Page 88 of Stolen

chapter 40

quinn

Danny parks the car nose-in to the kerb beneath a palm tree and turns off the ignition.

‘It’s the second block from the left,’ the investigator tells Quinn, pointing towards the row of high-rise apartments across the street. ‘Al Dhafrah 1. His place is on the fourth floor, apartment E.’

‘What time does he usually get home?’

‘It varies. But he should be there by now.’

‘You stay here,’ Quinn says to Danny. ‘I don’t want to go in mob-handed. There may be more than one exit, so text me if you see him come out. Phil, just bring the handheld camera for now. If he agrees to a sit-down, we can come back for lights.’

Phil hitches his camera bag onto his shoulder. ‘How does a bloody tennis instructor afford to live in a place like this?’ he asks as they cross the road and skirt neatly manicured box hedges. The building isn’t flashy, but it’s a nice neighbourhood, and the cars parked along the street are Mercedes and BMWs.

‘It’s Dubai,’ Quinn says. ‘No income tax, remember. And he’s probably making a fortune off bored expat housewives at the country club. He’s a good-looking guy.’

‘I’m in the wrong business.’

‘You and me both.’

She leads the way up a shallow flight of steps into the air-conditioned marble lobby. There’s no doorman or security. Quinn presses the button for the lift and the door immediately opens, but then closes again. She hits it a second time and the same thing happens. There’s something jammed in the narrow gap between the elevator and the lift shaft.

‘Fuck,’ Quinn says. ‘We’ll have to take the stairs. I’ll see you up there.’

The damage to her spine makes stairs particularly challenging. Phil is waiting for her when she finally reaches the fourth floor, his camera already out and on his shoulder.

She’s surprised to see the door to apartment E ajar. ‘Did you knock?’ she asks.

‘It was open when I got here.’

She pushes it wider. ‘Hello?’ she calls.

There’s no response. She throws Phil a warning glance. A lothario tennis instructor may not seem like much of a threat, but he’s been on the run from the FBI for almost two years. Who knows what he’s capable of if he’s backed into a corner.

As they step into the hall, Phil points to a pink doll’s pushchair on its side in the hall. Her heartbeat quickens. Officially, this man doesn’t have kids, but Danny’s intel is right: thereisa little girl living here.

Quinn buzzes with adrenaline. If they find Lottie Martini it’ll be the biggest scoop of her career. She’s already had Danny set things in motion so they can spirit the kid out of the country on a false passport, via Bahrain and Cyprus. She has no intention of playing by the rules and taking Lottie to the British embassy, only to have some government jobsworth slap her with a court injunction before she has the chance to tell the story. Once Lottie’s on British soil, no one’s going to give a shit how she got there.

They edge warily down the hall towards the open-plan living room, but it’s deserted. Quinn glances out onto the balcony and checks a couple of doors leading off the kitchen, but there’s no one in the bathroom or walk-in pantry, either.

She touches a half-drunk mug of coffee on the kitchen counter: still warm. Someone clearly left in a hurry, and not long ago.

‘Do you think he was tipped off?’ Phil asks.

She shrugs. ‘It’s possible—’

There’s a muffled thud from the back of the apartment.

Phil is nearer. He flings open the door to a bedroom just off the hall. The blackout blinds are down and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

A figure looms out of the darkness. Phil ducks, cursing, and throws himself at the man’s legs, dropping his camera as he brings him down. There’s a brief tussle, but Phil grew up in the roughest part of Manchester’s Moss Side. By the time Quinn finds the light switch, he has the other man pinned in an armlock beneath him on the floor.

The man struggles, but the fight has gone out of him.

‘Jesus,’ Phil pants. ‘Keep the fuck still and I’ll get off you.’

The other man stops squirming. Phil lets him go and the man wriggles awkwardly into a sitting position against the bed, breathing heavily.