Hostage to Murder (11 page)

“And you thought he meant Tam,” Bernie's voice had dropped to a whisper. Staggering, she collapsed into a child's chair, leaned her head on the desk and sobbed in wild, uncontrolled gasps that made her whole body shudder.

“Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Anderson said, suddenly understanding that there might be valid reasons for such distress. “I'd better get the head teacher.”

 

At that precise moment, Jack Gourlay—né Cavadino—was thirty-five thousand feet above Germany. He looked up from his Nintendo, an anxious frown on his face. “Mum won't be angry with me, will she?”

Bruno Cavadino gave his son a hug. “Why would she be angry with you? I told you, she said we could go away together.”

“She's never let us go away together before,” Jack said suspiciously.

“She thought you were too little to be away without her. She thought you would cry because you missed her. But I told her, he's old enough now to understand that a holiday is a holiday, not forever. You won't cry, will you?”

Jack gave a tight, apprehensive smile. “No, papa. Can we phone her when we land?”

Bruno shook his head. “You don't want her to think you're a big baby, do you? She'll call us in a couple of days. Don't worry.”

The siren call of Nintendo dragged Jack back from the conversation to his screen. Bruno looked down at him with a surge of affection that surprised him. He was a good kid. Bernie had made a decent job of bringing him up. But she'd had her chance. Now it was up to him to do his best for the boy. It wouldn't be easy, but he had plans for Jack.

 

Bernie was sobbing into a handkerchief while a woman police constable patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. Mrs. Anderson sat at her table, fingers twisting round each other as Sergeant Meldrum took her through the events of the morning.

“I thought nothing of it, you see. I mean, obviously you don't.

The boy, Jimmy Doran, he said that Jack had told him he had to go off with his dad. Naturally, I assumed he meant Mr. Gourlay.”

Sergeant Meldrum nodded, scribbling something in his notebook. “So, the last you saw of the boy would be when, exactly?”

“When the bell went for the morning interval. Five to eleven.”

The classroom door burst open and Tam Gourlay burst in. He was a bear. Six feet and six inches of brawn, topped with a thick head of dark auburn hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard one shade lighter, he stormed into the classroom like a force of nature. Without pause, he rushed to Bernie, pushing the policewoman to one side. “Has that bastard Bruno taken him?” he demanded.

“Tam, oh Tam, I'm so sorry,” Bernie sobbed.

“Sorry? It's not your fault you married a bastard first time round.” He glared belligerently at Sergeant Meldrum. “So what the hell are youse doing to stop him? Christ knows where he'll take the boy.”

“We've already circulated a description to the ports and airports, sir. We're doing everything we can,” the policeman said, his tone placatory.

It didn't work. “Is that all you can say? Have you not got weans? Jesus, man, can you not see the state she's in? You've got to find the boy.”

“Was Mr. Cavadino ever violent during the marriage?”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Tam demanded.

“No, he wasn't,” Bernie cut in.

“And has he had access to Jack since the marriage broke down?” Meldrum continued.

“He's taken him out him half a dozen times when he's been in the country,” Bernie said, sounding calmer now her husband was present.

“Mrs. Gourlay, do you think he'd offer any kind of physical threat to Jack?”

She shook her head. “Bruno wouldn't hurt a hair on his head.”

“You see my problem, sir?” Meldrum asked, his tone that of sweet reason. “The child doesn't seem to be at risk. OK, Mr. Cavadino didn't have permission for this custody visit, but he has
previously returned Jack safely. We've no reason to think a crime has been committed.”

“I don't believe I'm hearing this,” Tam roared. “Our boy gets kidnapped and you think that's OK?”

“With respect, sir, that's not what I said.”

Tam looked at the sergeant as if he wanted to hit someone and he was the best candidate. “Listen, pal,” he growled. “Get your finger out and get our boy back. Or else you'll wish you'd never joined the polis. And that, my friend, is a promise.”

