And Mairéad – thirty-eight years old, no child of her own – understands exactly. In an instant, Elissa Mirzoyan becomes something entirely different to what she was.
Again, that inhuman sound of suffering tears loose from Lena’s chest. ‘I know you’ll try. All of you – I know you will. But you’ve got to succeed. You’ve got to bring her back. Promise me you will. Promise.’
The woman’s expression is one of such desperation, such porcelain-fragile hope, that the room feels barren of air. Mairéad glances at the two officers by the desk.
No one can speak.
IV
Ten minutes later, police track down Lena’s ex. He’s at his office, in Birmingham, which rules him out as a suspect.
The news is a gut-punch. Increasingly, it looks like they’re dealing with something monstrous: child abduction by a stranger. Such crimes are incredibly rare – perhaps fifty cases nationally in a year. The vast majority of those are almost instantly thwarted, either by parents or sharp-eyed bystanders. Only a handful ever get through.
In Bournemouth, officers rush to the borough council’s CCTV control centre, where they begin to review footage. Others are dispatched to neighbouring hotels on East Overcliff Drive, in the hope of getting a hit. Uniformed PCs flood the train station. Traffic police are diverted to the main routes out of town. But no one yet knows what they’re looking for, and everyone now feels the clock running down.
Karen Day, the PolSA Mairéad requested from Winfrith, arrives onsite and takes command of search activities, allowing Mairéad to concentrate on the suspect.
The Child Rescue Alert is activated. Local media leads the initial appeal. National media quickly pitches in. It’s precisely the kind of incident that captures public attention. The story is catapulted up the news agenda.
Mairéad tracks down Charles Kiser, the American tourist who raised the alarm. Kiser is credible enough, but he can’t tell her anything new, and his description of Elissa’s abductor is depressingly vague: a heavy-set man in a bulky waxed jacket. When Mairéad goes up to Kiser’s room and looks down at the car park she realizes why. Although the SOCOs working the scene are clearly visible, she sees the tops of their heads but no faces.
The last minutes of golden hour ebb away. Shoulders visibly begin to sag. In the lobby, officers wear expressions of growing consternation. On the street outside, rumours and accusations sweep the crowd. The worst of all crimes has visited the town. Right now, there’s no clear path through the horror.
No one feels the pressure more than Mairéad. Her restless stomach and pounding head magnify her difficulties tenfold. Adrenalin is her crutch. Caffeine and paracetamol too.
Only once before has she worked on anything like this – a girl called Bryony Taylor, snatched on her way home from school in Yeovil, a town just beyond the Dorset border. Avon and Somerset Police led that investigation, with Mairéad drafted in to offer support. A year later, the case is still active, but every line of enquiry feels like it’s been wrung dry of promise. Already, there are disturbing parallels between that disappearance and this one: both girls snatched in broad daylight, by a man driving a beaten-up white van; both incidents occurring within a fifty-mile stretch.
Officers drive Lena Mirzoyan back to Salisbury, where they’ll collect Elissa’s laptop and tablet and search her room for clues. Mairéad returns to Bournemouth Central, where she can more efficiently direct operations.
Seventy minutes in. Everyone at the station looks sick. And then, at 15.21, Mairéad catches her first break.
Elissa
Day 2
I
Her eyes are open, but she can’t see. Whether that’s because she’s blind or is somewhere in perfect darkness, she cannot tell. A hot ball of needles is rolling around inside her skull. The slightest movement encourages it to roll faster, so she tries to hold herself still.
Elissa smells vomit and knows it’s her own. As she’s processing that, her stomach clenches and she’s sick again. It sets a fire in her throat that only water will extinguish. As well as stomach acid, she tastes partially digested tuna, which so revolts her that she heaves once more. Vomit spatters on to a floor she can’t see but senses is close.
Is she lying down? Yes, there’s pressure all along her right side: cold, hard and uneven. Strangely, her head feels supported.
Inside her skull, the ball of needles shows no sign of slowing. Elissa takes a steadying breath. Searching her memories, she tries to work out what has happened. She encounters nothing but a void – no recollection of waking, of eating, of conversations or people. Has she been in an accident? This is certainly no hospital. Her breathing has an echoey quality. Somewhere, she hears the drip of water.
Keeping her movements slow, Elissa walks the fingers of her left hand in front of her, hoping to discover something that will identify her location. The floor is compacted dirt and rock, but it doesn’t feel entirely natural. At the very limit of their reach, her fingers touch something familiar: the strap of her rucksack.
Immediately, the recollections flood back. Elissa’s head feels like it’s going to burst, that ball of needles running amok. Her stomach seizes again, even though there’s nothing left to bring up. The contractions are so intense that she fears the blood vessels in her eyes will rupture. Never has she experienced anything like this, so much pain and horror condensed into such a focused knot.
Monkey; the car journey; breakfast at Wide Boys; Adele; the Marshall Court Hotel; Bhavya Narayan; pineapple Yoyo Bears; Amy Rhodes; Ivy May; dropping off her lunchbox and oh-God-oh-God-oh-God the white van, the dented bumper, the trilby-wearing skull smoking a cigarette.
CHILLAX.
She wants to scream, but if she does her head will unzip, spilling a loose mess of brains across cold rock. The recollections keep coming: her heels dragging across tarmac; filthy fingers against her mouth; the wet cloth; the notion of flowers unfurling in her head.
She can’t move, can’t think. For a while, only the distant drip of water reassures her that time hasn’t slowed to a stop.
There was a voice, wasn’t there? A few words spoken. She’s almost too frightened to seek them out.
Easy now. Easy. I’ve got plans for you, darl. You won’t die today.
No clue in that except the obvious: her kidnapper is a man. She remembers no accent, his words delivered in a whisper that betrayed no hint of his age or background. He didn’t seem all that tall, but his grip on her was merciless. She recalls the smell of him, like the churning sweetness of spoiled poultry.
Where is her mum? The thought of Lena Mirzoyan’s anguish is almost too much. Elissa swears to herself, right then, that she will survive this – whatever this is – survive it no matter what she has to endure. No way will she allow her mum to bear the agony of a daughter’s loss.
That promise, once made, has a remarkable effect. The pain in her head remains, but suddenly it’s a lot more manageable. She feels a surge of strength in her muscles, a renewed pumping of her heart.
Elissa drags the rucksack close. Her fingers move blindly, searching for the main compartment’s zip. She can’t do this one-handed, so as carefully as possible she lifts her head. The pain of movement is excruciating. She clenches her teeth, feeling her world rotate.