The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (28 page)

“Oh honey, I could see something was up. Why didn’t you say?”

“Because I can’t bear to think she’s out there somewhere.”
Hans nodded at the myriad of yellow dots scattering the landscape. “Just the
thought that she probably doesn’t even know it’s her birthday kills me.”

“Hans, I hate to ask, but what if the fingerprints on the
Fulani woman’s glasses aren’t on record and Jonah doesn’t come back with
anything for the hire car?”

“I’ve been thinking the same. Maybe it’s time we contacted a
couple of the newspapers here. Start with the biggest. See if we can meet with
an editor to get their take on this Trade business.”

“Perhaps we should have done that earlier.”

“It’s not as if we’ve had the time. Anyway, knock on wood” –
Hans rapped his knuckles on the gunwale – “Muttley and Jonah will have some
news for us tonight or tomorrow.”

Penny stared at the distant lights without replying.

“Honey, you okay?”

Hans could see something was on her mind.

She turned to face him. “It’s that I’ve got some news too,
Hans.”

“Go on.”

“I’m pregnant.”

A
s
Hans cooked scrambled eggs in the morning, a million thoughts ricocheted around
his mind.
Where the hell were we six weeks ago?
It must have been in
the hospital in Boston.
He smiled.

Penny’s bombshell had a bearing on everything. Hans intended
to spend his every breath, if that’s what it took, keeping up the search for
his daughter. If, heaven forbid, any harm came to her, he would hunt down the
traffickers like the rats they were and eliminate them one by one. Should this happen,
he’d decided to take his own life, for losing a wife, son and daughter, there was
no reason to go on. But the fact he was going to be a father again put paid to
that idea.

Stop it!
Hans told himself. Jessica wasn’t dead, and
this passive speculation wasn’t helpful. He
would
get her back. That was
the plan, and he intended to see it through.

Carrying a tray of coffee, eggs, bagels, fried tomatoes and
mushrooms through to the bedroom, Hans turned his thoughts to Penny. He knew
her mind was still in turmoil following the abortion two years ago. He also
knew she loved him as deeply as he did her. They hadn’t exactly planned this pregnancy
– but then it wasn’t unplanned either. Both knew fate had brought them together
for a reason and that they were in this for the long haul. Now, along with so
many thoughts and feelings surrounding Jessica, Hans had Penny’s and the baby’s
welfare to consider.
One day at a time, frogman
, he reminded himself.
One
day at a time.

By 10:00 a.m. neither Muttley nor Jonah had called. Hans didn’t
need to chase them – they would be in touch the second they got a result. To
make use of the waiting time, Hans called the
Expresso das Ilhas
, the
national newspaper, and arranged to meet Nelson Cabral, its editor.

M
outhwash Man unfolded the chair and
draped his jacket over the backrest, preparing to give Jessica another dose of
brainwashing in preparation for her trip to Europe with the fixer. His eyes
were even more bloodshot than usual and the smell of liquor on his breath
strong.

“Whhhaa . . .
school you . . . you go to, Maria
Denn
-nis?”
he slurred.

“Kelloway Primary School,” she replied, knowing the answers
off by heart now.

“Whhhaas your mother’s name?”

“Sarah.”

“Whhhere you live in . . .
in . . .
in London?”

“Number 25 Allcourt Road in Tottenham.”

And so it went on.

Mouthwash was about to ask Jessica to spell her surname for
the umpteenth time when the sound of high-pitched barking interrupted him. A
small dog burst into the room, made a beeline for the bed, jumped on Jessica’s lap
and licked her face in between yaps.

“Hello, little doggy!” She hugged it tight.

From somewhere outside the other man shouted and whistled
for the dog to return.

Mouthwash Man wasn’t happy. Grabbing the scruff of its neck,
he pulled the dog off Jessica and shook it violently. Then he left the room to return
it to its owner, slamming the door behind him.

Jessica was off the bed in a flash and shoving her hand into
the man’s jacket, searching for his cell phone. It wasn’t in the first inside pocket,
and her hopes sank. Perhaps he didn’t have it with him.

She tried the other pocket, and her hand closed around the
phone. The little girl’s heartbeat stepped up as she pulled out a Nokia similar
to the one she had at home. Her father always insisted she memorized the emergency
services number for each of the countries they visited on the yacht trip.
England was 999, France 122, but she couldn’t remember Cape Verde’s. Jessica
didn’t even know if she was on Cape Verde. Perhaps when the pirates plucked her
from the sea they had taken her to another country.

One thing she did remember was her father’s cell phone number.
He also taught her to prefix the area code with 001 when calling from abroad. Listening
out for Mouthwash Man’s return, she punched the keypad and put the phone to her
ear.

Nothing – not a ring or even the engaged message.

Jessica checked the signal bars. There were none. She knew
if this happened you could send a text message and the person would receive it
when the signal improved. She typed “Help me” and her father’s number and
pressed “Send,” then replaced the phone in Mouthwash Man’s pocket and hopped
back onto the bed.

