I’d known immediately that gaining entry to the Bishops Avenue house was not going to be a matter of knocking on the door, but I hadn’t anticipated the sheer number of armed officers who were going to be needed to cover the numerous exits from the property. As the third carrier emptied out, I moved aside so I wasn’t in their way. The armed officers weren’t there as back-up: they would be going in first and we would be some of the last people who entered the property. There was every possibility that the inhabitants of the house were armed, and that they might panic when we walked in. The armed officers were experts at avoiding confrontations before they started, and even better at ending them. It tended to be a fairly dramatic and final way of solving the problem, though.
I checked the time: eleven o’clock at night. The operation had been arranged at great speed, driven by my conviction that Bianca Drummond was somewhere inside the house, alive or dead. Some house: the properties on the Bishops Avenue belonged to the wealthiest people in the world. It was a long road that ran between Highgate and Hampstead, a mixture of extremely luxurious apartment buildings and vast houses. The most modest detached house on that road currently cost somewhere in the region of twelve million pounds. The house that belonged to the Chiron Club was a red-brick mansion with a white Palladian porch; it looked more suited to oil magnates in Dallas than the top end of London society. Crucially, it had high security gates and stood some distance from its neighbours on either side, so it was private. Access was difficult for us, and getting out would be impossible if you were a prisoner there.
Fortunately, the house next door was unoccupied. Like several of the other properties on the road, it was a bricks-and-mortar bank account for its super-rich owner, a status symbol rather than somewhere to live. I could see why the road appealed to the Chiron Club. There were hardly any nosy neighbours to avoid if you wanted to carry out any activities you might not want to publicise. On the other hand, it was a gift to us, since we could gather in the garden next door and avoid approaching from the front.
The commander who was running the operation finished her final briefing and sought Una Burt out from the crowd. Una nodded agreement and the teams of armed officers formed up, then jogged swiftly into the darkness. The commander’s voice issued orders over the radio as the teams soundlessly found their way into the grounds of the house and fanned out, surrounding the property. Five exits: front door, side door, garage, French windows from the dining room on to a terrace, basement door. All covered. It wasn’t the sort of visit where you knocked; a shouted warning was followed up with a small explosion as the doors went in simultaneously. I winced and held my radio away from my ear as the air filled with shouting: police, police, you, you, hands, lie on the ground, show me your hands, fucking hands now where I can see them, how many other people are here, is anyone armed, don’t look at me, did I ask you to look at me, don’t fucking look at me …
‘I’ve always said one of the major skills you need to be on an ARV crew is the ability to shout convincingly,’ Derwent said, strolling over to me.
‘They haven’t found her.’
‘Not yet.’ He was frowning and I thought he was doing the same thing as me: imagining them moving through the rooms we’d seen on the floorplan the council had provided. Four floors and it would take time to search it from the basement gym to the final dressing room on the top floor. A lot of rooms, a lot of cupboards. A lot of places to hide.
‘The front gate is open,’ Una Burt informed us, and the small team of detectives hurried from our holding point down the road. A figure in the petrol-blue uniform of the armed response crews held the gate open and closed it behind us. I looked up at the façade of the house, at the lights blazing in every room.
‘Any sign of her?’
‘I don’t know, sorry.’
The front hall was empty apart from a massive chandelier and I stopped to look at the wrought iron and marble staircase that swept down the centre of the house. The sound of boots on bare floors echoed, as if most of the rooms were empty. Voices came from the room to my left: a study, on the plans. I went to investigate and found Carl Hooper sitting in a swivel chair at an expensive golden oak desk that matched the flooring. There was nothing else in the room apart from three armed officers. Hooper’s face was reddened along one cheek, as if he’d hit the ground hard.
‘Mr Hooper. You left without saying goodbye.’
‘What?’ He looked at me blankly, then with sudden and hostile recognition. ‘You’re the copper who was in the club.’
‘Yes, and I thought I told you to stay put.’
‘I like you better when you’ve got your tits out.’
‘Language,’ Derwent said from behind me, coldly, and I held up a hand to let him know I was fine, I didn’t need rescuing.
‘I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to find Bianca Drummond.’
‘Who?’
‘You left the club with her. She hasn’t been seen since. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. What have you done with her?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only just got here.’
‘He drove in about ten minutes ago,’ one gravel-voiced officer said. ‘That’s his Merc outside.’
‘See? I haven’t been here.’ Hooper looked smug, but he was holding on to the arms of his chair with a grip that had turned his fingers into claws.
‘Who else is in the house?’
‘No idea.’
‘Keep him here,’ I said to the gravel-voiced officer, who nodded. I walked rapidly through the ground floor, the rooms from the floorplan leaping to life around me, as bare as they had been in the line drawing. Whatever it had cost the club to buy the house, they’d saved a fortune by not furnishing it. The drawing room led to the dining room, then to a butler’s pantry, plant room, a vast kitchen … four more armed officers stood here, cradling their guns, standing over two men who were sitting at the table. I recognised one from the club but the other one was new to me. Both were the same type as Hooper: muscled, tough, the kind of men who found jobs on both sides of the law because they were physically capable. This pair sat with their heads hanging down.
‘I’m looking for a woman called Bianca Drummond. Five foot five, brown hair, medium build, mid-twenties. Ring any bells?’
