Up on the video came a satellite view from Google. Levi dragged a little man figure onto the road in front of the printing press. Immediately a picture looking down the road appeared. Levi clicked on an arrow and the view was to our right.

There in the middle of the picture was a 1930’s single storey brick building bearing the sign, Norman Betteridge, Printer and Binder. This was clearly not our building.

Levi carried out the same routine for all six addresses. We were left with two possibilities. Offset Litho (Tottenham) Ltd on Brantwood Road, and Tottenham Press (2005) Ltd, on Commercial Road.

Offset Litho was a two story flat roofed building with offices at the front and the factory space behind. Tottenham Press was a big shed with a pitched roof.

Something had been niggling at me for an hour and I couldn’t bring it to the front of my mind. I flicked through the video stills again, in case I had missed something important. I was about to put to one side the first picture of the masked man facing the camera when I saw something that took me back a couple of years. In the background, just behind the man, I could make out a column of what seemed to me to be yellow steel. They were quite clearly inside a yellow steel framed building.

In 2008 I had been called to a fire where a mini industrial unit had burned down. The site was a tangle of cladding insulation and twisted yellow steel. The insurer paid for the rebuild, which I certified at each month end as the work proceeded. The original steel contractor had been employed to rebuild the frame. The company were called Conder Structures, if I was remembering correctly, and their director told me that three of the major steel suppliers used their own patented colours; blue, green and yellow respectively. Most other contractors’ steel was usually primed with red or grey. The interesting point as far as I was concerned was that Conder specialised in portal frames because they provided greater strength with less steel and gave a completely free floor area with no columns. A portal frame building would typically also have pitched roof.

I quickly explained to the weary team my theory and preference for Tottenham Press being the kidnappers’ hideout. No-one disputed my analysis, but just to be sure the Metropolitan Police asked a local car to drive by both premises and look for signs of life. Tottenham Police Station obliged, and promised to call back in fifteen minutes.

DCI Coombes’ mobile phone rang and he answered it. He grabbed a pen, making notes on a pad in front of him.

“Thanks for that, Sergeant. That might just be the information that tips the balance.”

He set down his phone and spoke to Inspector Boniface, speaking loudly enough for us all to hear.

“Have you heard of the Holloway family?”

“Yes. We caught one of their teams unloading a dozen Chinese illegals at one of the big office blocks in the City, but the Chinese wouldn’t talk to us and so they were deported and a couple of Holloway’s boys went to prison for acting as gang masters to illegal immigrants. Neither of them would say a word about Pops or Sonny, though.”

DCI Coombes turned to the rest of us.

“Alfred Clement Holloway is in his sixties now but he’s been a villain all of his life. We’ve linked him with stolen goods, drug trafficking, human trafficking and prostitution but so far he’s always managed to get away with short sentences, having pleaded guilty to the minor offences, knowing witnesses wouldn’t come forward. For the last twenty years he has been known as Pops Holloway, as a sign of respect and because his son Adam Alfred Holloway, joined the family business.”

This was all very interesting, but I couldn’t see where this was taking us. Coombes was still talking.

“Pops Holloway was a Director of Tottenham Press when it went bust in 2005. He was disqualified as a director for ten years because Companies House thinks he deliberately siphoned off creditors’ money before he went into administration. He still owns the lease, and his son is one of the directors.

DS Scott says that the Fraud Squad think that it was Holloways that printed all of the fake tickets for that Diva concert at the O2 Arena last year. Almost half the tickets were fakes, but the gate staff couldn’t tell them apart. We had fifty officers there breaking up fights between fans who had booked the same seats as others.”

Vastrick was in conference with the two police officers, who were trying to decide if we had enough certainty to mount a raid on Tottenham Press. The phone rang and Vastrick put it on speaker.

“DCI Coombes, this is Sergeant Hall at Tottenham. We did a drive by, and Offset Litho is dark and quiet. Tottenham Press is showing a narrow strip of light under the roller shutter door, which is odd.”

“Why is it odd, Sergeant?” Coombes asked.

“Well, there’s a sign on the door saying it’s closed for holidays and reopens after the Bank Holiday.”

Chapter 6 8

Commercial Road, Tottenham, North London. Sunday 6am.

Dee and Lavender were lying under the table on a sleeping bag which had been opened up for use as a thin mattress. Both were still chained to the table, which meant it would be virtually impossible to make themselves comfortable. Nonetheless, Lavender had fallen asleep quickly and showed no signs of rousing. The night had been warm enough to sleep through, and Dee had managed a few hours of fitful sleep herself. Now, though, she felt cold and thirsty. She could look forward to another thirty six hours of this if things didn’t go well.

Dee lay on her back, thinking. She trusted Tom Vastrick and she believed that Josh would move heaven and earth to save her. That was the type of person he was. Between the two of them, and Boniface and Coombes, Dee was sure her message would have been received and understood. At least, she hoped it had been received and understood.

Lavender stirred and turned to face Dee. Then, much to Dee’s surprise, she smiled. The girl had been kidnapped and had spent the night on an uncomfortable floor, chained to a table, yet she was still smiling. Dee involuntarily smiled back. Without layers of make-up, the young woman facing her looked like the vulnerable young girl she was.

“Good morning, ladies. I trust you slept well.” The voice made them jump. It was the leader, who had just entered the room. “If you promise not to do anything silly, I will allow you both fifteen minutes in the bathroom. If you don’t promise, I’ll have to keep the door open and watch you, won’t I? So, do you promise?”

Both women promised. Quite what this man thought either of them could possibly get up to in a bathroom was anyone’s guess. There was no external wall to the bathroom, and no window; it was a Portakabin, inside a factory unit.

***

When Dee returned to the room, having allowed Lavender to go first, she held her hands out dutifully to allow herself to be handcuffed. A two litre bottle of still water had been placed on the side table, and Rik moved it to within their reach.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing. Breakfast will be along shortly. Oh, it will probably be more continental style than ‘full English’.” He laughed and left.

Lavender reached for the water at once, but Dee stopped her. She picked it up and turned the bottle upside down before squeezing it hard. She seemed satisfied with her efforts and turned to examining the plastic bottle closely, concentrating on the section above the water line.

“What are you doing?” Lavender asked, clearly puzzled.

“If they want to keep us subdued for the day they may try to drug us. The easiest way is to inject a sedative into our drinking water.”

“Oh.” Lavender was beginning to realise how dangerous this situation really was.

Dee broke the seal on the water and handed it to Lavender.