holidays. His daughter Julia starts uni next year. Hard to believe.”
Jack closed his eyes as Giselle’s lips made their warm, persuasive way across his stomach.
“What does he do for a living?” she asked, and lifted inquisitive blue eyes to his. “Is he an arms dealer, too?”
Jack let out a short, mirthless laugh. “God, no. He’s an investments manager. He doesn’t like what I do for a living. Not that I sell weapons, but that I sell to both sides. It makes no difference to me. Selling arms is a business exchange. What happens afterwards is out of my control.”
“So,” Giselle murmured as her head and mouth moved lower, “you’re the black sheep of the family.”
He wanted to say no, he wasn’t; that moniker belonged to another, not him. But as the Brazilian’s lips moved lower, Jack found himself unable to utter another word.
So it was with a mixture of irritation and misgivings that he woke to the buzz of a text message an hour later.
As Giselle slept, Jack retrieved his phone and glanced down at the five lines of text on his mobile screen.
Julia’s missing. She went to Bethnal Green with Adesh Patel, her new boyfriend, and they’ve both vanished. Valery’s convinced she’s run away. I’m afraid her disappearance may be gang related.
Need your help urgently, Jack. Please.
Jack frowned and sat up. Shit, Oliver’s message was dated Sunday night… it was already early Monday morning in Colombia. Bloody lousy phone service. He immediately sent his brother a text.
Just got your message. In Bogotá at the moment. Be there as soon as I possibly can. Hold tight.
He punched in the number to call Oliver, determined to get further details about his missing niece Julia… and equally determined to find out exactly what was going on back there in Maida Vale.
At some point, despite her terror, Jools dozed off. She woke with a start, her muscles cramped and stiff, and found herself shivering with cold. The scarf was still knotted tightly around her eyes, the engine rumbled, but the van was slowing down.
After a few minutes the van stopped, and the door slid open. It sounded as if their assailants had jumped out. They spoke in Turkish in low voices just outside; then the voices faded, and all grew quiet. Jools smelled petrol.
“Desh?” she whispered, her throat thick with fear. “Desh, are you there?”
“Yeah.” His voice, low and hurried, came from somewhere to her right. “They’ve stopped for fuel, I think.”
“Can you see anything?”
“Not much. If I tilt my head back, I can see a bit.” He paused. “They went inside the motorway station. Come on, we haven’t much time. We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
“But I can’t see! And my wrists are tied together.”
“I’ve just got my hands loose, I’ll help you. Hang on.” She felt Desh’s hand grip her arm and pull her roughly to her feet.
“I’m scared,” she babbled, “really scared—”
“Shh. We’ve got to get away. This may be our only chance.”
So saying, he slid out the door and pulled Jools down after him. He yanked her scarf down and guided her, stumbling and petrified, around the van and across the shadowy Tarmac. She thought she heard a shout somewhere behind them in Turkish.
Jools didn’t know what they would’ve done if not for the lorry driver. He saw them slide out of the van as he stood at the petrol pump, saw her bound wrists and the scarf Adesh pulled away from her eyes, and he knew something was very wrong.
“Get in,” he hissed, and indicated the jump seat behind the cab. “Hurry, before they cotton on.”
They ducked inside the lorry’s cab, keeping their heads down, and crouched on the floor behind the driver’s seat. They waited, it seemed like forever, as the driver hung up the pump and retrieved his credit card, but it was only a minute or two.
The driver cleared his windscreen with a squeegee, whistling tunelessly as he did. Jools knew he didn’t want to attract attention from their Turkish friends by jumping into the lorry and taking off; but still, she wanted to scream, terrified that they’d be found and dragged back into the van.
“Now, then,” the driver said cheerily as he climbed in and started the engine a few minutes later, “it’s off we go.”
“What are they doing?” Adesh asked him in a low voice.
“They’re searching the car park. A couple of ’em are running out to the road. Stay low, mind,” the driver warned them grimly. “I’ll have us out of here in two ticks.”
True to his word, he drove the lorry right past their assailants, who Jools heard conferring excitedly in Turkish, and turned onto the road.
“Are they following us?” she asked anxiously.
The driver glanced back in his rear-view mirror. “No. They never saw you lot get in, so I think you’re free and clear. I’ll keep my eyes peeled, just the same.” He eyed Adesh curiously in the mirror.
“Care to tell me what’s going on, mate?”
Adesh let out a short breath. “We went to my auntie’s house in Bethnal Green, and these two men came up out of nowhere and grabbed us.”
“Well, that’s a bit odd, innit? I mean, they didn’t try to rob you first, or sommat like that?”
“No. They just grabbed us and threw us in the van.”
“It was awful,” Jools added, and started once again to shiver. “They nearly dislocated my shoulder.” It still hurt. “And they were speaking Turkish.”
The driver’s eyes narrowed. “Turkish? You’re not a pair of drug mules, are you? I don’t want nowt to do with no heroin trafficking—”
“No, of course we’re not drug mules!” she snapped. “Do we look like bloody drug mules?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve got school tomorrow, and Mum doesn’t even know I’m gone, and Dad’ll be frantic.” She began, to her eternal shame, to cry.
The driver – John, he told them – extracted a couple of crumpled tissues from his pocket and thrust them back at Jools. “Don’t take on so, lass. I’ll get you home, soon as we get to the next motorway station.”
“Where are we, anyway?” Adesh asked curiously. “I figure we were in that van for three or four hours.”
“Yorkshire,” John answered. “Rotherham, to be exact.” He pulled into a well-lit roadway station, parked, and reached for his wallet. “How’re you two fixed for money?”
“I
