CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  

Tam’s eyes were starting to hood, but he squeezed his black nail so the pain kept him awake. The men had been downstairs for a good ten minutes, but he knew the longer he left it to try the factory door again the more likely it was they’d come back while he was in plain sight.

He strained his ears for signs of them on the steps and when he was sure he had at least the time it would take the men to climb them, emerged from his hiding place under the lorry and scurried over to the gantry.

He gripped its edge, using his arms to pull his body up and over the metal lip. Tam listened where he crouched, but hearing nothing padded as quietly as he could to the door leading to the slaughterhouse. He pushed on it, but it had been locked again after the other man arrived.

He tiptoed the other way to the security cabin, but there was no telephone, only a switched off TV on a desk. Beyond it was a row of empty lockers and a dirty, wall-mounted mirror. Catching his own reflection almost frightened a shriek out of him, but he quickly bit down on it. He hesitated only to examine the large black oil stain over his orange tee shirt and his own rigid expression of fear. He opted to go back to the lorry to wait until they returned. Maybe then he could try to slip down to the chicken house and try his luck there.

As he dangled his feet back over the bay he could hear the men’s voices arguing again. Only this time they were yelling louder than before. He coiled his legs back up and edged to the steps. Birds screeched as something landed with a thud and Tam could discern them both grunting. Sounded like a fight. Tam cracked open the door and the sound became distinct and ugly.

He slipped through it and told himself he would only listen at the top of the steps.

 

Will had given Carla the number for his disposable phone, but had told her he’d call back as soon as he’d found shelter from the rain. Again her tired brain fumbled their conversation. Will’s actions in the apartment had been impetuous. Was he right? Did they need to assert some control, however marginal? Was this the leverage they needed? It was impossible to decide between risking Libby’s life and trying to instigate something that might protect it.

Like Pope, it was another complication that was academic. She watched the red dot approach O’Hare and felt a pang of revulsion as she considered the person moving thousands of miles from the office she was in. If the woman didn’t find the phone in her purse they could now monitor exactly where she was heading. She also wouldn’t be able to disappear after whatever endgame she’d planned for them.

But what advantage would it give them during the critical events leading up to it? Carla could call the police now and have her apprehended, but it wouldn’t guarantee Libby and Luke’s safety in Thailand. It would probably mean the reverse. Their survival was dependent on Will obtaining what he had to from the houses. Would tracking this woman to the locations he would inevitably visit afterwards make any difference?

She tried to imagine how Will had felt when he’d found her image on the wall of the victim’s apartment. Did it signify she was in real danger? She suspected Will had been right about one thing: kidnapping the daughter of a local protest group organiser was way too extreme even for Motex.

She called the Ingram security guard and told him an email bomb threat had been received in the Remada ops room from a Tunisian extremist group. She requested he discreetly draft in as many staff as he needed to ensure the reception patrol was on elevated alert, but to report only to her. Then she thought about calling Pope. She couldn’t deny she’d actually been glad of his presence minutes before and considered that, perhaps, she might even need him again. She knew he would only try to extract information about Will’s whereabouts if she called now though. Carla decided to leave him to his own devices. He was sure to be in touch.

Relaying the news about the child’s deliverance to Will had given her a significant sense of release. It was exactly what he needed to hear; the sort of words she wished she could have whispered to him the day they’d stood in the hospital chapel and seen their tiny coffin arrive.

Her counsellor and the hospital chaplain had encouraged them both to attend a special service for the babies that had been miscarried at St Andrew’s that week. It was an opportunity to connect to some of the other bereaved parents, but Carla had been too weak to attend. They’d opted for the private ceremony a week later and Libby had laid a single white lily on the lid. It had been vital to Carla. She’d said goodbye even though she knew the loss hadn’t begun to sink in. As the coffin had been taken for cremation the ritual had at least allowed her to feel that Jessie’s existence had been acknowledged.

Will hadn’t cried as she and Libby had. He’d barely recovered from the ordeal, was still numbed by how close he’d been to losing a wife as well as a daughter. He’d gently escorted them to and from the service and busied himself with the coordination of the day. She still caught him with the same removed expression, knew he still thought about how their lives could have been if Jessie had made it.

It was the reason she put away the photo the nurse had taken. They would never forget Jessie, but Carla knew they couldn’t allow her absence to overshadow the future. Libby’s new baby seemed to be recompense for what the three of them had suffered, but Will remained desensitised to her impending motherhood.

His grown daughter and her new child should have been his focus. She knew he worried, irrationally, about a repetition of events as she did. Carla was sure he would resent their grandchild if he wouldn’t submit to what had happened. He refused to talk about it, rejected the idea of professional therapy and Carla felt helpless to remove the spectre of a life unrealised.

In the early days she’d been consumed by guilt she’d concealed from Will. He’d been hurting enough and it was months before she found the courage to betray herself. She feared she’d been responsible for the miscarriage. She’d known the risk of having a baby later in life, knew half of all pregnancies after forty-two ended in miscarriage. She’d gone ahead regardless, believing that fate couldn’t possibly remove what they seemed so entitled to.

Will had immediately dismissed her fears and, when he’d realised the private torture she’d been subjecting herself to, had at least partly emerged from his abstraction. He spent the following months presenting her with evidence to the contrary. However many times she analysed it though it appeared that randomness had once more left her in its wreckage.

She’d fought the darkness again and busying herself with preparations for Libby’s child had slowly repelled it. The pain and guilt were still there, but she’d allowed the tide of the present to wash around what had happened. Will still hadn’t. Even though the funeral had been nearly a year ago and she’d gradually removed every reminder of her. He still couldn’t put to rest a daughter he’d never known.