Only, in her haste she’d forgotten to check the Nokia’s predictive
text.

O
n
the drive to the office of
Expresso das Ilhas
to meet the newspaper’s
editor, Hans’ cell phone beeped. Penny picked it out of the center console and
read the message.

“Who is it?” asked Hans.

“I think it’s Mike Devonport.” Penny looked puzzled. “It
says, ‘Help md.’”

Hans took the phone and glanced at the screen. “That can’t
be Mike, unless he’s using someone else’s phone. His name would come up.
Besides, it’s not a UK cell phone number, it’s local.”

Without warning Hans hit the brakes and pulled off the road.

“What is it?” Penny asked.

“That’s not ‘Help md.’ It’s a typo. It’s meant to say, ‘Help
me
’!”

They looked at one another in utter shock –
Jessica!

“Right, keep absolutely quiet,” said Hans, closing the
electric windows. He thumbed through the phone’s icons, brought up the voice
recorder and hit the red
R
. Then he pressed callback, set the phone to
loudspeaker and turned the volume right up.

As the number started ringing, neither of them had ever felt
so much anxiety flooding through their veins.

One ring . . . two rings . . . three . . . The line crackled
a second or two.

“Papa?”

In that instant Hans went into professional mode, controlling
his nerves as if adrenaline didn’t exist.

“Jessica, Daddy’s coming, but I need you to answer these
questions. Can you do that?”

A barely audible
–s
could be heard.

Checking the signal bars on his Samsung, Hans cursed the other
phone’s reception.

“Honey, describe the man who is keeping you.”

“. . . older . . . you, Papa . . . speaks . . . ish . . .
José
. . .”

“Jessie, describe the room you are in.”

“. . . ark and col . . . lik . . . time we . . . asco . . .
stle . . . Mommy . . .”

Hans prayed the voice recorder was getting all this and that
he would be able to make sense of it later.

“Jessie, can you hear any noises—any cars or people or
animals, anything you can tell me?”

“. . . saw . . . ike Lucky in . . . mouth . . .”

“Listen, Jessie, the first chance you get, I want you to run
away. Do you hear me? I want you to run and find an adult and ask them to take
you to the nearest police station.”

She didn’t reply.

“Jessie, can you hear me?”

The sound of a man’s heavy breathing came over the loudspeaker.

Hans looked at Penny – and the line went dead.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, both trying to
take in what happened.

“Penny.” Hans handed her a Bic and pad from the driver’s-door
compartment. “Write down what I tell you.”

Hans replayed the recording –

“. . . older . . . you, Papa . . . speaks . . . ish . . . José
. . .”

– craning to make out the syllables, mouthing the words he
understood and attempting to fill in the blanks.

He pressed pause. “Right, it’s a Latino or Hispanic in his
sixties.”

Penny began scribbling. “How do you know that?” she asked,
not questioning Hans’ judgment but curious.

“Because
José
is the husband of our Mexican domestic back home.”

“And the age?”

“She’s saying he’s older than me. If it were ten years or so,
Jessie wouldn’t be able to distinguish it. But in his sixties he’d likely be
graying and possibly balding with wrinkles, and that would look significantly older.”

“Why not seventies or eighties?”

“Do you think many people that age make money from
trafficking kids?”

“Good point.”

Hans pressed “Play.”

“. . . ark and col . . . lik . . . time we . . . asco . . .
stle . . . Mommy . . .”

“Ach! Something about a dark and cold place. She must have
been somewhere similar with her mom.”

“. . . saw . . . ike Lucky in . . . mouth . . .”

“Okay, the guy owns a terrier – Lucky was a Jack Russell
belonging to a homeless guy we met in Plymouth.”

Hans adjusted the voice recorder’s graphic equalizer,
turning up the bass and treble, and then replayed the middle part of the call.

“. . . time we . . . asco . . . stle . . . Mommy . . .”

“Those two syllables, they have to be the name of a place
back home.”

Penny kept silent. She could see Hans’ mind was in overdrive
going through the possible permutations.

“Oh
no
!” Hans let the phone drop in his lap.

“What is it?”

“No, no, no!”
He slammed his hands against the
steering wheel. “Why didn’t I
see
it before?”

“Hans, you’re scaring me.” Penny was visibly shaking. “What
is it?”

“Take a look at the photo again.” He scrolled through the
phone and brought up Djenabou’s final message.

“What if I said that’s six letters and an arrow – not five
letters, a period and a claw?”

“I-I-I—”

“Penny, the place Jessie mentioned was Trasco Castle – it’s
a cheesy theme park in Portland built around the nearest thing we have to an
actual castle.”

“Are you saying . . . ?”

“Elderly
Spanish
guy. Lives in a
castle
and
owns
Jack Russells
?”

Penny look at the Fulani’s handwriting again.

“That doesn’t say ‘Logan,’” Hans prompted.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s ‘Laguna,’ and the arrow means she’s
in the dungeon.”