Baarda pulled away, waving gratefully at the uniformed officers who cleared the road to let him pass.
‘You worked extensively with the FBI, I’ve been told. Why did you never become an agent?’
‘That was the dream.’ Connie stared out of the window as they passed mottled heathered verges that disappeared into bushes. ‘My achromatopsia prevented me from becoming an agent, so I chose a profession that would allow me to work with the in-house profilers.’
‘What do you miss?’ Baarda asked.
Connie looked at his face. The question was vague, but the tenderness of his features gave away his meaning. She softened her usual brusque tone, aware that her manner was professional bordering on stony. It was a persona she’d cultivated to counteract some institutional misogyny along the way, and not a little condescension when people learned that she was ‘colour-vision impaired’. The person who’d coined that phrase had left the room soon after she’d responded to him, never to be seen on the same working squad as her again.
‘Mainly clichés. Twinkling Christmas lights, the waves when the weather is just starting to change. I used to sit on my parents’ back porch and watch the sea for hours. Now it’s just more of the same.’
She paused for a moment, trying to do the question justice. Baarda kept his silence where most would have felt the need to fill the space. She respected the fact that he was able not to. In her opinion, men could be measured by such minuscule but enormous details.
‘The sparkle of a ruby. The endless shades of green on a single tree. Seeing images of earth from space, and viewing our tiny place in the universe in all its breathtaking beauty. When I was a child, my parents took me to visit the Grand Canyon. I’d been given my first camera. I was maybe ten. Anyway, I was going through an artistic phase, so every photo I took was in black and white. My parents had my favourite shot blown up, framed, and I must have fallen asleep staring at that image through most of my puberty. And God, I wish I’d taken a colour photo. That’s my only memory of the Canyon. That goddamned black-and-white photo. One of the most beautiful places in the world and I have no memory of it in colour. That’s irony worthy of a poem, right?’
‘I’d miss seeing the light shine off my red setter’s coat,’ Baarda said.
Connie laughed. ‘That’s a great image. What’s its name?’
‘His name’s Tupperware. We made the mistake of letting my then four-year-old daughter name him, and that was her favourite word at that time. But a promise is a promise. The more we tried to persuade her to choose something more … well, doggy, the more intractable she became.’
‘Oh my God, you have to chase a red setter around the park shouting Tupperware? That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘I don’t get home to see him – or the kids – as much as I’d like at the moment.’ His voice dipped.
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, you know, life gets in the way.’
‘That’s bullshit. Life gets in the way of golf or visits to the in-laws or trips to the chiropractor, but home literally is a person’s life. What could get in the way of that?’
He shrugged. ‘My wife’s currently having an affair. She’s been perfectly honest about it. No attempt to cover it up, which I appreciate. I felt it was easier to give her some space while she figures out what she wants.’
Connie didn’t miss a beat. ‘Do you still love her?’
‘I believe so,’ he said.
‘Do you know who she’s having an affair with?’
‘One of the other officers from Met Ops. Makes it all a bit awkward. Probably the reason everyone was so pleased when I got packed off up here.’
‘Holy shit, Baarda,’ Connie whistled. ‘Do you think you might be suppressing some anger beneath that super-polished exterior?’
‘Not at all. I obviously hadn’t been meeting her needs, she’d made that pretty clear, so what was I to expect? I have to take my share of the blame.’
‘Careful with that,’ she said. ‘Taking the blame for someone else’s choices lets them justify their deviancy with no checks or balances. You want to let her off the hook that easily?’
‘You don’t know her, and you don’t know me.’
Connie looked back at him. His neck was strained as he drove, his hands a vice around the steering wheel.
‘I’m sorry, that was rude. I’m never rude. I hope you can …’
‘Stop,’ Connie said, her voice only a whisper above the engine’s purr. ‘The apology should be mine. Let’s call it quits with the personal revelations for today, okay?’
Baarda’s mobile rang. He put the call on speaker.
‘Sir, we’re being bombarded with requests to comment from the press. I don’t know how it leaked, but they know about our missing person, including her identity and her connections.’
‘Shit,’ Connie muttered.
‘And Elspeth’s husband just received the call. There’s a request for five million to be paid in fifties. We have forty-eight hours. Elspeth Dunwoody’s voice could be heard in the background saying, “Please help.” It’s confirmed as her. Her father-in-law’s been informed. We’re working on tracing the call and the payment details.’
‘Very good,’ Baarda said, closing the line. ‘Well, that’s you off the hook. Looks as if we’ve got all we need.’
‘Except Elspeth,’ Connie muttered. ‘What are the statistics on getting her back alive in these circumstances?’
‘We work on an average of fifty to eighty live UK kidnappings per year. Most of them resolve successfully.’
‘How many don’t?’
‘A handful,’ Baarda said. ‘Deaths usually occur while we’re closing in and the kidnapper panics, then concludes it would be easier not to leave any witness who could identify them.’
‘Poor Elspeth,’ Connie said. ‘I hope she doesn’t know that.’
‘We’ll do all we can,’ Baarda said. ‘The contact is a positive sign. I’m hopeful that we’ll get her back unharmed.’
‘I’m glad you’re feeling hopeful, but I very much doubt Elspeth is right now. Wherever she is.’
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