideal Home
perfection behind its ten-foot sash windows. A single car was parked in front of the house. A Fiat Panda. I guessed they'd shift that before the photographer arrived.

I sprinted to the porch and pressed the bell. I heard a hoover quit inside and a woman in her middle fifties wearing green work overalls came out. I asked if Wendy was in.

She invited me through and took me to the back of the house. A too-thin woman came out of a sun lounge to meet us. The lounge would be idyllic on a warm summer's day. Today the rain was like machine-gun fire and the place was cold. Wendy McCabe was pretty in a mousy kind of way. Glittery eyes and pointed nose. Kind of cute. But her smile when she saw me was doubtful. After I'd left she'd tell her domestic to have strangers wait at the door in future.

I gave her my best Caring Salesman smile along with my card, one of the genuine ones. I apologised for calling out of the blue and told her that there was an urgent matter she and her husband might help me with.

She didn't rise to the bait and tell me that her husband was not at home. Smarter than that.

‘You say you're a private investigator?'

‘Security and research services.' I left our job description at that. No need to mention of what kind of research we usually did. ‘We're acting for a family who have been approached by some unlawful individuals. Our investigations suggest that other families might be at risk too.'

Wendy McCabe's look switched to concern.

‘You mean our family? What kind of risk?'

‘Nothing specific,' I said. ‘Maybe nothing at all. But we felt we ought to talk to anyone who might have been approached by these people. As a precaution.'

‘Precaution? You're frightening me more every minute, Mr Flynn.'

‘Perhaps we could sit down a moment.'

Wendy shook her head, didn't offer a seat. No pushover, this one. ‘I can't imagine what this is about,' she said. ‘Could you be more specific?'

I smiled my most reassuring smile. Backpedalled.

‘We may be off-track, Mrs McCabe. But my clients felt an obligation to pass on the information we have.'

There's a limit on how many times you can circle the wagons. At some point you've got to move in. I pulled Sadie's photo from my wallet. Pointed to Rebecca. I didn't see the McCabes knowing the Slaters so the picture should mean nothing. If it did, we'd have a new situation.

Sure enough, Wendy McCabe's face stayed blank.

‘Who is she?'

‘I've been asked not to provide names,' I said. ‘But the girl's family have been threatened. More specifically, a threat against the girl.'

‘What kind of threat?'

‘I can't give you the details,' I said – Truth was my middle name this morning – ‘but the threat involved abduction.'

Wendy McCabe's expression turned to fear. ‘Are you saying that our children might be at risk?'

‘Almost certainly not,' I said, ‘but we're trying to cover all possibilities. The people behind this are targeting wealthy families with children. One of the conspirators may be involved in the London property market. Hence the possible connection with your husband. ‘

‘Do the police know about this?'

I shook my head. ‘We're still trying to understand the threat,' I told her. ‘It would be difficult to prove risk to any other families. But if we see clear evidence of a threat we'll call the police in.'

‘But if you think someone is planning to abduct a child you need to call them in now.'

‘We just don't have enough,' I said. ‘Nothing that the police could act on . And the chance of your family being involved is a million-to-one.'

A number a little different to my real estimate of fifty-fifty. Don't ask me for racing tips.

‘So what do you want from us, Mr Flynn?'

‘I need to know whether you or your husband know the men involved.'

So far, Wendy McCabe was coming up blank. She'd shown no reaction to my talk of abduction, at least nothing beyond the obvious – nothing to suggest that one of their own children had already been taken. My theory of what was happening to Rebecca Townsend pointed to the McCabes having already gone through the same thing: if the Royal Trafalgar was part of it then John McCabe was running six months ahead of Larry Slater. But either Wendy McCabe was an impeccable actress or my hunch was wrong. If my hunch was wrong then it was possible that the Royal Trafalgar might not be relevant. Worst case scenario - McAllister had nothing to do with Rebecca Townsend and we were back to square one.

‘Has your family ever been threatened?' I asked.

‘Absolutely not.' No hesitation. Just annoyance. The thought of her children in danger had Wendy McCabe ready to blame the messenger.

‘You heard of a guy named Paul McAllister?'

She looked blank.

‘James Roker?'

‘No.'

‘Maybe your husband might know them through his business contacts?'

‘Why don't you ask him?' Wendy McCabe said. She walked over and picked up the phone.

‘Sure,' I said, ‘I'd like to speak with you husband.' In for a penny. John McCabe might or might not know McAllister and Roker but he could certainly answer some questions about Brighton.

Wendy hit speed dial and passed a curt message. A few seconds later her husband came on the line. She told him what was happening, asked if he knew what it was about. She repeated my name twice then listened.

I could hear McCabe's voice crackling on the other end. It didn't sound like endearments. His wife turned to me: ‘Can you go to Kingston right now?'

I said I could be there in thirty minutes. She passed on the message and replaced the phone. Handed me a business card with McCabe's address, a location in the centre of Kingston. I thanked her and repeated my assurances that all was well, but she kept her face set as she walked me to the door. Messenger or not, Wendy McCabe never wanted to see me again. Mothers are like that when their family is threatened. I'd begun to wonder if her torn peace of mind had been worth it.

Maybe her husband would tell me.

John McCabe was a surprise. Partly because his refined manner didn't shout ex-builder. But mostly because he didn't leap up from behind his desk to get his hands around my throat.

He ran his business from a modest office in a three-storey block a stone's throw from the river. McCabe Enterprises comprised a reception and a few small rooms on the top floor. It looked like McCabe concentrated on the nuts and bolts of money-making rather than the prestige side. His office was unpretentious. The only thing it boasted was a view of the Thames if you looked at an angle.

