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The nurse, too, filed a detailed report in the hospital log.
On the street, Co
34
Before earning her promotion to detective chief inspector, Kate Ford spent three years with the Flying Squad, the elite undercover unit of the Metropolitan Police charged with preventing armed robberies. The Flying Squad took its name from the cars originally assigned to the unit in 1918, two Crossley Tenders that had belonged to the Royal Flying Corps. Cockney rhyming slang transformed “Flying Squad” to “Sweeney Todd,” and today everyone on the force simply called it the Sweeney.
It was an exciting time. Nights spent lying in wait for armed criminals, days staking out banks and jewelry shops. High-speed chases. Lots of banging heads and plenty of arrests. There was even the occasional gunplay though Kate had never actually shot anyone herself. But one thing she’d witnessed time and time again was the criminal’s habit when cornered of climbing to the top of whatever house or building he was hiding out in, in the hope of escaping. Some hid in the attic. Others made it all the way to the roof. It didn’t really matter where they went, just that they kept moving up. Motion lent them the momentary and illusory notion that they still had a chance of getting away. Hope died hard.
“That Skye?” said Graves, seated next to her in the twin-engine Hawker business jet. “Never been here. Now I know why.”
“Me neither,” said Kate. “Bit bleak. Don’t you think?”
Graves didn’t respond. He was too busy playing with his cell phone. All during the flight he’d been waiting for an update on Ransom’s whereabouts, striding to the cockpit every ten minutes to inquire if Thames House had radioed in. Now, with the landing strip in sight, he could find out for himself.
As the plane made its final approach, Kate stared out the window at the desolate landscape. The land was flat, scarred, and windswept. Little grew except gorse and heather. Away to the north there was a flat, sandy beach, and beyond that nothing but the sea stretching endlessly toward the horizon.
Isabelle Lauren was just like the others. Instead of cowering beneath the eaves of her home in Hull, she’d fled north, to the roof of her country. The Isle of Skye, off the northwestern coast of Scotland.
Poor Isabelle, thought Kate. Even here there was nowhere to hide.
The plane dropped and the wheels struck the tarmac. As soon as the ladder had been lowered, Graves rushed down the stairs, phone to his ear. Following a step behind, Kate was treated to a string of profanities. “What is it?” she asked, tapping him on the shoulder.
Graves raised a hand, signaling for quiet. “Have you gotten on to the French police?” he asked. “And send a note to Interpol while you’re at it. Have them blast an e-mail to every federal, state, and local police force on the continent. He can’t get far.” He ended the call and turned to Kate. “They found the car Ransom stole from the Meadowses’ place parked in a long-term garage near the Dover ferry. They’re canvassing the dock, but so far no luck. No one matching his description bought a ticket. We’re taking the CCTV films into custody to have a look for ourselves.”
“How many destinations do ferries out of Dover serve?”
“Too many,” said Graves. “Boulogne, Calais, Dunkirk. Boats left to all three before nine this morning.”
“It’s a quick drive from London. If I were Ransom, I wouldn’t want to hang around too long. What’s the first boat of the day?”
“P &O to Calais at six-fifteen,” said Graves. “Next one to Boulogne at seven. Have you ever ridden on one? It’s quite a show. Hundreds of trucks and private vehicles. He could have hitched a ride with any one of them. Who knows where he’s going?”
“I do,” said Kate. “He’s going to find her.”
The drive to the Skye Tavern and I
Isabelle Lauren had not been difficult to find. She was listed in the directory. A call to her home in Hull was answered by her mother, who revealed without the least prodding that her daughter had run off to parts unknown, leaving her infant daughter in her care, a favor she was none too happy to render. Call number two went to the Inland Revenue, which duly provided Isabelle Lauren’s social insurance number. Call three went to the Nationwide Credit Bureau, which replied that Miss Lauren possessed four charge accounts with the larger credit card companies. The fourth call went to American Express, which e-mailed a list of her most recent charges. Most prominent were a second-class British Rail ticket to Inverness, a charge to Hertz auto rental, and a two-hundred-pound hold placed by the Skye Tavern and I
Five calls. Forty-seven minutes.
Kate knocked and stepped away from the door. “Police, Miss Lauren,” she a
A pretty brown-haired woman opened the door. It took a moment to realize that this was the mousy-haired mother after she’d had a shower, exchanged glasses for contact lenses, and put on clean clothing. “I’m Bella Lauren,” she said. “Would you mind showing me some identification?”
Kate proffered her warrant card and a look at her identification. “We’ve come from London.”
“I’m glad it’s you,” said Bella.
“Who were you expecting?” asked Kate.
“Pretty much the opposite. Come in, then.”
Kate and Graves entered the hotel room. It was large and neatly furnished, with windows looking over the ocean. Kate took a place on the couch, with Bella next to her. Graves paced.
“May I ask how you found me so quickly?” Bella asked.
“We were at Robert Russell’s apartment when you made your last call.”
“But Robbie promised me that no one could ever track our messages.”
“He was telling the truth,” said Kate. “Despite our best efforts, we haven’t been able to track where the message came from. His web security was quite elaborate.”
“Then how?”
“Your university signet ring,” explained Kate. “When we studied the transmission, we observed that the ring bore the Oxford crest. We found your photo in the yearbook.”
“And from there? It was my ma, wasn’t it?”
“Your mother was no help,” said Graves. “But next time you decide to run and hide, I’d caution you not to be so free with your credit card.”
“But they’re not allowed to share that data. It’s private.”
Graves gave her a look to suggest that that wasn’t remotely the case.
“Have you come to protect me, then?” she asked. “It wasn’t a suicide, you know.”
“We’re taking the view that Lord Russell’s death was a homicide,” agreed Kate. “But we have no reason to believe that you’re in any danger. Just in case, we’re leaving you with two policemen for the next several days.”
Graves cut in. “If you don’t mind, we’ve traveled quite a long way to ask you some questions.”
“Certainly.” Bella clasped her hands, the picture of cooperation. “How can I help?”
“To begin with, what can you tell us about yesterday’s attack on Igor Ivanov?”
“Who?” Bella looked between them, confused.
“Igor Ivanov,” Graves repeated. “The Russian interior minister who was attacked in London yesterday.”
“Oh, yes. Now I know,” came the a