 

Lindsay poured two glasses of pinot grigio and took them through to the living room, where Sophie was sprawled on the sofa, a book on preparing for pregnancy open on her lap. “There you go,” Lindsay said, offering Sophie a drink. “I've just put the potatoes in the oven. Dinner'll be about three quarters of an hour.”

Sophie shook her head. “No wine for me, love.” She patted her flat stomach. “Better safe than sorry.”

Lindsay put both glasses on the end table and slid on to the sofa, lifting Sophie's feet into her lap. “Sorry, force of habit. I forgot your body's a temple now. How are you feeling?”

Sophie snorted with laughter. “Exactly the same as usual. I don't think you get symptoms within twenty-four hours of insemination. What about you? How's the ankle? You should be the one with your feet up.”

“Ach, it's not too bad. It's more stiff than sore now. Do you mind if I put the local news on?” she added, reaching for the TV remote control.

“News junkie,” Sophie teased her. “Of course I don't mind.”

The screen came alive on a police press conference. A uniformed chief superintendent sat behind a table. Next to him, a woman with red swollen eyes looked as if she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her hand was held by a giant of a man with a neatly barbered mane of hair and a heavy beard. What could be seen of his face looked sullen. The sound faded up on the police officer's voice. “. . . during the morning interval. We have reason to believe that the boy has been snatched by his natural father. We're obviously concerned that Mr. Cavadino will try to
take Jack out of this jurisdiction, even though he has no legal right to do that. If anyone has seen the boy or his father, they should contact Strathclyde Police.”

Two photographs appeared side by side on the screen. The boy grinned cheerfully at the camera with the gap-toothed smile of childhood. His resemblance to the woman was obvious. The man whose photograph appeared next to him looked unmistakably Italian, his easy smile making his face more attractive than it would have been in repose. After a moment, the camera returned to the press conference.

“Mrs. Gourlay, have you a message for your former husband?” the policeman asked.

The woman took a visible breath and looked straight down the barrel of the camera. “Bruno, if you're watching this . . . I know you mean well, but Jack's safety is the most important thing in the world to me.” Her voice cracked and broke and tears welled from her eyes.

The picture changed to a reporter standing outside police headquarters. “Photographs of Jack Gourlay and his father Bruno Cavadino have been circulated to ports and airports. But tonight, fears were growing that they have already left the country.”

“That poor woman,” Sophie said, reaching for Lindsay's hand. “She must be going through hell. I can't imagine what that must be like. Not to know where your child is or what's happening to him.”

“It's despicable,” Lindsay said.

“What? Putting that woman on the telly?” Sophie sounded offended.

“No, of course not. I meant that thing that couples get into when they split up, using their kids as weapons against each other. It's so bloody selfish.”

“That's not going to happen to us, you know,” Sophie reassured her.

“What? Breaking up or fighting over the kid?”

“Neither one. It's going to be OK, Lindsay. No, it's going to be better than OK. It's going to be wonderful.”

Lindsay grunted. “If it happens.”

“It's going to happen. I'm sure of it. If it doesn't work this time, we'll just try again.”

“And when do you stop trying?” Lindsay couldn't help herself. “How long are you giving this?”

“As long as it takes. I thought we'd try the insemination for six months, and if that doesn't work, we can look at assisted conception.”

“You mean IVF ?”

Sophie nodded. “I don't want to go there, but if that's what it takes, yes.”

“I thought you said lesbians couldn't get IVF treatment in Scotland,” Lindsay said mutinously.

Sophie squeezed her hand. “Lindsay, I'm professor of obstetrics at Glasgow University. Trust me, I've got the contacts.”

Lindsay's heart sank. She saw her future contract to a pinprick focus on the business of conception. It wasn't a pretty picture.

Afternoons in the Café Virginia were subdued affairs. Solo coffee drinkers flicked through newspapers, bar staff cleared lunchtime debris and cleaned tables, Horse sang “Breathe Me” and Rory wrote copy. Lindsay was online, browsing the newspaper archives, trying to get up to speed with her native land in the third millennium. There was, she thought, something very soothing about it all. She could hardly believe how quickly her general sense of malaise at being back in Scotland had fled. If nothing else, it told her how much she needed work to give her a sense of purpose. Now, if only Sophie would give up this madness, she would be entirely content.

