Blazing Obsession by Dai Henley Page A

yesterday morning, leaving the flat. He carried a suitcase and the boy had a large rucksack on his back.”
    â€œDid he tell you where they were headed?”
    â€œNo, he didn’t. I’m his landlord and he owes me rent. I shouted after them. They ignored me. If you see him, please remind him he’s a month overdue.” The intercom shut off abruptly before I had time to question him further.
    Heading to Lynne’s flat in pouring rain, the wipers worked hard as the streetlights refracted the oncoming traffic’s headlights. My brain raced to work out my next move.
    Margaret opened the door. With anxiety scrawled over her face, she said, “Thank God you’ve arrived. Lynne’s beside herself.”
    I told them both what happened at Nick’s flat. “We’ll have to go to the police,” I said. “And they may ask if Georgie has a passport, as a matter of routine.”
    I’d recently seen a TV programme about abduction and for some reason, this fact stuck in my brain. I hoped I wasn’t over-reacting. It was the landlord’s mention of suitcases and rucksacks that bugged me.
    Lynne exclaimed, “What! You think Nick’s taken him abroad? You can’t be serious?”
    â€œNo, of course I don’t. It’s one of the things the police’ll want to know. Does he have his own passport? Is it here?”
    Slumping back down into a chair, she said, “Not long before Nick and I separated, we went to Disneyworld in Orlando, Florida. About three years ago. Georgie was five or six. It was a vain attempt at saving our marriage. We added Georgie to Nick’s passport. I assume he’s still on it.”
    As she stared firstly at her mother and then at me, her eyes, already slightly red-rimmed, trickled with tears, realising the implication of what she’d said.
    â€œLet’s go to the police. Now. Come on. Oh, and bring a photo of Georgie with you.”
    Sobbing profusely, she wailed, “I… I… can’t believe it. What’s made Nick do this? He’d been acting more sensibly lately.”
    Putting my arm around her, I squeezed hard. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. We don’t know the full story. I’ll get your coat.”
    *
    We drove to the nearest police station in West India Dock Road in Limehouse, a few minutes away. Neither of us spoke as the swishing tyres and wipers interfered with our thoughts, which we kept to ourselves. Lynne got through almost a box of tissues as she dabbed her eyes constantly.
    After outlining our predicament to a polite and understanding ruddy-faced duty sergeant, he showed us through to a private interview room and told us a senior detective who had experience of abduction would be along shortly.
    â€œI’m Detective Sergeant Evans. I’ll be your Investigating Officer. And this is Detective Constable Liz Ashburton.”
    You could pass DS Evans in the street without noticing him. Average height, average weight, neat haircut, dull clothes, aged around thirty-five with a strong Welsh accent.
    DC Ashburton, in her mid-twenties, blonde, green-eyed, around five feet five inches and heavily built, wore a constant, steely, no-nonsense expression.
    Noticing Lynne’s distress, she offered her a glass of water. After Lynne had taken a sip, DS Evans said, “OK? Sergeant Williams has outlined your concerns to me, but can you start from the beginning?”
    I explained my relationship with Lynne and that, although I wasn’t the child’s father, I’d visited Georgie’s last known whereabouts.
    Lynne tearfully told the officer about her difficult relationship with Nick and the background to the contact and the restraining orders, following the physical abuse she’d suffered.
    â€œHe’s such an arsehole! This is typical of him. He only thinks about himself. Doesn’t give a shit about anyone else.”
    I’d never heard her go off like