The Prisoner(69)

My phone slips from my grasp, clatters to the floor. Blood drains from my face. Dizzy, I push through to the kitchen, then out to the garden, gulping fresh air into my lungs. Carl Hunter? What does it mean? Is it just a coincidence: two people with the same name, one a surname, one a Christian name? Or was Hunter the surname of the man I knew as Hunter? If it was, does it mean that Carl and Hunter were related? And if they were, is that what the kidnapping was about, payback not just for Lina’s murder, but also for Hunter’s?

My head feels as if it’s about to explode. I massage my temples, telling myself that it will be alright, I’ll get to the bottom of it, somehow. But how? Each time I think I’ve made a slight step forward, there’s always something to knock me back.

I go to the kitchen, retrieve my phone from the floor, stand for a moment, thinking. When I have a plan, I call the security company again, ready to disguise my voice so that the woman won’t know it’s me calling back. But this time a man picks up.

“Could you put me through to Carl Hunter, please?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, but he no longer works here.”

“Ah. That could explain why he hasn’t picked up his suits from us. He put them in to be dry-cleaned over a month ago. Do you have a phone number for him?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Or an address? They’re good suits, it seems a shame for him not to have them. Maybe I could arrange for them to be couriered to him.”

The man laughs. “You could, but it might turn out to be a bit expensive. He’s gone back to New Zealand.”

My heart leaps—bingo. “Is that where he’s from? I detected an accent when he came in but I couldn’t quite place it.”

“Yes, he’s a Kiwi.”

“What about his brother? Maybe he would have Mr. Hunter’s contact details.”

“His brother? I don’t know anything about Mr. Hunter having a brother.”

“Oh—I was sure he said that his brother worked with him. Or maybe it was a cousin.”

“Not here, that’s for sure.”

“It might have been a few months ago now,” I persist. “I think Mr. Hunter said his brother used his surname as a Christian name, so he would have been known as Hunter. Mr. Hunter said he employed him as a security guard.”

“Really? I suppose I could check our records.”

“Could you? As I said, they’re expensive suits.”

“Give me a moment.” I wait, my mind still spinning at the confirmation that Carl’s surname is Hunter. “No, I can’t see anything, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll take his suits to the charity shop. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

I hang up and stand for a moment, puzzling it out. Why are there no records of Hunter having worked at the security firm when he wore a jacket with their name emblazoned on it?

And how am I ever going to find Carl in New Zealand? I can’t, I realize dully. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I fetch my laptop anyway, google “Carl Hunter New Zealand,” but there are over 12,800,000 results. I try “Carl Hunter security New Zealand” but there are still 8,810,000 results. I type in his name, “New Zealand,” then the name of the security firm, and try images, but I find nothing.

Deflated, I wander into the kitchen, press my nose to the window. If I can’t find Carl, I can’t find Lukas. And if I can’t get to the truth, I’ll never be free.





CHAPTER NINETEEN




I walk into the building where Paul Carr has his offices and head straight to the reception desk.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Carr, please.”

A young man a few years older than me looks up.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Can I suggest you make one?”

“No. I need to see him now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”

“Can you tell him that Amelie Lamont is here to see him, please? I think he’ll want to speak to me.”

He sighs under his breath, picks up the phone, and presses a button.

I move away from the desk, trying to calm myself. I could have—should have—called first. But I was afraid that Paul would suggest speaking over the phone and I want to see him face-to-face so that I can gauge how much he knows. He’s the only person left who can help me.

“Amelie, how lovely to see you.” Paul is standing in front of me. “Would you like to come through?”

I follow him into his office, already apologizing. “I should have called first,” I say.

He smiles. “It’s not a problem.” He indicates two leather armchairs set in front of a low table. “I’ve arranged for Ben to bring coffee. How are you?”

I’m saved from answering by the coffee arriving. Paul serves us both, then sits back in his chair.

“How can I help?” he asks.

“I don’t even know if you can,” I say.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

I realize then, that he can’t know what happened to me, because if he did, he wouldn’t ask such a question. And if he doesn’t know what happened to me, how can he help?