Kidnapped: BookShots (A Jon Roscoe Thriller) Read online

  Feeling her body judder with cold and fright, he continued to hold her close. When she looked up at him he could see she was fighting back tears while she desperately tried to catch her breath.

  ‘You’re safe now.’ He smiled, and for the first time she smiled shyly back. ‘You never did tell me your name.’

  ‘Cal,’ she whispered. ‘Calpurnia, but everyone calls me Cal.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Cal,’ said Roscoe, starting to walk her back in the direction of the terminal building. Seeing the two police officers approach, he once again raised his arms to show he was no threat. As he did, he noticed his driver taking his bags from the trunk of the car and dumping them on the snow-covered sidewalk.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘We can’t all be superheroes, mister. I’ve got a living to make.’

  ‘Give me one minute and I’ll be right over!’

  ‘We can take it from here, sir,’ said one of the police officers, placing a hand on Cal’s arm.

  ‘I was hoping we might all be able to go inside and talk this through, officer. I’m a retired cop,’ Roscoe continued, having served fifteen years as a member of London’s Metropolitan Police, ‘and I thought I might be able to help get everything straightened out.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, sir. Thank you for your intervention, but we’re able to handle things just fine,’ said the younger of the two officers, who Roscoe thought must be straight out of the academy.

  ‘I only want to get an idea of what’s happened here,’ said Roscoe, reluctant to abandon Cal to the two officers. ‘All I can see is a frightened teenage girl and two cops pursuing her with their weapons drawn.’

  ‘You should return to your cab now, sir,’ said the senior officer. ‘A security protocol was breached and we responded accordingly.’

  ‘Waving your weapons at a girl who is then scared for her life? Is that responding accordingly?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ whispered Cal.

  ‘Sir,’ said the senior officer, stepping towards Roscoe. ‘Homeland Security advisory is of a high risk of a terror attack. Now, please step back and return to your vehicle.’

  Roscoe knew it was pointless arguing with the officer, however much he wanted to.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’ he said, turning to Cal. ‘At least tell me what made you run.’

  ‘Mister, you going to pay this fare?’ shouted Roscoe’s driver. ‘Clock’s still ticking.’

  ‘I got confused in the security check, that’s all,’ said Cal.

  ‘Please step away now, sir,’ said the younger of the two officers, taking hold of Cal’s arm.

  ‘You should do what they say,’ said Cal, looking up at Roscoe. She reached up and touched his forehead. ‘You’re still bleeding.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said, still anxious about her as he wiped the blood away.

  ‘Like now, mister!’ called the driver.

  As Roscoe turned, the officers stepped forward and led Cal away.

  Another horn blared and Roscoe moved from the road. His eyes still fixed on Cal, he watched her look back at him as she stepped inside the terminal.

  The sadness in her eyes was the image he was left with.

  CHAPTER 5

  FROZEN TO HIS core, his cold, wet shirt sticking to his body, Roscoe jogged back to his cab in a desperate attempt to warm himself through. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out sixty bucks and slapped them into the cabbie’s outstretched hand.

  ‘And a Merry Christmas to you,’ said Roscoe, dismissing the driver before he picked up his bags from the sidewalk. As he did so, he looked down the passenger drop-off zone to where a young couple were standing arguing while their child sat in a snow-covered buggy. They were impossible to ignore.

  He could hear the man scream at his wife to get back inside the cab. Throwing open the door, the man placed his hand on the small of the woman’s back and thrust her towards the car. Pushing back on her heels, the woman resisted but, on the slippery sidewalk, it was impossible for her to hold firm. Her feet went from under her and she fell to the ground.

  Wanting only to be drinking a hot cup of coffee in the departure lounge, Roscoe still couldn’t help but walk down the drop-off zone in the direction of the family. As he did the woman scrambled to her feet and shouted at the man Roscoe assumed to be her husband.

  ‘Brayden and I are going to London and I couldn’t care less if you come with us or not,’ she said, grabbing hold of her bags and starting to push her by now screaming child in its buggy. Hearing her speak with an English accent, Roscoe thought he recognised her.

