In the two hours after the ransom delivery, Bianca had been brutally raped, beaten and left for dead on a deserted stretch of road a few hours outside São Paulo, where she was found by a labourer the following morning. Subsequently, two of the gang were caught, tried and given life imprisonment in a Brazilian jail, where sex offenders were not tolerated by the other inmates. They survived less than six months. The third, who the other two had named as Diogo Chaves, was never found and it was assumed he’d fled the country with the money, had plastic surgery and disappeared.
Boxer took the lift up to the eighteenth floor of the São Rafael Tower where the maid was waiting for him. She took him into the stupendous living room, whose glass walls showed the lights of the city spilling out towards the leathery blackness of the Tagus. The glowing causeway of the Vasco da Gama bridge stretched out across the wide river estuary towards the far glittering shore of Montijo in the south. Dias dismissed the maid and the two men embraced. They’d become very close during the kidnap because of their daughters’ similar ages and Boxer’s evident empathy and willingness to stay up drinking late into the night. Dias had been adamant that no blame should be attached to Boxer for what had happened; rather, he seemed to take all that on himself.
The last sixteen months had not been kind to Bruno Dias. His fitness regime had been unable to iron out the care that had piled into his face from the moment Bianca had been taken. He went to the drinks tray and poured a whisky on the rocks for Boxer and a brandy for himself. They stood in front of the glass doors, looking out onto a wooden-decked terrace.
‘How’s Bianca?’ asked Boxer.
‘No improvement. She’s still in a wheelchair, can’t move from the waist down,’ said Dias, shaking his head at his ghostly reflection in the sliding doors. ‘She hasn’t said anything coherent either. I’m told it’s psychological. She could come out of it. She might not. We’re doing everything we can. She’s just had a whole bunch of neurological tests at the UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica. We’re waiting for their findings.’
‘I’m sorry, Bruno,’ said Boxer, resting his hand on the tall Brazilian’s back. ‘There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about her. She’s one of those that never leaves me.’
‘Where’s Amy?’ said Dias, to change the subject. ‘I thought she was coming with you?’
‘’Fraid not. Pressure of exams,’ said Boxer. ‘Apart from that, she’s fine.’
Dias checked him in the dark glass, didn’t believe him.
‘We’re going through a difficult time,’ said Boxer, giving in.
‘Be thankful,’ said Dias, putting an arm around Boxer’s shoulders.
‘I know, I should be.’
Silence. The wind buffeted around the high apartment. Dias withdrew his arm, sipped his drink, breathed in. He was gathering himself as if there was something big inside that he needed to get out.
‘I didn’t tell you,’ he said, ‘and I wasn’t going to mention it because I thought Amy would be with you. I was here on business last September. I went out jogging one morning, down by the river. I’d just gone past the Camões theatre and there were some people sitting outside a café having breakfast. There was a guy on his own, smoking a cigarette and drinking a bica. You know who it was?’
Boxer shook his head, not ready to believe it.
‘Diogo Chaves,’ said Dias, nodding. ‘The only change to his appearance was a moustache and goatee. I tripped, almost dashed my brains out on the cobbles.’
‘You told the police?’
‘I had to be sure,’ said Dias. ‘So I brought one of my security people over from São Paulo, Cristina Santos. She found out everything about the man I’d seen, got to know him. He has a nice apartment overlooking the river above the café where I first saw him, which he owns. He wasn’t working, didn’t need to, and he’d changed his name but, luckily for me, his face not quite enough.’
‘And what are you going to do about it, Bruno?’
‘I’ve seen him again, you know,’ said Dias, turning to Boxer, sidestepping his question. ‘I’ve been as close to that son of a bitch as we are now.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘It’s a relief to find that tainted money stains the new owner’s life with a bitterness they barely understand,’ said Dias. ‘I’m told the least of his problems is that he misses home.’
‘Cristina got that close?’
‘The poor little bastard’s fallen in love; sees her as his saviour.’
