I See You(109)

Melissa looks at the screen. ‘What?’

Both my hands are free now. I keep them clasped behind my back.

‘That sign’ – I nod towards the upper left-hand corner of the screen – ‘at the top of the escalator. It wasn’t there a minute ago.’ The sign is a plastic yellow folding one, warning of wet surfaces. There’s been a spillage. But when? Not while I was watching.

Melissa shrugs. ‘So someone’s put out a sign.’

‘They didn’t. It just appeared.’ I know the sign wasn’t there when Katie came up the escalator, because it would have been in front of her for a second. As for when it appeared … well, I can’t be certain, but I haven’t taken my eyes off the CCTV image for more than a few seconds since Katie disappeared, and every time I’ve seen a high-vis jacket I’ve kept my eyes trained on the wearer, desperately hoping I’ll see them walk into the room where Katie is.

There is a shadow of concern in Melissa’s eyes. She leans close to the screen. The knife is still in her right hand. Both my hands are now free, and slowly I move one of them; first to the side of the chair, then by tiny degrees down towards my legs. I keep my eyes trained on Melissa. The second she moves, I sit up straight, putting my hands behind my back, but it’s too late; she sees the movement in the corner of her eye.

Beads of sweat form on my brow and sting my eyes.

I don’t know what makes Melissa glance towards the kitchen counter, but I know instantly she’s realised what I’ve done. Her eyes flick to the knife block. Counting the knives; seeing one missing.

‘You’re not playing by the rules,’ she says.

‘Neither are you.’

I lean down and wrap my fist around the handle of the knife, feeling a sharp pain as the blade cuts my ankle on its way out of my boot.

This is it, I think. This is the only chance I’m going to get.





38


The marked car raced along Marylebone Street on blues and twos, narrowly missing an open-top bus that pulled out in front of them as they passed Madame Tussauds. Kelly listened to the response officers in the front discussing that day’s game at Old Trafford over the wail of the siren.

‘How Rooney could have missed that, I don’t know. If I was paying someone three hundred grand a week I’d bloody make sure they could kick straight.’

‘Can’t perform under pressure, that’s the problem.’

The lights changed to red at Euston Square. The driver pressed his horn, switching the sirens to a high-pitched warble, and the cars in front began to peel apart, allowing them through. They turned right into Bloomsbury and Kelly turned up her radio, waiting for the update they were all desperate for. It came as they neared the West End. Kelly closed her eyes and let her head fall briefly against her seat.

It was over. For Katie Walker, at least.

Kelly leaned forward between the two front seats. ‘You may as well slow down now.’

The driver had already heard the update and was switching off the sirens, dropping down to a more appropriate speed, now that there was nothing to gain from making on immediate. No one to save.

When they reached Leicester Square he dropped her off outside the Hippodrome and she ran towards the Underground station, flashing her warrant card to a bored-looking woman standing at the ticket barriers. She had come in via a different entrance than she had intended, and she looked around, trying to get her bearings.

There.

The door to the maintenance cupboard was scuffed at the bottom, where people had pushed it open with their feet, and a poster urging passengers to report any suspicious packages curled up at the corners. A sign told members of the public access was forbidden.

Kelly knocked twice on the door, then went inside. Even though she knew what she’d find inside, her heart was still racing.

The maintenance room was dark and windowless, with a desk and a metal chair on one side, and a pile of signs stacked against the opposite wall. A yellow bucket on wheels stood in one corner, filled with greasy grey water. Beside it, a young girl sat on a plastic crate, cradling a cup of tea. Even without the confident pout evident in the photo on the website, Katie was instantly recognisable. Her mass of highlighted hair fell around the shoulders of her coat; its padded white segments making her look bigger than Kelly knew she was.

White.

18 years old. Long blonde hair, blue eyes.

Blue jeans, grey ankle boots, black V-neck T-shirt with oversized belted grey cardigan. White knee-length puffa coat, also belted. Black handbag with gilt chain.

Size 8–10.





Leaning against a wall behind Katie was a broad-shouldered man with dark hair. He stepped forward and held out his hand to Kelly.

‘John Chandler, covert officer with British Transport Police.’

‘Kelly Swift.’ She crouched down. ‘Hi, Katie, I’m Kelly, one of the detectives involved in this case. Are you okay?’

‘I think so. I’m worried about Mum.’

‘Officers are on their way there now.’ She put out a hand and squeezed Katie’s arm. ‘You did really well.’ DC Chandler’s radio message confirming that Katie was safe had been swiftly followed by confirmation of what Kelly had suspected: Zoe was being held by Melissa West, owner of several cafés in London, including Espress Oh!

‘It was horrible.’ Katie looked up at John. ‘I didn’t know whether to believe you or not. When you whispered in my ear, I wanted to run. I thought, “What if he isn’t an undercover cop at all? What if that’s just his cover story?” But I knew I had to trust you. I was scared Melissa would realise what was going on, and hurt Mum.’