The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(75)

Outside her office, her team was working hard in preparation for the kidnapper’s next call. She would thank them for the chocolates, and forge ahead. The hunt for the courier was gaining ground. The motorbike plates may have been fake but, thanks to cross-checking the capital’s CCTV, they had narrowed his location down to a residential street in Whitechapel. They were closing in, their endless inquiries finally reaping rewards. But would they be quick enough to save Toby and Ellen?

Now out of her coma, Nicole was in intensive care. Soon she would be well enough to see her daughter, and Amy longed for the reunion to take place. Her team were working exhausting hours to make it happen, but Luka kept evading them at every turn.

The radio channel hosted a popular London talk show. They were not short of callers, despite broadcasting in the wee hours before dawn. Amy supposed that if your child went missing, sleep would be the last thing on your mind. As well as fretful parents, there were the insomniacs, night-shift workers and other nocturnal listeners to boost the show’s ratings. Which category did Luka fit into?

The female presenter sounded bright for someone working in the middle of the night. Kate Mead was young, cheery and had a velvety-smooth voice that was easy on the ear.

‘We have Luka on the line. Welcome, Luka, you’re through to London Talk2Talk FM. I believe you have personal experience of a missing child.’

‘Hello, Kate, thanks for discussing such an important subject. It’s very close to my heart.’

Amy met Paddy’s gaze as the conversation flowed. To an outsider listening in, Luka sounded like an average man. His voice was relaxed, free of the mocking tone Amy had come to know. His Russian accent still lingered but his words were easy to distinguish. ‘I’m sure our listeners would appreciate hearing about your experiences,’ Kate urged. ‘You have a missing boy, Toby. Is that right?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s six years old and in a wheelchair. It’s been so upsetting . . .’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What have the police said?’

‘Well, that’s the problem. They’re not doing anything. You hear of these high-profile cases that hit the headlines, but not Toby. They’ve got no leads, and there’s been barely any news coverage of his disappearance.’ Luka sighed, his voice forlorn.

‘Can I ask where he went missing?’

‘From school. He got a taxi but he never made it home.’

‘That’s shocking. Have the police made inquiries with the taxi firm?’

‘Yes. They found the taxi abandoned and the driver tied up in the boot. But it wasn’t reported in the news. Is it because I’m Russian? It’s so frustrating. I’ve been driven to such desperate measures. It’s why I’ve come to you.’

‘You must insist they organise a re-enactment. I’m . . .’ A pause. ‘I’m looking at Twitter, and some of our listeners have already started tweeting with the hashtag #TobysArmy. Perhaps you can join in and get a campaign going. See if we can bring some press attention to your son’s disappearance.’

A long pause ensued. ‘You misunderstand me. Toby’s not my son.’ His words were delivered in a deadened tone.

‘Oh, forgive me, I presumed he was. I take it you’re a family member?’

‘No. I’m Toby’s kidnapper. He’s right here with me.’

‘I’m sorry . . . what did you say?’

There it is, Amy thought: the realisation she’s talking to a dangerous man. The penny has finally dropped. Closing her eyes, Amy absorbed the tone and inflection of Luka’s words. Please don’t balls this up. She sent the silent thought to the presenter, even though it was far too late.

‘My name is Luka. Luka Ivanovich Volkov. I have Toby Coughlan. I just want my story to be told.’

A pause for breath. ‘Can you call the police, let us know where you are?’

‘I want to. Toby’s frail . . . unwell. But the police will arrest me the minute I try to bring him back.’

‘How can we help? How can we get little Toby home?’

‘Share my story,’ Luka responded. ‘It’s why I took him in the first place. I want people to know the truth.’

‘The truth about what?’

Amy caught a hint of reluctance in Kate Mead’s voice. She could imagine a radio producer signalling at her to keep Luka talking, when in reality she was probably desperate to get him off the line.

‘The famous Dr Curtis,’ Luka said. ‘He experimented on children in the eighties and it was all covered up. He should be arrested for what he did.’

‘I . . . I’m afraid I can’t really discuss Dr Curtis live on air,’ Kate stuttered, sounding way out of her depth. ‘You need to tell the police where Toby is.’

‘I’ve already called, but they won’t listen. The police officer handling my case is Amy Winter – that’s right, Lillian Grimes’s daughter, the serial killer. Why would someone like that care about one little boy?’

‘We care,’ Kate replied. ‘Please, Luka. Drop Toby off somewhere public. In a safe place where he can be found.’

‘The police won’t listen. The papers won’t listen. And now neither will you. I’ll tell them where he is. But I can’t guarantee he’ll be safe.’ A rasping breath crossed the line. ‘You . . . all of you are to blame. If he dies . . . it’s down to you.’