‘What about extradition? There must be an agreement between Brazil and Portugal.’
Dias moved away from the window, drank some more of his brandy, helped himself to a cigar from a box on the drinks table and took a seat in a white leather armchair.
‘What do you see when you look at me, Charlie?’
Boxer squinted at him, as if down a gun sight; appraised him. . . kindly.
‘An urbane, successful, handsome man – who’s been profoundly hurt by what’s happened to his daughter.’
‘Not just hurt, Charlie. Ruined. I am not the same man. My wife knows it,’ said Dias. ‘Everybody knows it. And you know what’s ruined me?’
Boxer nodded. After his Gulf tours in the army, he had an understanding of men who’d survived extreme experiences. It wasn’t just their faces that were creased. If he were a believing man, he’d say their souls had shrivelled, too.
‘You thought you were a civilised man,’ said Boxer.
‘It’s been a terrible lesson,’ he said, nodding. ‘To find myself as bitter as Diogo Chaves.’
‘And how did you get yourself into that state?’
‘I blame myself for what happened. I’m tortured by what I might have done in my life that could have made these men do that to my little girl. I’ve asked myself too many unanswerable questions and I’m smaller inside for it,’ said Dias. ‘You didn’t know me before. I was a happy guy, but now . . .’
Dias clenched his fist, gritted his teeth.
‘So, what are you going to do about Diogo Chaves?’
‘You remember one of our conversations back in São Paulo, about retribution?’ said Dias, clipping the end off the cigar.
‘I might do.’
‘You told me that the only shortcoming of your job was that you got the hostage back and then left. You were never involved in any retribution. The victims and families had their closure, but there was none for you. You never saw the criminals punished. Isn’t that right?’
‘Something along those lines,’ said Boxer, remembering their talks long into the night, but not the detail. ‘I probably told you that most victims don’t like to testify. They just want to get on with their lives. But the problem with kidnappers is that once they’ve felt the easiness of that money, they always do it again.’
Dias leaned forward, put his glass down on the table and stared intently into Boxer’s eyes.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘How would you like to make sure that Diogo Chaves never does it again?’
Silence. The poker player in Boxer suppressed the jolt of adrenaline that whitened into his bloodstream. That was something he wanted. Or worse, since leaving GRM and finding this dark hole opening up inside him more frequently, needed. But he’d learnt something about his terrible cravings: never snatch.
‘I think it should be you who goes to the police,’ said Boxer, playing it carefully.
‘I’m not talking about the police,’ said Dias, leaning back, lighting his cigar with a gold Zippo. ‘I’m talking about you . . . taking Chaves out.’
He snapped the Zippo shut, puffed on the cigar.
‘What makes you think I’d be prepared to do that, Bruno?’ he asked calmly.
‘I have a friend, a Russian businessman. You did a job for someone he knows. He told me that you got this guy’s son back unharmed from a gang in Kiev, and then you followed up on some information he received about a Ukrainian member of that same gang who was later found frozen to death in a forest outside Archangel.’
‘He was inappropriately dressed for the conditions he found himself in,’ said Boxer.
‘Look, Charlie, you know what I’m talking about,’ said Dias. ‘I’d do it myself if I could, but I’m not up to it.’
Boxer wondered if Bruno Dias was expecting this to make him feel better. The Brazilian misinterpreted his silence.
‘I don’t expect you to do it for nothing.’
‘I wouldn’t be doing it for nothing,’ said Boxer. ‘I told you, Bianca is on my mind every day.’
‘What about your charitable foundation?’
‘How do you know about that?’ said Boxer.
‘It’s out there in the ether somewhere,’ said Dias, waving his cigar vaguely. ‘The LOST Foundation. You help people find missing persons when the police have given up. Is that worldwide?’
‘Just the UK at the moment,’ said Boxer. ‘I only have two ex-police officers working for me right now. I need more funding to be able to go worldwide.’
‘What sort of contribution would you be looking for?’ asked Dias.
