Chapter 107
Although Poe had told Estelle that Océane was coming back up north whether she liked it or not, the reality was very different.
If he tried to transport a struggling woman from the bottom of England to the very top, they would get stopped by the police.
Someone would see her thrashing about. Poe doubted they would end up on an abduction charge, but that wasn’t the point – they didn’t have the time it would take to get it sorted.
The only viable option was to tie her up, hands and feet, gag her, and put her in the boot.
And even though Towler said it could be easily done – Poe didn’t want to ask how he knew this, although he’d once hinted at being involved in extraordinary renditions – Poe wasn’t built that way. He wanted a volunteer, not a conscript.
That meant delving into the psyche of Océane Blue.
Of trying to ignore everything he thought he knew about her: that she was a self-centred sociopath, the kind of person who would leave her daughter in the lurch while she fled a murder scene.
She was far more complex. More nuanced. She hated Esmerée for reasons Poe didn’t yet understand.
Blamed her for her predicament, which didn’t make sense.
She knew the Red Chamber were planning to kill her, so she needed to flee anyway.
Esmerée killing Vincent du Buk – if that was what had happened – was kind of irrelevant.
But instead of accepting a bad situation, Océane had said that Esmerée had ruined everything. That she hoped she’d rot in hell.
Poe was missing something. He bopped a quick text to Estelle and Bradshaw, brought them up to speed.
Told them the profile they’d developed was next to useless.
That he would have to do a field evaluation.
Why Océane hated Esmerée would have to wait.
The only thing that mattered was tempting her north.
He had to negotiate.
Which reminded him of a very recent negotiation.
When the Red Chamber guy had called to say they had Esmerée, Poe had negotiated for proof of life.
Which subsequently reminded him of the hostage negotiation course he’d completed when he first qualified as a detective.
It was twenty-plus years ago, but one lesson remained clear – unlock the power of WIIFM.
What’s In It For Me?
When you had nothing to negotiate with, find something.
It didn’t matter if you were dealing with Somali pirates in the Gulf of Aden or Geoff who’d flipped because he’d caught his wife in bed with the family dachshund.
You found something the hostage-taker needed.
They might not even realise it. When it came to hostage situations, the common WIIFMs were food and water, calls to family members, safe passage.
That kind of thing. So Poe disregarded what he knew about Océane and focused on what she wanted.
What she needed.
She wanted to live. That was her primary concern. She’d fled to a different continent to get away from the Red Chamber. They had planned to kill her. They still planned to kill her.
The first thing she needed, therefore, was to live.
Poe could help with that. He could arrange witness protection. Put pressure on Alastor Locke to put pressure on the right people in the NCA’s protected witness programme.
But that wouldn’t be enough. The original profile on Océane indicated that she was independent, and Poe had seen nothing to change that.
If anything, she was even more independent than they’d imagined.
Completely self-sufficient. She didn’t rely on anyone.
Poe could keep her alive through the protected witness scheme, but she could probably keep herself alive using her own initiative.
He thought about what else she needed.
Money. She was always going to need money. Staying hidden wasn’t free. It wasn’t even cheap. But money was never going to be a problem for Océane, not when she looked like she did. Not when she was prepared to use her body the way she had.
Towler disappeared. Came back doing up his zip.
‘Too much coffee,’ he said. He saw Poe staring at him. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t piss in the beehives. I went behind her van.’
But that wasn’t why Poe was staring. He turned back to the static caravan. Thumped on the door even louder than Towler had. He shouted, ‘Open the door, Océane. I have something you want.’
‘You can’t offer me anything, Mr Poe,’ she yelled back.
It sounded like she was packing. Probably throwing things into a suitcase before she did another moonlight flit.
The caravan was bouncing as she moved backwards and forwards.
Didn’t matter how expensive or how well built a static caravan was, it was still a tin can on wheels. When you moved, it moved.
‘Something you need, then.’
‘You have nothing I need either.’
And Poe said, ‘Of course I do, Océane.’
‘Oh yeah, what?’
‘Your life,’ he said.
‘What about my life?’
‘I can give it back to you.’