NATIONAL TREASURE by Barry Faulkner (life books to read .TXT) 📗

on keeping the police out of it? I thought Harry Cohen deserved another visit.

‘May I keep this?’ I asked, holding up the envelope and paper.

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll get it tested for fingerprints.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Have you had any more thoughts as to why Janie has disappeared? Anything she did out of the ordinary? Any people she mentioned that she’d seen or was going to see?

‘No, none.’ The tears were beginning fall slowly down her face. ‘I feel so useless, Mr Nevis, so damn useless.’

‘Well don’t feel like that, Mrs Johnson, you’re not in any way useless. I need you here as a sort of base. If your daughter has been kidnapped, then the kidnapper or kidnappers will send their demands to you. That message was left at Janie’s flat for you to find. When they realise that you have no idea what they are talking about, I would think they’ll come back and make it plain. In the meantime, Gold and I will start our enquiries.’ That sounded all very professional and comforting, but my enquiry methods can be far from professional or comforting, as Harry Cohen would find out soon enough.

We stood and made our way to the front door.

‘You’re the first private investigator I’ve met, Mr Nevis.’

‘You’re lucky, Mrs Johnson, the other ones aren’t so good-looking.’

I brought a smile to her face. We took our leave.

       CHAPTER 4

The silence in the Uber that took us to Harry Cohen’s was shattering.

I know the way Gold works and she was sitting in the back, deep in thought and Googling on her iPhone. Any interruption would have been met with total silence and ignored. At Cohen’s we stood outside in Wardour Street; thankfully the rain had stopped.

‘Well?’ I asked. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking that whoever has Janie obviously thinks her mother knows exactly what they want in exchange for her safe return. But I don’t think Marcia does know – her body language was despair, not understanding. She’s no idea what this is all about, and the words ‘ours’ in the note indicates it’s a group who have her. Why wouldn’t they ask for money? If it was a straight kidnap for ransom they would. Whatever it is they want has a bigger value than money, or it’s part of something that needs to be got back. Marcia Johnson doesn’t, as far as we know, associate with people who do kidnaps.’ She stopped and looked me straight in the eye with her eyebrows raised, waiting for my input.

‘But James Randall did.’ I could see where Gold was going with this.

‘Exactly.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Killed by police marksmen six months ago after picking up a consignment of drugs in Epping Forest.’

‘Mmm.’ I nodded.

‘Nothing in any of the news reports that I’ve researched say anything about the drugs being seized by the police. No mention as to how big a shipment Randall was collecting. Nothing about him having an accomplice with him, and if he did was he shot too, or did he get away with the drugs?’

I was catching up to speed on Gold’s thoughts. ‘Randall shifted tons of cocaine – he wouldn’t have had a plane drop a load in Epping Forest if it wasn’t a worthwhile amount, and he definitely wouldn’t go alone.’

‘Quite, so where is it? Is it that load that our kidnappers think Marcia knows the whereabouts of? And what relationship did they have with Randall?’

‘Or maybe Randall hadn’t paid for it and somebody wants their money.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Okay, change of plan. You go back to the office and hassle your newspaper contacts and see if we can’t get more info on the Epping Forest thing. I’m going to have a chat with an old mate of mine at Organised Crime and get the police side of the story. See you back at the office when I’m done. Get a cab, looks like more rain coming.’

Gold hailed a cab as I checked the phone book on my mobile and pressed Dick Clancy’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

‘Clancy.’

‘Is that Clancy of the Yard?’

‘What do you want, Nevis?’ He sounded pissed off at me before I’d even asked a favour.

‘Are you in?’

‘Not if you’re coming over, no.’

‘Ten minutes of your time could rescue a maiden in distress.’

‘If she’s mixed up with you, Nevis, she’s definitely in distress.’

‘Fourth floor West End Central?’

‘Yes, and ten minutes maximum. I’ll put your name at the door.’

Click.

Dick Clancy had worked with me in my time in the London Organised Crime Squad. The office is on the fourth floor of West End Central Police Station in Savile Row. I decided to walk there as the rain hadn’t materialised; didn’t take long from Wardour street and pretty soon I was negotiating the anti-terrorist car bomb concrete bollards shielding the front entrance, to be patted down and told to sign the visitor’s book and show some ID. My driving licence in my wallet did the trick. I took the stairs to the fourth floor – more interesting than the inside of a steel lift; you could be nosy and see inside the open plan offices on each floor, check out the mug shots pinned on the case progress boards, see if mine and Gold’s were there – I’m joking! Didn’t seem to be a lot going on; lots of empty desks, probably all out trying to keep a lid on the muggers and street corner dealers that populate the West End these days. No chance of winning that battle, unless you trebled the number of officers on the streets.

DCS Clancy was sitting at his desk. His door was open and I gave it a knock as I went in.

‘It says knock and wait.’

‘Yeah, but I know how you can’t wait to see me.’

‘Whatever