‘I need more trained investigators,’ said Boxer, letting Dias make his assumptions. ‘I also need a proper office.’
‘How about two hundred square metres of office space in a quiet mews off Marylebone High Street?’
‘Unimaginable.’
‘Start imagining,’ said Dias, hunched forward now. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Boxer blinked, swallowed hard. Each time he’d found himself in this situation, he’d tried to analyse what was driving him across the line. He knew it was something to do with his father, what his father had done, but there was always a gap, an abyss over which the logic could never leap.
‘What about access to Diogo Chaves and . . . method?’ said Boxer. ‘I’m not exactly prepared.’
Dias left the room. Boxer turned to see his reflection in the window. As always, he couldn’t quite believe what was happening to him, but was powerless to stop it. He switched his mind into professional mode as Dias returned with a roll of plans, a small box and a briefcase that had weight.
‘These are the plans to Diogo Chaves’ apartment,’ said Dias, enthused by his project, unrolling the plans and then flicking open the box. ‘This is the key to the building and this is the key to his apartment.’
‘Your security woman, Cristina?’
‘She’s very thorough. Chaves is a creature of habit. He goes drinking every Friday and Saturday night in a Brazilian bar called Ipanema, on Rua do Bojador on the river front. He stays until late, three in the morning usually, and he walks back along the river to his apartment. He never gets up before midday at the weekends.’
‘Photo?’
‘This is a recent photo taken in the café underneath his apartment,’ said Dias.
‘Are you expecting me to do this tonight, Bruno?’
‘Now that your daughter’s not with you, I was thinking . . . why not?’ said Dias. ‘Tonight, or tomorrow night?’
‘No weapon.’
Dias opened the briefcase, took out a box, which held a Glock 17 and an AAC Evolution 9mm suppressor.
‘I understand that this is one of the handguns used by the British police’s authorised firearms officers,’ said Dias. ‘You don’t have to use it, but I’m sure it will get Diogo Chaves’ attention if you do.’
‘Let me look at the plans again. I don’t want to take those with me.’
Boxer memorised the layout, pocketed the keys.
‘I’ll do a recce tonight,’ said Boxer. ‘Check him out in the Ipanema, see how he behaves.’
‘I hope I didn’t ruin your weekend.’
‘That’s already ruined.’
They walked to the door, Boxer with the briefcase.
‘Is there anything you want me to bring . . . from Chaves?’ asked Boxer.
‘No, nothing physical,’ said Dias. ‘But you might ask him why he had to ruin my daughter’s life.’
Flat One, 14 Lavender Grove, Dalston, London E8, in the Borough of Hackney, was silent until a key entered the lock, the door opened and a man dressed in black clicked on his headlamp and disabled the alarm. The flat was warm after the chill of sub-zero outside. The man moved quickly to the bedroom at the back.
The light from his headlamp wandered over some photographs on the wall and stopped at an old movie poster. The light travelled from the face, down the lithe body of a handsome Indian man in a white shirt and trousers, teeth to match, charisma blasting from every pore, with eyes staring down the sight of a revolver held out in front of him. His stage name, Anadi Kapoor, was emblazoned beneath.
The intruder moved in closer, focusing the light on a shot alongside of the same man, but taken twenty years later in his early fifties. His hair was still black but the body had thickened and was now encased in an expensive grey suit, open white shirt, gold chain around the neck. Despite gravity’s terrible work, the face was still handsome, the charisma intact and the eyes still had it, which was why, but maybe not the only why, holding onto his arm was a stunning Indian woman three inches taller. She was dressed in an ivory blouse, with the tops of her breasts exposed, a short skirt and high heels that accentuated the length of her slim legs. In front of them were two young children, who stared ahead like two little sphinxes.
