Page 40 of Savage Obsession

“You say she’s there now?”

“As far as I know.”

“Maybe we should just say hello…?”

“I’ll take your bags upstairs,” Aaron offers. “You’re on the third floor, the second door on the right.”

Baz thanks him and offers me his hand. Together we make our way along the first-floor corridor, our footsteps echoing on the stone flags and Henry’s claws click-clacking beside us.

“This place is amazing,” I whisper. “It looks ancient, but have you seen this lighting? It’s ultra-modern, concealed and soft. And the floor’s warm under our feet.” The renovations have been sympathetic but with no compromise on comfort, efficiency, and luxury. Ethan Savage likes to live in style.

We arrive at the second door on the left, and Baz lifts his hand to knock.

“It’s open.” The disembodied voice echoes from within.

Baz turns the handle and pushes the door. We enter together.

A woman of about the same age as me is lounging on a computer gaming chair in front of a bank of computer screens, while a teenage youth leans over her shoulder. She swings around to peer at us through huge glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Mrs O’Neill? I’m Baz Bartosz, and this is Julia, my wife.”

She scowls. “I thought you were due tomorrow.”

“We got here earlier than we expected. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

She shrugs. “Still working on your stuff. I suppose you’ll be wanting an update.”

“Yes. We’d welcome that.”

She gives an inelegant snort. “Well, you’d better find somewhere to sit. If you can.”

The young man scuttles about the cluttered space and produces a battered chair and a low stool which he places beside Casey O’Neill. I take the stool, and Baz settles on the chair.

“Oh, and this is Frankie. My assistant. He’s been doing the groundwork, gathering in the tapes, that sort of thing. Frankie, tell them what we have so far.”

Frankie fidgets nervously. “Well, it’s early days still, but…”

“Don’t be modest,” his boss interrupts. “You’ve unearthed loads of material. Tell them about it.”

Frankie clears his throat. “I started by hacking into the CCTV tapes from Warsaw railway station, narrowing down the timeframe to take in the most likely time the girl was there, and, say, two hours either side.”

Baz is busy translating as the youth speaks, for which I’m grateful. It means I can keep up.

“Did you spot her?” I blurt.

Baz translates again.

“I don’t know,” Frankie replies. “I had a description, but there are several potential candidates. I need you to view the tapes and pick her out. Once we have a positive ID I can track her using individual recognition software. It’s a programme we’ve been developing…”

“Julia?” Baz turns to me to do the ID, since it’s been about ten years since he last actually saw our daughter.

“Show me the tapes.” I pull my stool closer to the screen.

Frankie taps a few keys, and the images flicker to fill the screen. The time stamp in the bottom left says eight forty-five.

“It was later than that,” I point out. “Her friend told us she met Lily at nine o’clock, just before she went to the station.”

“Okay. Let me adjust that.” Frankie leans over me to amend the time parameters, and the time stamp jumps to nine-fifteen. “We’ll go from there. Yell out when you spot her.”

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