16

HE CHECKED LEFT and right my side of the gate.

‘Where is your car?’

‘I took a cab.’

‘You do not have a car?’

‘It’s nothing to shout about.’

‘What sort of car do you drive, Nick?’

‘An old beat-up Renault. Why?’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Where do you come from, Nick?’

‘I was in Hereford this morning. That’s where Tracy comes from. Her sister, Janet – you called her, yeah? – she still lives there.’

He nodded slowly and undid the D-lock. The gate squeaked open. It looked like it had come from a garden centre. He was in jeans, cheap brown Burberry-check slippers and a grey hoodie with a faded black star across the chest, none of which matched his stature and his long, thin, delicate hands. This lad could have followed Jules down the Calvin Klein catwalk. He’d never been near a building site or a fishing boat in his life.

I stepped inside. The stairwell stank of cigarettes and microwaved ready-meals. His eyes never left me as he closed both doors. I moved to the bottom of the stairs. He gestured politely. ‘Please, after you, my friend.’

I didn’t follow his invitation until I’d seen what he did with the keys. The double-glazing meant I wouldn’t be able to jump out of a window if there was a drama. He slid them into his pocket, quite casually, like a man who didn’t have six mates upstairs as a welcoming committee. If I was wrong about that, I’d soon be finding out.

The room above was a mess. It looked more like a boffin’s bedsit than the HQ of a kidnap king. The only new bit of kit was the aluminium MacBook sitting on the cheap veneer table to the right of the door. Beside it was an old, steam-driven fax machine.

Back issues of Newsweek and estate agents’ brochures were heaped on the floor. Two steel Parker pens lay on top of a pile of folded local and national newspapers. He was either going to read them later or have a crack at the crosswords. A couple of ashtrays, each with only one or two stubs in them, sat beside a velour armchair that was a bit short of velour. An equally moth-eaten TV showed BBC News 24 without the sound. In Bahrain, Saudi armoured vehicles were well and truly bedded in.

I nodded in the direction of the screen. ‘Any news on Japan?’

‘Not good, Nick.’ He shook his head mournfully as he pulled a folding wooden chair from under the veneer table. ‘But let us talk about other things. Please, Nick, sit.’

He waited for me to do so before he settled into his armchair. He rested his chin on his steepled hands.

‘Now, Nick, tell me. Will you be able to get the money? It’s the only way I can save that small child and the others too – Tracy and Justin …’

‘I’ll do my very best.’

‘Nick, you have to get the money as quickly as you can. It’s the only way I can get them out of that hellhole. I worry so much about them. You are their friend, yes? Do you love them? Do you love them enough to help me free them?’

My chair creaked as I sat back. I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. Washing dishes obviously wasn’t high on Nadif’s list of priorities. The guy had bigger fish to fry.

‘Yes, of course. I’ve been asked by Tracy’s sister and Justin’s family to ensure their safety. You’ll have to help me, Nadif. Three million dollars is such a lot of money … It’s going to take the families some time to raise it. They were on a nice boat but they are not rich people. I hope you can use your influence. A man like you, I’m sure you have much respect in Somalia …’

He liked that.

‘But first I have to know that they’re alive. Their families … everyone’s really worried. We don’t know the people who have them. Can you arrange for me to talk to them? Please …’

He glanced at the red Swatch on his wrist and lowered his hands onto the arms of the chair. ‘Would you like some tea, Nick?’

‘That’d be good. Thank you. Thank you very much. Then can I talk to them, please?’

He got to his feet. ‘All in good time, my friend. Be patient. These things take time.’

He disappeared into the kitchen. So far, so good. He liked being thought the top banana – or, more probably, that I seemed to think I was smoking him like a kipper. These guys were far too smart to be taken in by flattery, however much it was part of the ritual. A Somali taxi driver in the UK had brokered the deal to repatriate the kidnapped British sailors, Paul and Rachel Chandler, after they were taken hostage on their yacht between the Seychelles and Tanzania in 2009. For all I knew, he might have been Nadif. Whoever it was, I bet he used the same gentle, sympathetic patter.

He brushed aside the crap in the sink enough to fill a kettle. ‘Nick, my friend, how much money can you raise immediately?’ His deep baritone resonated round the small room. ‘I think we need to make a show of faith. But I also need to know I can trust you, personally, before we go forward and try to get your loved ones freed.’