This same man appeared in another photo wearing a DJ, but this time accompanied by a white woman with long, dark, wavy hair, rather girlish for her age of around forty. She was wearing a ball gown. In between them was a very beautiful honey-coloured girl in a long black dress and a dazzling necklace. On the frame of this photograph was a small brass plaque engraved with the words, On the occasion of the 21st Birthday of Alyshia D’Cruz. A latex-gloved hand tapped the glass over Alyshia’s abdomen. That was the outfit he wanted.
The beam of light shifted around the room to the fitted wardrobe. He opened the doors, ran his hands over the clothes hanging in desolate flaps, until at one end he found several full length dresses. In a plastic dry cleaner’s sheath was the same black dress from the photograph. He draped it over the bed.
He went through the drawers in the chest by the bed, sorting through the underwear until he found exactly what he wanted. He put the matching strapless black bra and knickers on top of the dress. He returned to the drawers but couldn’t find what he was looking for. He searched under the bed, lifted the mattress, crawled around the room, peering and feeling under the furniture. Nothing. He went back to the fitted wardrobe. Instinct was telling him that, for psychological reasons, she would keep it here rather than in a safe-deposit box.
Underneath the clothes in the wardrobe were ranks of plastic shoe boxes. He went through each one, removing the shoes and feeling around inside the box before replacing them. At the bottom he found a pair of old, scuffed Ugg boots with their tops turned over. He felt inside the left boot and found it. A slim box with the words Asprey London printed in gold on the top. Inside was the diamond necklace from the 21st birthday photograph. He slipped the box into his pocket, replaced the Uggs, chose a pair of black, strappy, high-heeled Prada shoes, which he put with the lingerie, and rolled them up in the plastic sheath around the black dress. He gave the room a final check and left.
A sucking sound in her ears. A sense of being dragged down into a vortex but without spinning and, with a deep intake of breath, Alyshia came awake into the velvet blackness pressed to her face. She picked her head up off the coarse cotton of the pillow and wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth. She breathed back the nausea, brought a hand tentatively to her face and touched the sleeping mask.
A calm yet commanding voice, which had been amplified and distorted, said, ‘Don’t touch. Hand back down by your side.’
She responded immediately. Realised as she rested her wrist on her hip, on the waistband of her knickers, that there was something taped to her arm: a cannula. And she had no tights. She still had her bra on but her Cartier watch was gone and her feet were bare. She remembered vomiting down herself and what had caused it. She shudde
red at the memory of the two purple, bug-eyed faces.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the voice.
‘Sick and disorientated,’ she said. ‘And I need to go to the loo.’
‘Everything has to be earned.’
‘Earned?’
‘Yes, earned. I know it’s not a concept the entitlement generation are familiar with,’ said the voice. ‘Now roll over onto your back, rest your hands on your stomach. Breathe evenly and deeply.’
‘I’d like some clothes. I’m cold,’ she said, but she wasn’t, she just didn’t like to be this vulnerable.
‘You can’t be cold, it’s twenty-five degrees in the room,’ said the voice. ‘Stop whining and do as you’re told.’
‘I’d like a sheet.’
‘Everything has to be earned.’
‘Then tell me how I earn these things.’
‘By answering questions.’
She thought about this. Privilege had given her a natural resistance to control by others. On the other hand, she needed to pee. Adapt. Fight from a position of comfort.
‘OK, this is for the right to go to the loo.’
‘Tell me something that only you or your mother could possibly know.’
The request made her emotional. Despite their recent difficulties, the idea of her mother being drawn into whatever this business was choked her up. She swallowed it down, felt she shouldn’t show her feelings at this early stage. She concentrated on her breathing. Tried to bring some analysis to bear on what the voice wanted from her.
‘Is that difficult?’ asked the voice. ‘We only need it for proof of capture. It will help to keep her calm.’
She hated the calculation in the voice, could feel a belligerence rising in her throat.
A door opened. Feet crossed the floor grittily. She flinched. Her hands were torn from her stomach and cuffed to the metal bar above her head. Someone else cuffed her ankles to the corners. The feet retreated. The door closed. Her exposure and helplessness doubled her vulnerability.