Gilbourne rubs his face with both hands, looking suddenly older in the soft light of the dining room.
‘I’m not exactly flavour of the month with my boss at the moment and I shouldn’t really share anything else with you,’ he says. ‘But I’m going to anyway, because a) my boss is an idiot and b) I want to keep you safe, and frankly I’m worried that you’re going to put yourself in more danger if I don’t give you a little bit of background.’
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘And it’s appreciated.’
‘This is a live investigation, so I need your word that this won’t go any further. Not to your friend.’ He gestures with a thumb towards the closed door. ‘Not to anyone.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it.’
He considers me for a moment, taps the printout with his index finger. ‘This individual’s name is Leon Markovitz. Thirty-six years old. Last known address in Camden. Former tabloid journalist convicted in 2013 on various charges relating to phone hacking, burglary, breaches of privacy and bribing of public officials. Served three years in jail and then spent some time in a secure psychiatric unit after his release. No newspaper would touch him with a bargepole when he came out so he re-created himself as one of those true-crime fanatics, podcasts and what have you. He was one of our prime suspects in a serious criminal investigation last year, one of my cases. Arrested and questioned on two separate occasions.’
‘Questioned about what?’
‘A series of extremely violent offences – he had certain information about the victims and about the circumstances of those crimes. Information that was deliberatelynotput into the public domain, to separate the responsible party from the various internet nutters who ring in wanting to give a full confession. Facts thatonlythe perpetrator would have known. Unfortunately the investigation ended up . . . falling short in other areas. In the end we didn’t have enough to charge Markovitz.’
‘Surely you’ve got an address for him? You could—’
Gilbourne holds up a hand. ‘Bear with me for a minute.’ He leafs through the papers in his folder. ‘As I mentioned, we’ve been doing a trawl of CCTV, including on St George Street where you said you were abducted on Tuesday afternoon. Camera coverage is patchy there but we did get an ANPR hit very close by that might be significant.’ I frown at the acronym soup and he adds: ‘Automatic number plate recognition.’
‘The BMW?’
He pulls another A4 sheet from the leather folder and slides it across the table to me. This one is not a blurry CCTV image taken from a distance, but a close-up head and shoulders of a man against a green background. A police mugshot like you’d see in a news report or on TV. An angry, hard face. A dark ginger beard, buzz-cut short hair. Thick neck. Nose kinked in the middle from some long-ago break.
An unpleasant buzz of fear loosens my stomach. I cross my arms over my chest.
‘That’s him,’ I say. ‘Dominic. The guy who abducted us on Tuesday.’
He stares at me for a moment but doesn’t contradict me. I realise after the words are out of my mouth that I saidusand notme. As if there is a bond, a promise, a connection between Mia and I that is more than just chance.
‘This mugshot was taken earlier this year,’ he continues. ‘Dominic Church, twenty-nine years old. Before all this he had convictions for assault, robbery, possession of drugs. We haven’t managed to track him down again yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’ He slides over the other image until the two are side-by-side on the table in front of me. Two violent men. I shudder at how close I’ve been to both of them in these past few days. ‘Him and Markovitz have something in common.’
‘What?’
‘Dominic Church was questioned over the same case – he was our other prime suspect. In fact, we looked at whether they were working together, and that is still an open line of enquiry. But he also slipped through our fingers.’
‘So . . . someone else was arrested, then? Convicted?’
Gilbourne shakes his head, suddenly unable to look at me.
‘No. As I said, it’s still a live case. Stillmycase, unless my idiot boss decides to shuffle the deck to please the chief. I’ve not got long left on the force but I’ve sworn to the victims’ families that we’ll get a result before I leave.’ He taps the mugshots with his index finger again. ‘As far as I’m concerned, these two are still prime suspects, so if they try to make contact with you, if you see either of them again, if you eventhinkone of them is following you, donotengage with them. Do not approach. As you already know, these are both very dangerous individuals. Whatever you do, don’t trust either of them. And promise me you’ll let me know.Immediately.’
A memory floats up out of nowhere, like a flash of déjà vu. The scrawled instructions of Kathryn’s note:Don’t trust anyone.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll let you know.’
He puts a hand over mine, the skin warm against my fingers. It’s been months since I’ve felt a man’s touch and I’m suddenly aware just how much I’ve missed this small intimacy.
‘I can’t stress how important that is, Ellen. For your safety. I’ve put a request in for renewed surveillance on both of them but until then you need to be extra careful.’
‘How long until the surveillance starts up?’
‘Within the next twenty-four hours, hopefully, as soon as the chief super approves the overtime.’ He gives me an apologetic shrug. ‘Form filling and red tape. Sorry.’
I look down at his hand and he moves it away.
‘All right, but I still don’t see what this has to do with Mia.’
For a moment I think he’s going to tell me more. Then he drops his gaze and starts gathering the sheets of paper back into the leather folder. Zips it shut briskly and stands up.