  ‘Get back in the cab!’ yelled the man.

  But Roscoe could see the woman was already making her way towards the terminal building. The man slammed the cab door and started to follow his wife down the snowy walkway.

  When she passed directly by Roscoe, her young son still screaming, he again thought he remembered seeing her somewhere before. Was she a friend of his wife, Marika? He didn’t think so, and this woman couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or -three. He watched as her husband quickly made his way through the snow and snatched the child’s buggy from her hands, leaving her to follow, dragging her family’s luggage behind her.

  Picking up his own bags, Roscoe followed the family inside the terminal. Entering the building, he relished the warmth and pulled open his holdall to find a dry sweater. The cold still coursing through his veins, he ripped off his shirt, rubbed down his hair and wiped away any remaining blood from his face. Appreciative of the one wolf whistle he received from two passing women, he pulled on his favourite sweater and immediately started to feel the benefit.

  Having stuffed his wet shirt inside his bag, he found his passport and looked for his check-in counter. Making his way through the concourse to the American Airlines bag drop, he looked ahead to see Cal standing with the two police officers but now joined by a third man.

  Roscoe stopped suddenly.

  The third man was Matteo Ginevra.

  CHAPTER 6

  STANDING NO MORE than a hundred feet away from him was the man Roscoe had come to Chicago to convict.

  It was the first time the two men had come face to face since Matteo Ginevra had walked away from Roscoe with the dead bodies of two construction workers lying on the newly built riverside terrace, more than two years earlier.

  That afternoon Roscoe had smelt the alcohol on Ginevra’s breath as he’d dismissed the deaths of the two Hispanic construction workers as a cost of business. Ginevra’s only concern had been the bonus payments his father’s company might miss if there was a delay in the handover of the building.

  Locking eyes with him now, Roscoe realised how much he hated the man.

  Refusing to break eye contact, he moved towards Ginevra, ready for the confrontation he believed should have occurred in the Chicago courthouse.

  Matteo Ginevra had changed little in the intervening years. His jet-black hair, matched in colour by his designer clothes, was still slicked back from his mottled face – a face that had seen every aspect of life in its twenty-five years.

  Ginevra stood motionless, Cal and the two police officers by his side. As Roscoe approached, Cal lifted her head from beneath her tightly fitting baseball cap and quietly shook her head, as though pleading with him to stay away.

  Roscoe stopped.

  Matteo Ginevra grinned at him, putting his arm possessively around Cal’s shoulders.

  The hectic buzz of the airport continued around him as Roscoe watched Ginevra lead Cal away, the two police officers following. As Matteo steered her through the security check, Roscoe found himself hoping Cal would again turn her head towards him.

  But this time she didn’t.

  Roscoe thought of the fear that had made Cal run out of the airport and threaten to take her own life. He knew the horror Ginevra was capable of and he was convinced the desperation he had seen in Cal’s eyes was a desperation crea
ted by Ginevra.

  The sound of a loud sob suddenly cut through Roscoe’s thoughts.

  He looked across the terminal to see the man he had watched outside now sitting on a bench, tightly holding his young son in his arms. Before him stood his wife, her thin, pale face turned scarlet as tears streaked down her cheeks.

  Passengers lining up to check their bags stood and stared at the couple, allowing them to provide a distraction from the monotony of waiting in long holiday airport lines. As he walked towards them, Roscoe could see the woman plead with her husband to hand over their son, but him refusing.

  ‘Hello,’ he said to the woman as the man got to his feet and put his son into his buggy. ‘I was thinking that maybe I can help you guys here. I know how stressful travelling at this time of year can be, especially with a little one in tow.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re moving on,’ said the woman, wiping her eyes. ‘Wyatt, please, let’s just go.’

  Her husband looked up at her as he tightened the straps around his son. ‘Surely you never thought I’d let you go without me?’ he said to his wife, ignoring Roscoe.

