‘The thing is, according to Mrs Baden, with kidnapped foreigners there’s usually a ransom request,’ Mary Clancy told Williams. ‘We’ve heard nothing. Now, I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.’
It’s bad, Williams wanted to tell her. He wondered if Willie Baden’s do-gooder wife had told these people that at this point the odds had to be a hundred to one against finding Charlotte Clancy alive. Life was cheaper south of the border than most ordinary, middle-class Americans could imagine. Plus Charlotte was young and naive and attractive. It didn’t look good.
In any event the Clancys had hired Derek Williams to do a job and he intended to do it, to the best of his abilities.
He?
?d landed in Mexico City four days later armed only with the name and address of Charlotte’s employers, the first name of a local girlfriend she’d mentioned in a rare phone call home, and some photos and personal details, including her Mexican cell phone number. That was it. He had low hopes, but as Lorraine reminded him, ‘Ten thousand dollars is ten thousand dollars, Derek. And at least you’ll get a tan.’
He did get a tan. He also got an education. None of his research had prepared him for the utter lawlessness of Mexico City. It was like living in the Wild West. The Clancys must have been out of their minds to allow their naive teenage daughter to take a job out here alone. Drug gangs operated with virtual impunity, and both kidnappings and murders were jaw-droppingly common, genuinely everyday occurrences. Some of the local police were phenomenally brave, facing the menace on their streets head on despite the risks of torture or beheadings or reprisals against their own families. But plenty of others were venal, in the pay of either the gangs or wealthy local families, whom they served exclusively and at the expense of ordinary citizens. As for the elected officials, corruption ran from top to bottom in the city, affecting every aspect of life, like a blue vein of bacteria spidering its way through Roquefort cheese.
Charlotte’s employers, the Encerrito family, had lived in the city for generations and seemed wearily accepting of both the corruption and the constant threat of violence.
‘Sadly, I am certain that Charlotte is dead,’ Juan Encerrito told Williams, in a deep, resonant baritone that betrayed no trace of shock. ‘These things happen here, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill her?’ Williams asked. ‘Anti-American feeling, perhaps? Or an assumption her family would be rich and willing to pay a ransom? Although as you know, no demands were ever made to the Clancys.’
Angelina Encerrito, a pretty woman with elaborately braided dark hair, offered her opinion. ‘In our city, Mr Williams, the gangs don’t need a reason. We did warn Charlie about always staying in the safer neighborhoods, and never driving alone after dark. But I think she was maybe a little impulsive.’
‘And you didn’t think to stop her? To step in and say “no” when she took off at night alone, in your car?’ Williams asked, more accusingly than he’d meant to. It got to him that these people sounded so calm, so nonchalant about a young woman’s possible murder.
‘We employed Charlotte to take care of our children,’ Juan answered defensively. ‘It was not our job to take care of her, to follow her around in her own time.’
‘Also, you know, she was young and blonde and attractive,’ said Angelina, not in the least offended by Williams’ last question but still brooding on the one before. ‘So perhaps, in her case, the motive was a sexual one?’
‘Did she have any boyfriends that you knew of?’
Both Encerritos shook their heads. ‘No.’
‘No one who came to the house?’
‘Not that I saw,’ said Angelina. ‘She was with the kids, mostly. There was a girl she liked in the Colonia Juarez – another au pair, I think. But no boys. She didn’t seem the type, to be honest.’
Williams looked at his notes.
‘The girl – her name wasn’t Frederique, by any chance?’
‘That’s right!’ Angelina smiled. ‘Frederique. That was it.’
‘I don’t suppose you remember her last name.’
Angelina Encerrito shook her head.
‘I do.’
A boy of around ten had wandered on to the terrace to join them. With his olive skin, jet-black hair and long, dark lashes and dressed head to toe in Ralph Lauren tennis whites, he looked like he’d stepped straight off the pages of Town & Country Magazine. ‘It was Zidane,’ he said confidently. ‘Like the soccer player. That’s why I remember.’
‘Thank you.’ Williams smiled at him. ‘What’s your name, kid?’
‘Antonio,’ said the boy. He seemed delighted to be part of the grown-ups’ conversation, but Williams noticed that both his parents looked uneasy, as if they were waiting for an opportunity to shoo him away.
‘So did you ever meet Frederique, Antonio?’ Williams asked. ‘While Charlotte was taking care of you?’
‘Sure. Lots of times.’
‘Do you remember where you met?’
The boy nodded. ‘At the park. And at the house where she was staying. There were only girls there, but they had a water slide and a trampoline and—’