They looked at me warily and shook their heads. The one I didn’t recognise looked past me for a second before he returned to staring at the table, and I frowned.
‘No one upstairs.’ The commander came in with Una Burt. ‘No sign of your lady.’
‘She was never here,’ Burt said. ‘It was a good guess, but wrong.’
‘Did someone check the pool house?’ Derwent asked and the commander nodded.
‘We’ve been over every inch of the property.’
‘What about the basement?’ I asked.
‘We’ve checked everything.’
I looked around the kitchen, frustrated. It was a huge room with a wall of windows overlooking the dark garden. Apart from the table and twelve chairs, it was empty. A multi-coloured rug lay crumpled on the floor between the cooker and the island that housed the sink and dishwasher; it was the only rug I’d seen in the whole house. I glanced at the man I hadn’t recognised and saw he was watching me, his expression intent. Was it the rug that had caught his attention before? Was that where he had been looking?
I went over and flipped the rug against the cupboards, revealing that the smooth wood of the floor had a rectangular shape cut into it, with a brass ring inlaid halfway along one side.
‘That’s a door,’ Una Burt observed brilliantly.
‘What’s down here?’ I asked the man.
‘Nothing. A wine cellar. It’s empty.’ He had a French accent. Blue eyes, very short dark hair, muscles, a deep tan. I was willing to bet he did well on Tinder.
‘Let’s have a look,’ the commander said, and nodded to two of her men, who got into position immediately. One hauled the door up while the other covered the widening gap. A staircase disappeared into the darkness. The one who’d opened the door shone his torch down the stairs, sweeping it around. From where I stood I could see empty shelves and racks, as the Frenchman had promised. The man with the torch leaned forward, then made an exclamation before rattling down the stairs at high speed. His colleague followed, only pausing to punch the light switch so the cellar was properly lit. I went after them and got hauled back by Derwent, who had a good grip on my stab vest.
‘Don’t go down there. You don’t know it’s safe yet.’
‘They’ve found something.’
‘We need paramedics,’ the second armed officer called. ‘There’s a woman here matching the description you gave us.’
This time, Derwent let me go. I flew down the steps and swung around behind them where the two officers were crouching over a small figure. One of them peeled tape off her mouth and she cried out.
‘It’s all right. We’re the police,’ the officer said. ‘We’re here to help you.’
Her eyes were screwed up against the light. I leaned forward. ‘Bianca? It’s Maeve Kerrigan. Are you hurt?’
‘I – I don’t think so.’
She looked cold, though, her lips blue. The air in the cellar was fresh enough but the room wasn’t heated and the floor was bare cement. The space was small – there was barely enough room for the three of us to stand while she was sitting down. I looked around for food or water.
‘Have you been here the whole time?’
‘Upstairs.’ She held her hands so the police officer could cut through the tape that was wound around her wrists. ‘They only put me down here a couple of hours ago. I was in a bedroom.’
‘Why did they put you down here?’
‘They said …’ she started to shiver uncontrollably. ‘They said they were going to kill me, like they killed the others. When you came down the stairs, I thought it was time.’
‘Who said this to you?’
‘Hooper. His men. And his boss.’
‘His boss?’
‘The president of the club.’ Her shivering had intensified. ‘Sir Marcus Gley.’
I took a moment to respond, stunned. I’d thought Gley was an odd little man, but this was on another level. ‘Why did they want to kill you?’
‘The security staff saw me talking to a kitchen porter, so they were suspicious of me. Then when Georgia was hurt, they thought I was a police officer too. I told them I was a journalist, like Paige. They were afraid I’d found out what happened to her, I think, but I hadn’t.’ She squinted at me. ‘They were terrifying.’
‘Paramedics are here,’ Derwent said, leaning into the stairwell. ‘You’d better make some room.’
I climbed out of the tiny, chilly cellar with a feeling of indescribable relief, and the paramedics clambered down cheerfully. They were two young women and seemed completely unshockable.
‘You found her.’ Una Burt sounded far less excited than I felt she might have been. ‘Well done.’
‘We’d have found the wine cellar on the plans,’ the commander said. ‘We wouldn’t have missed her.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ I said politely, but they had missed her and they’d been thinking about giving up.
‘Can I have a look at the plans?’ Derwent asked, and the commander handed them over. He spread them out on the kitchen island and stared at them intently.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘A safe. There’s bound to be one in a place like this.’
I looked up at the men who were sitting at the table. ‘What about it, guys? Do either of you want to cooperate with us? We’ve got you for kidnapping and false imprisonment so far, and those are not minor charges.’
‘Fuck off,’ one of them said under his breath. The other, the French one, flicked a glance at his colleague and then made eye contact with me meaningfully.
Not in front of him …
‘Have we got a transport van sorted out?’ I asked.
‘It’s outside now,’ the commander said.
‘Then let’s get these two out of here. Him first.’ I pointed at the uncooperative one and in a very short time he had been lifted out of his chair and dragged down the hallway, swearing all the way.
As soon as he was out of earshot, the Frenchman turned his blue eyes to me. ‘I have not worked here for very long. I don’t know everything or I would tell you.’
I believed him; he had a skin to save, after all.
‘The safe is under the main staircase. I know the code. I can open it for you.’
‘Show me,’ I said.