Graham Hurley [Graham Hurley] - Sight Unseen

The Faraday and Winter series

TURNSTONE

THE TAKE

ANGELS PASSING

DEADLIGHT

CUT TO BLACK

BLOOD AND HONEY

ONE UNDER

THE PRICE OF DARKNESS

NO LOVELIER DEATH

BEYOND REACH

BORROWED LIGHT

HAPPY DAYS

BACKSTORY

The Jimmy Suttle series

WESTERN APPROACHES

TOUCHING DISTANCE

SINS OF THE FATHER

THE ORDER OF THINGS

The Wars Within series

FINISTERRE

AURORE

ESTOCADA

The Enora Andressen series

CURTAIN CALL *

SIGHT UNSEEN *

* available from Severn House

I ts a hot Friday morning in mid-summer, and Im in a script conference when my mobile goes off. The opening bars of Simply the Best, a download present from H last Christmas.

I glance at the number. We happen to have arrived at an awkward impasse and Im glad of the interruption. The fact that the call has come from Malo widens my smile. We havent talked for nearly a week.

Mum? That you?

Somethings badly wrong. Panic is a word Ive never associated with my son.

Whats the matter?

Its Clem.

Clem is family-speak for Clemenza, Malos girlfriend.

Shes OK?

No.

Whats happened?

Shes been kidnapped.

Kidnapped?

Ive just spent two and a half hours with a scriptwriter, a very good friend of mine called Pavel, trying to tease dramatic sense into various fictional possibilities which may, one day, make a great movie. Kidnap sounds as fanciful as some of the wilder ideas weve been kicking around. Just how do you make room for something like this in the real world?

When? I manage. How?

Malo is struggling. I play mum, telling him to take a deep breath, telling him that nothing is ever as bad as it first seems. The facts, please. In broadly the right order.

When did you last see her?

Last night. I was staying at her place.

And?

It was great. Like it always is.

Thats not what Im asking. What happened next?

We got up as usual. Clem went to work.

Clem is a top-end moto courier and chauffeuse. She rides a scarlet Harley-Davidson with bass notes to kill for and is the ride of choice for a number of faces youll recognize from movie posters in any Tube station. She also happens to be the daughter of a very wealthy Colombian business tycoon, a family connection that just now is beginning to trouble me. I ask Malo whether theyd been in touch at all since shed left for work.

Twice. We were supposed to get together again this afternoon. Womad. Her dad gave us tickets. We were going down there on the Harley.

Womad is a yearly celebration of global music, art and dance. I know Clem makes the pilgrimage to deepest Wiltshire every summer because shes told me so. Since his return from Sweden last year, Malo has also become a disciple, partly because he knows that Clem who gigs at various London pubs is desperate to break into the festival circuit, but mainly because he worships her.

You said kidnapped.

Yeah.

How do you know?

I got a message with a photo. A couple of hours ago.

From?

Ive no idea. The phones probably a burner. Untraceable.

Youve been to the police?

No.

Why not?

Because they said theyd kill her if I did.

And what else did this message say?

It said theyve got Clem. I can have her back for a million. They want it in US dollars. Ive got until Monday to find the money.

Otherwise?

Theres a silence at the other end. Monday is just three days away. Pavel has his laptop on his knees, his eyes closed, his long fingers gliding over the keyboard. His face is deeply tanned, with signs of UV damage below his hairline. When Malo returns to the phone, I can tell my son is close to tears.

It was the photo, he mutters. Thats all Ive got to go on.

And?

Shit. You dont want to know. Oh, Jesus Christ. Why her, of all people? Why us?

Pavel looks up the moment Malo brings the conversation to an end. He wants to discuss a scene we have in mind involving our movies love interest. I tell him its not possible. Pavel is blind, just one of the reasons hes always attuned to the imminence of disaster. His guide dog, a Labrador, dozes at his feet.

So whats happened?

I explain as best I can. Clem. Kidnappers. A photo.

Have you seen it? This photo?

No.

So whats so horrible about it?

Pavel is normally world class at cutting to the chase, but this question sets the bar very high indeed. As the happy recipient of a number of gangster scripts in my time, I can think of countless images that might qualify. Men in balaclavas. Large dogs, always male. A suggestive blade or two. But Malo is close to my heart and I know that all it would take would be the knowledge that Clem was at the mercy of a bunch of strangers. Her face upturned to the camera. Fear in those huge brown eyes. So simple. And so effective.

I have to phone H, I say. Hell know what to do.

Pavel isnt sure this is a good idea. Unlike the rest of us, hes never set eyes on Malos father, but theyve been together on a handful of occasions and Ive become aware that blindness sharpens every other instinct. Pavels take on strangers is near faultless. Tiny speech inflections. Body language transmitted through a raspy cough or a shuffle of feet or the impatient clink of coins in a trouser pocket. Even certain brands of aftershave. Minutes after hed first met H, when we were back in the safety of my battered Peugeot, hed delivered his verdict.

Your friend needs to own you, hed said. Pavel uses language with the precision of a poet. Needs, not wants. A very shrewd distinction.

My friend answers on the third ring. Ive ignored Pavels advice not to make contact until weve settled the debate about going to the police. H, it turns out, has just stepped into Terminal 2 at Heathrow. Malos news has taken the wind out of me. I dimly remember talk of a business meeting on movie finance with a venture capitalist in Lyon a couple of weeks back. This is a guy with serious money who happens to have taken a shine to a film of mine that did well on the French arthouse circuit. Lunch on a restaurant terrace overlooking the Rhne. A couple of bottles of Krug and a taxi waiting for the return trip to the airport once a handshake deal is in place. Very H.

At first he assumes Im phoning to wish him luck.

Piece of piss, he assures me. You around tonight? We need to get the dosh nailed down. The usual place, yeah? Half seven. They dont take dogs, so its just the two of us. Tell your writer bloke well brief him in the morning. Malo OK?

The writer bloke is Pavel. On the phone to H, I break the news about Clem. For once in the often awkward pas de deux that makes do as our relationship, Malos father is lost for words.

Say that again, he manages at last.

I can picture him riding the escalator up to the Departures floor, a small, squat figure with greying curly hair and a hint of a belly beneath the Italian lambskin leather jacket. Since I first stumbled into Hs life, largely by accident, hes always struck me as someone for whom life holds few surprises. Until now.

Once again, I spell out what little I know. Malo isnt the kind of boy to make this stuff up.

He was around when all this happened? Malo?

I dont think so. He said they sent him a message.

They? Whos fucking they?

Hes no idea.

So how do we know theyre not dicking him around?

There was a photo of Clem, too. Small girl. Petite. Very pretty.

My attempt at irony is lost on H. Hes met her a number of times and already regards her as part of our putative family.

Any proof they hadnt lifted the photo? Was she holding up todays paper, maybe? Todays headline? What you see isnt always what you get. Not these days.