As she waited she prayed for Libby, Luke and their child’s sake that it would be the hardest thing she and Will would ever have to do.

The telephone rang and she quickly picked up.

“So you are still there?” Anwar sounded as if he was disappointed to have an unpleasant rumour confirmed.

Carla’s heart sank. Then she remembered she’d called Anwar after Will had asked her to pump him for more background info. Anwar had poutingly said he couldn’t sacrifice more of his time if they were both going to keep him in the dark. She looked at the taskbar and it was just after midnight. She was too exhausted to give an excuse, even if she could think of one. “Is this important? I’m waiting for a call.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s really going on there, Carla?”

“Anwar…” She used his name as a caution.

“OK,” he acquiesced. “Give me one minute; I’ve been doing some digging on Amberson and Strick. No Asian connection.”

She’d almost put the handset back. “But you’ve found something?”

“It’s tenuous.”

“What is it?”

“First, you tell me where Will is and why you’re in his office at this hour.”

“Will’s at home, I’m working late,” she said, as if she had said it a thousand times already.

“How long did we say we’ve known each other?” It was Anwar’s way of calling her a liar. He’d undoubtedly tried to contact Will at Easton Grey.

“I know you probably believe there’s some vital insider loop we’re excluding you from, but there really isn’t. Believe me.” She emphasised the last two words.

Anwar was silent for a moment. “The Business and Human Rights Summit.”

“What about it?”

“It’s been running in Toronto for eight years now. Ingram always send a delegation.”

“Amberson and Strick were there?”

“Only Amberson was an official delegate this year. Strick attended the year before because of his volte-face about bio-energy. The summit was a good place for him to be seen before he was re-elected.”

“You know this for sure?”

“I’ve just sent you a link to an online article about it by Strick. Amberson was on the panel for bilateral investment treaties.”

“It’s a start…” She blinked as she tried to gauge its relevance. “Although it is pretty tenuous…”

“Have you heard the news about Strick’s ex-private secretary?”

“Yes,” she replied without elaboration.

Anwar picked up on that, pausing before continuing. “I’ll see what else there is available, but I might have to pay for the information.” But his petulance had vanished and there was sudden purpose in his voice.

“Invoice us. Thanks, Anwar.” Carla rang off.

The Business and Human Rights Summit. If Strick had attended the previous year, it was very probable Monro would have been present as his secretary. It was a major international event though; not surprising that big business and politicians rubbed shoulders there. Was it related in any way? It was all they had.

She stretched open her eyes and sat up straight in her chair. Refine the search. She opened the article that Anwar had emailed and pinpointed the keywords within it. Her fingers pecked them in and she told herself that each time she clicked through to another page, she was inching closer to Libby.

 

Molly Monro in safe custody. Will clasped the news tightly to himself. He’d returned to the park gates he’d entered by, knowing it would be necessary to hail a cab back to O’Hare. Just as he reached them the rain suddenly became torrential and he took cover under a hickory tree. He watched the remaining players in a baseball diamond gather up their gear as the dusty play area turned a deep brown. A cannonade of thunder made him wonder if he should find alternative shelter. Everyone else hovered where they were, as if expecting it to pass. The fresh scent of wet mud and grass was potent.

Molly was his new talisman. Somebody’s daughter had survived. He wondered if it had been deliberate. No, the families of the first two houses had been shown no mercy. She’d killed them all and would have butchered the Monro child as well.

Until he’d planted the phone Will had felt powerless. Clawing them one minor advantage made him feel it was possible to alter the course of events. The girl’s escape meant the itinerary was prone to circumstance. The outcome wasn’t as predetermined as the website suggested. She’d made a mistake. Surely the child could identify her, if she’d seen her. The notion emboldened him.

The face of the man with shoulder length white hair whom he’d met in the Chicago apartment still bothered him. He was sure he’d seen him somewhere before. What had he been doing there? Was he a visitor or a neighbour keeping an eye on the place for Jake? His mobile rang.

“Anwar thinks he’s found the beginnings of a connection. The Business and Human Rights Summit, both Amberson, Strick and, I assume, Monro have attended in the past.”

Will waited for more, but felt anticipation deflate. “That’s hardly surprising. The summit would be an inevitable destination for men like Amberson and Strick.”

“And Ingram.”

“OK…” It was the first association, but it seemed pretty flimsy. “Plus several thousand other delegates. Are you saying they were there together last year?”

“Amberson was. Strick the year before.”

Will tried to energise himself, but it sounded like a long shot. “Anything else?”

Carla sounded exasperated. “That’s all so far.”

“Too early for the news to have caught up with what happened here, but the police are already involved. Maybe once they identify the man in the apartment we might have a little more to work with.”

Nineteen years as man and wife, 

And still so many years ahead, 

Will mentally swatted at the echo of the rhyme. “You’ve heightened security there?”

“I’ve been assured we’re airtight. Don’t worry, it’s probably unnecessary.”

Will felt a little better. “So there’s nothing in Ingram US contracts to tie us to either man?”

“We officially haven’t had dealings with any of Amberson’s UG Group subsidiaries. Jesus…” Her voice was suddenly muffled, as if she’d turned away from the phone.

“What is it?” Will felt the thistle of pain in his stomach.

Her voice was crystal clear again. “You’ve got your next instructions.”

Will traced his cursor over the house. It glowed red and the box appeared.

 

Serangoon,  

Singapore TRY TO SLEEP IT’S AN 18 HOUR FLIGHT