  Roscoe simply stepped in front of the child’s buggy. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he asked.

  ‘Not us,’ said the man, trying to move around Roscoe’s imposing frame. ‘Emily, we’ve got a plane to catch.’

  ‘Emily?’ said Roscoe. ‘Emily Montgomerie? Your mother lives in the house next door to my wife’s parents, doesn’t she?’

  He watched the relief flood across the woman’s face.

  ‘Of course, you’re Marika’s husband. I’m Emily Lee now. This is my husband, Wyatt. Wyatt, Marika’s parents live next door to my mother in St Barnham. You won’t believe it but that’s where we’re heading; we must go and say hi to them on this trip. We should do that, shouldn’t we, Wyatt?’ she said, looking at him. ‘Great to see you,’ she continued, turning back to Roscoe, ‘it really is. Isn’t it funny how you can run into people anywhere in the world? Here we are such a long way from London and St Barnham and we bump into you! And I’m so sorry, I really am, but you’re going to have to remind me of your name.’

  ‘Jon – Jon Roscoe.’

  ‘Of course, Jon, yes, now I remember. Wyatt, this is Jon,’ Emily said to her husband as he took a step back, seemingly riled by Roscoe’s intervention. ‘Wyatt, I think you met Marika last time we were over, or at the very least we said hello over the garden wall. You remember. Wyatt?’

  ‘How the hell would I remember?’ said Wyatt, gripping hold of the handles on his child’s buggy. ‘That was nearly three years ago. Brayden wasn’t even born.’

  ‘No, you’re right, of course you are, I’m sorry. I was about four months pregnant at the time. How is Marika, though? And your girls must be getting older.’

  ‘Seven, almost eight,’ said Roscoe. ‘They’re all great, the girls are very excited about Christmas. Marika and I are separated but we’re all going to be together for the holidays.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that but, yes, we can’t wait to be back home for the holidays. I can’t anyway,’ she said, looking to her husband. ‘It’s much harder for Wyatt to be away from his family, I can understand that, and he doesn’t really know anyone in London.’

  ‘We aren’t going anywhere if we don’t catch this flight,’ said Wyatt, the vein in his neck visible as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, sorry, Wyatt, you’re right,’ said Emily, collecting up all of the family’s baggage once more. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you in St Barnham? Give my love to Marika and say hi to the girls.’

  She started to move down the airport concourse but Roscoe remained stationary in front of her child’s buggy. Almost imperceptibly he leant towards Wyatt.

  ‘Travelling at Christmas can be very stressful,’ he said quietly. ‘My advice is to take a deep breath, move three steps back and let the calm wash all over you.’

  Wyatt said nothing.

  Roscoe leant further into the man. ‘You hear what I’m saying?’

  Wyatt Lee nodded and Roscoe slowly stepped aside.

  ‘Great to see you,’ called Emily as her husband moved past Roscoe and quickly caught up with her.

  Standing by the bench, Roscoe watched as Emily soon struggled to keep pace, almost running at Wyatt’s side. Wyatt reached down as if to take hold of his wife’s hand.

  Instead he gripped her wrist.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE SOUND OF a hundred-strong gospel choir, dressed head to toe in red and white robes, filled the airport concourse when Roscoe exited the security check and started to make his way towards his departure gate. Stopping for a moment to appreciate the choir’s rendition of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’, he thought of his own family arriving in London from their home in Edinburgh and for the first time he looked forward to the holiday season.

  For Roscoe, Christmas had long since become a time of mixed emotions. Fourteen years earlier his younger sister, Amanda, had been brutally attacked only two days before Christmas. A few days later, he had had to make the unbearable decision to disconnect her life support.

  As a young man of only twenty-two, he had adopted Amanda’s only child, Martin, and ever since had endeavoured to be the best possible father to him. When Roscoe had celebrated the birth of his own twin daughters seven years later, Martin had remained a fundamental and much-loved part of the Roscoe family.

