The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

Once she was dry and dressed, she applied some make-up and ordered an Uber. In the taxi, she opened the document in her emails and read carefully, scouring for the details. The DNA had been matched to that discovered on both the bed and the excreta inside the bucket. He’d been held there for sure. He was alive. She could feel it. She read on that Hakim’s stool was hard and lumpy, indicative of constipation, which might be caused by stress. It also confirmed that he was in all probability, dehydrated. A high presence of prealbumin also suggested protein-calorie malnutrition. She was always taken by how quickly this could happen. It took about three days for the human body to shift its metabolism to emergency mode, once depleted of energy-giving glycogen. It meant that Hakim was being starved.

The cab pulled up, and she got out, slamming the door and heading to the entrance, where she’d have to clear security, like she did every morning.

Upstairs, Sylvia’s office was quiet and Helen examined the case file before her, spread out on a board set up for all notices actively being worked at Interpol. There were so many of them it was too depressing if one dwelled upon it. Lately, they’d got wind of a child sex ring, set up in Germany, and fifty-seven children under yellow notices had been found in an apartment block just outside Berlin. It should have been a triumph, but it was a worst nightmare for the children and their parents. Yes, they’d been found, but some of them had been missing for years. What they’d suffered wasn’t something Helen could bring herself to think about. It wasn’t her department. Catching terrorists, assassins and snipers was cleaner, safer and morally more palatable. She wouldn’t work sex cases for all the money in the world. No wonder Sylvia took a keen interest in what she was doing: it was a welcome break.

Helen moved to her desk and tapped her fingers on the table top, deciding whether she needed a coffee. She went to the De’Longhi machine outside her office and watched as it created a wonderful aroma of freshly ground beans. It was a far cry from what the MOD in Whitehall offered.

Her mobile phone buzzed, and she checked her notifications. It was an email from Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport. Helen already knew that Khalil was in the city, though she hadn’t been able to arrange to meet him at the InterContinental due to business clashes. He was remaining suspiciously unavailable. Ricard, who was running surveillance at the Ritz in Paris, hadn’t anything to report back to her. There’d been no irregular conversations picked up from Taziri Dalmani either, who still resided in the hotel suite in Paris. Khalil had extensive trading links in Europe and she appreciated he was busy, but he was supposed to be showing an active interest in looking for his son.

What she read in the email frustrated her further. It was another passenger list, but this time from Lyon to Marseilles, by private jet. But it was Khalil’s travelling companion that made her stop dead. Grant Tennyson was on the flight, which landed in Marseilles last night. Grant wasn’t stupid. He knew she’d have this kind of information to hand. He knew.

Jesus. It had been years since she’d seen him, and now he was jumping back into her life as the spectre sitting behind a major case: one that she had to see through to the end. The coffee tasted bitter now. She threw it away and went back to her desk. Her computer was open on her emails and she went to close the page, not wanting to even look at Grant’s name.

But what overshadowed her anxiety at bumping into an old flame – drowned it out completely, really – was the now indisputable fact that she needed to go to Marseilles. The information from Angelo now made sense. And if that’s where Grant and Khalil had gone, then that’s where she needed to go too.

Chapter 38

Grant left Khalil at his private apartments overlooking the vast old port of Marseilles. He was amazed by the collection of residences, rented and owned, that Khalil used abroad. Everything was prepared: laundry, linen, attending staff and timings. He was always expected and ushered through seamlessly. Grant afforded himself the luxury of a quick shower and change in his own room, two floors below, as well as a couple of hours of sleep.

He wanted Khalil as far away as possible from the unloading ship once it docked and cleared customs. He argued that the goods coming into the country would be met with somebody representing Fawaz, who was already responsible for taking his son. What was to stop him taking Khalil too?

‘He wouldn’t dare – he has too much to lose. If he takes me or harms me, he makes himself a target and makes it obvious who’s responsible,’ Khalil argued.

‘You’ve got a point, but I don’t trust a man who captures somebody’s child to get what they want,’ Grant argued.

Finally Khalil backed down and Grant had made his way to the port alone, carrying two illegal firearms. Technically, the bodyguard of a high-profile VIP could carry a weapon in France, but only when in active service for that end. Grant wasn’t protecting anyone tonight, only himself. He carried a Glock 9mm pistol and a Heckler & Koch MP5, a nice compact semi-automatic that could be hidden inside his jacket. Both weapons were perfect for confined spaces, should he find himself in a pickle.

He’d organised another vehicle for himself that was anonymous, unregistered and common. Grant left the luxurious waterfront apartment where Khalil would base himself for a few days and attend countless business meetings, trying to take his mind off why they were really there. He took the lift down to the underground private garage in the basement and found a Fiat 500 waiting for him. He drove to the port and headed