He shook my hand and sat me down. I repeated my spiel about the threatened clients, possible connections between known criminals and wealthy families. Got no sign of recognition. John McCabe heard me out then asked for my ID.

I handed him my card. He scrutinised it.

‘I appreciate that you're acting with the best intentions,' he said, ‘but you should know that my wife was somewhat upset by your visit.'

I opened my hands.

‘Frightening your wife was the last thing I wanted. But I need to know if these people are targeting anyone other than our clients.'

‘Is that not for the police to decide?'

‘As I told you wife, we don't have enough evidence to take to them.'

‘And what evidence do you expect to get from my family?'

‘Any information you may have about these people. Any suspicious approaches by them.'

‘Do you believe that my family may have been targeted?'

‘Has it?'

McCabe's eyes locked onto mine. His mouth set. ‘Of course not,' he said. ‘Otherwise we would have informed the police.'

‘The people involved appear to exert pressure to keep the police out.'

‘What kind of pressure?'

‘If they're snatching children then that would be pretty clear.'

McCabe continued to look at me.

‘Mr Flynn, I'm happy to say that there has been no abduction in my family. We've had no contact with any criminal parties. I'm afraid you're at a dead end in our case. Unless,' he said, ‘you're keeping something back. Have you some specific evidence that my family is at risk?'

I told him we had none. I was still watching him for signs.

McCabe shook his head and turned to look out of the window.

‘I don't know what to believe here,' he said. ‘Someone walks into my house and suggests that we may be under threat from a criminal group, asks if any of my kids have been abducted. Then remains vague on just what evidence is behind this. I understand why my wife is scared. I'm thinking maybe I should call the police myself.' He held up my business card between thumb and index finger. ‘Do you mind if I keep this?'

‘Go ahead,' I said. ‘We're a legitimate agency. The Metropolitan Police know us.'

They knew us, all right.

‘Have you anything else?' He was looking at his watch.

‘A couple of the men involved,' I said. ‘Maybe you've come across them.'

I gave him their names. His stare didn't waver. Just a curt shake of the head. Either McCabe and his wife were good enough to be on the stage or they'd never come across McAllister, Child or Roker. Time to throw up a stronger candidate.

‘How about the Royal Trafalgar Hotel?' I said. ‘In Brighton.'

That got a hit but not exactly a bullseye. McCabe looked surprised for a couple of seconds but that was it. He pursed his lips and gave me a noncommittal nod. So he knew the place. I asked what the connection was but he shrugged it off as business and refused to say more.

I wasn't getting even a hint of being warm with McCabe. Persisted anyway.

‘May I ask whom you met in Brighton?' I said.

McCabe shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, no,' he said. He still looked puzzled though. I pulled out a photo.

‘Was this woman one of them?'

I watched his face as he looked at Tina Brown's photo.

Another hit. McCabe's eyebrows raised and he looked at me. But it was still a look of mild puzzlement, not much else. Nothing you'd mistake for guilt or fear. He handed the photo back.

‘Do you mind telling me exactly,' he said, ‘what this is all about?'

‘You do recognise the woman?'

‘That's still none of your business, Mr Flynn,' he said. ‘Please answer my question.'

I thought for a moment. Decided that answering McCabe's questions would not be productive. I'd got the spark of recognition over both hotel and woman but there was something off. I'd expected a firecracker. Got a damp squib. Another piece of the jig-saw that didn't connect. If I told McCabe that Tina Brown was linked to my criminals that might push him the last step towards the police. A complication I could do without.

I tucked the photo away. Thanked McCabe for his time and stood to leave.

McCabe stood himself and started to say something but I gave him a cheery nod and was already out of the door.

Quick exits were becoming my speciality.

I'd just taken another soaking sprinting back to the Frogeye when my mobile rang.

‘What's the news?' Samantha Vincent's voice. ‘I've called Tina ten times since we spoke. And I sent a text saying you were looking for her. But she's just not answering.'

‘Just hang in there,' I said. ‘We're getting some good leads. I think we're close to finding out what's happening.'

‘You told me you'd find her in two days,' Sammy said. ‘What have you got?'

‘Nothing I can give you,' I said, ‘but trust me, Sammy. Just hold off a while longer. I'll call you the moment there's news.'

‘Mr Flynn,' she said, ‘cut the bullshit. I know nothing about you or what you're doing to find Tina. And I'm going to the police right now unless you give me something.'

‘Sammy,' I said, ‘I won't lie to you. We've not got near to Tina yet.' I considered how to phase my next words: ‘But there's a chance that Tina might not want the police involved.'

It took a moment for that to sink in.

‘What do you mean?' Sammy asked, but I knew she'd got it.

‘It's possible she's involved in something that requires her to stay low for a while,' I said. ‘Something she might not want the police to know about.'

‘You're saying that Tina's involved in something criminal? I don't believe it.'

‘Sammy, it's a possibility,' I repeated. ‘I can't explain, but we need a little more time.'

‘Mr Flynn,' Sammy said, ‘I'm more worried about Tina's safety than the possibility that she's mixed up in something she wants kept quiet.'

‘I understand, Sammy. But believe me, my agency is the fastest route to Tina. Give us another day. We'll know what has happened to Tina within twenty-four hours. That's a promise.'

The line was silent while Sammy turned it over. Then she made up her mind. ‘Tomorrow,' she said.

The phone went dead.