  For all children Christmas is a magical time and the Roscoe children were no exception. He thought of the joy of having all his family together once again for the Christmas holiday, even if for him and Martin it was still a time to remember their saddest days.

  Reaching into his pocket, he took out his last remaining dollar bills and threw them into the red collection bucket held by a small child at the front of the choir. Smiling at the little girl, he stepped away, the festive music still ringing in his ears.

  ‘Very generous of you,’ said Matteo Ginevra, coming up alongside him. ‘Always good to support charitable efforts at this time of year, however meagre your contribution.’ He took a roll of notes from the pocket of his leather jacket, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and dropped it in the bucket. The girl’s eyes opened wide when she saw the money, and Matteo said, ‘Happy holidays from the Ginevra family.’

  Ignoring him, Roscoe walked down the long concourse but Matteo remained in step beside him.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Roscoe.

  ‘To wish you and your family all the best for the holidays,’ replied Matteo. ‘And to say how sorry I am that your trip to Chicago was such a wasted one.’

  ‘There’ll be another trial,’ said Roscoe.

  ‘It’s over – let it go. Jerry Davis has moved to a new luxury condo in Florida – fourteenth floor, looking over a white sandy beach, truly living the high life. He won’t want to come back to windy old Chicago.’

  Roscoe kept walking.

  ‘That makes you the last man standing,’ said Ginevra. ‘Which is never going to be enough to build a case on. You should go home and enjoy some time with that beautiful young family of yours.’

  Roscoe stopped. ‘What do you know about my family?’

  ‘Only that they’re looking forward to a nice quiet Christmas with their papa, just like I am. You can’t beat being with family at Christmas.’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said Roscoe, dropping his voice. ‘I saw you drunk that afternoon. You forced those men onto that girder and then laughed when they clung for their lives.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. If only you’d been there, you’d have heard how hard I tried to stop them.’

  Roscoe squared up to Ginevra.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ginevra, ‘throw a punch – you know you want to. With all these witnesses, perhaps the choir could sing at your trial.’

  Roscoe balled his fist but held it against his chest.

  ‘Lost your nerve?’ said Ginevra. ‘Stay away from me, Roscoe, and keep away from my family.’

  ‘Your family?’ said Roscoe.

  Ginev
ra pointed across the terminal to where Cal was standing, and smiled. ‘On our way to London to enjoy the delights of the Tribeca Luxury Hotel. Spending Christmas with our papa – just my baby sister and me.’

  CHAPTER 8

  HANDING HIS CREDIT card to the assistant in the final airport gift shop before he reached his departure gate, Roscoe had been unable to resist one last purchase. Wandering around the store, while the assistant gift-wrapped two plush Chicago Cubs brown bears, he’d imagined how excited his young daughters would be with only two more nights’ sleep until Christmas.

  He looked forward to the time they would spend together as a family over the holiday, but wished Marika and his daughters were returning to the house in the London area of Brixton where they had lived for the past seven years.

  He thought of the day he and Marika had brought their daughters, Lauren and Aimee, home from the hospital for the very first time. Waiting on the step outside their house had been Martin, along with his grandmother Jessie. As they all went inside the house, Roscoe had closed the big front door behind them and had felt they were safe in a place that would be their home for ever.

  Instead, this Christmas, Marika and his daughters would be staying with her parents in the village of St Barnham. It was only twenty minutes’ drive away from Brixton, but for Roscoe it was a distance so great he wondered if it would ever be breached.

  He had now been separated from Marika for almost a year. Twelve months earlier he had taken his family to stay in Edinburgh for the grand opening of the Tribeca Luxury Hotel. At the time, he had felt his marriage was strained but had failed to realise how far Marika’s life had already separated from his.

  After three weeks in Edinburgh, Marika had announced she planned to remain in the city and that their girls would stay with her. Roscoe had let himself become consumed in his work and in doing so he had let her drift away from him. Now, collecting the gift bag from the assistant, he hoped this Christmas would be the start of bringing his wife and family home.