The calm was shattered by a new arrival. His voice carried from the front bar right through to the back booth. “I'm looking for Rory McLaren,” the thunder said. Lindsay looked up to see the husband from the previous evening's police press conference waving a twenty-pound note under Annie's nose.

“Through the back, corner booth,” she said, trousering the twenty without missing a beat in her stocking of the fridge.

The man mountain looked around suspiciously as he wove a path through the tables towards their corner. Why, Lindsay wondered, did straight people always think they were about to be propositioned as soon as they entered a gay establishment? Had
they even looked in a mirror lately?

He stopped at the table, his eyes swivelling from one to the other. “Rory McLaren?” he asked, almost hesitant.

Rory finally looked up and said wearily, “Tam Gourlay. As in,” she slipped into mimicry of a semi-hysterical radio advert, “ ‘Gourlay's Garage, your first choice for previously owned vehicles.' ”

“Very funny,” Gourlay growled.

“The exposé I did on the tricks of the second hand car trade, right?”

“Hey, nobody was happier than me to see you closing down the toerags and the cowboys,” he protested.

“So what do you want with me, Mr. Gourlay? Come to shop some more of your dodgy colleagues?” Rory looked back at her screen, giving off boredom like musk.

“There's somebody I want you to meet.”

Rory flicked him a glance, amused and questioning.

“I've got a taxi waiting outside.”

She snorted. “And that's the pitch, is it? Go off in a taxi with a strange man who associates with a bunch of people I've put out of business. Very tempting.”

“I thought youse investigative reporters were supposed to be fearless?”

“Fearless isn't the same as stupid.”

“Rory?” Lindsay thought she'd better intervene before Gourlay burst a blood vessel. Rory raised her eyebrows. “I don't think Mr. Gourlay is here because of cowboy car dealers. I think the person he wants you to meet is his wife. Her wee boy got snatched by his natural father yesterday. Tug of love kidnap.”

“Right,” Rory said, instantly grasping the tabloid shorthand. She looked up at Gourlay, her smile apologetic. “I'm sorry for your trouble. But I don't do stories like that. I think it's a private eye you need.”

Gourlay shook his big head. “Christ. I don't just want the boy found, I want the world to know about this cover-up. It's a scandal, that's what it is. But you? You're as bad as the fucking polis.
Just because Bruno Cavadino's a diplomat, nobody wants to know.”

“A diplomat?” Lindsay interrupted, her interest pricked.

“Aye. So all we're getting is, ‘there's bugger all we can do, dinnae rock the boat, be a good boy.' And all the time, my wife's going off her head with worry. Who knows where the fuck the boy is now? And apart from us, it seems like nobody cares either.” His frustration was obvious.

“Rory, let's go and have a wee chat with Mrs. Gourlay. This diplomatic angle, it's interesting. Could be a good piece in it,” Lindsay said, sounding more casual than she felt.

Rory sighed. “Oh, all right. It's not like we're snowed under with work.”

Lindsay smiled up at Gourlay. “Give us a minute to get sorted here, we'll meet you outside.” She extended a hand which was enveloped in a meaty paw. “I'm Lindsay Gordon, by the way. Rory and I work together.”

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, then turned and walked out.

“I can't believe you think this is worth pursuing,” Rory grumbled as she closed her computer down. “Tug of love, ten a penny, Hague Convention doesn't work, so what's new?”

Packing up her laptop, Lindsay said, “Abuse of diplomatic immunity. You can always get a good head of moral indignation going on that one. And this is a wee bit tastier than cultural attachés not paying their parking tickets. Look, if you don't want to come, I'll handle it.”

“No, you're all right. I've done more or less all I was going to do this afternoon anyway. I might as well come along for the ride.”