Kitabı oku: «The Choice», sayfa 2

Matt

Matt looked down at his phone and read the text message.

It was just four words.

Four shocking words.

This is a kidnapping.

He stared at the screen and read them again.

This is a kidnapping.

He slumped on the bench. His legs were shaking. Norman, Keith and Molly, the three people at the centre of his life, the three people he and Annabelle had built everything around, had been kidnapped.

He was sure, in that moment, that he’d never see them again. Something would go wrong and they would be gone forever.

He started to shake with sobs. They were his life now, for sure, but they were also his future. They were supposed to go to high school then university, to fall in love and get married, to have children. Or do something else. Become astronauts. Cure cancer. Form a rock band. Whatever. It didn’t matter.

As long as they were there, in his and Annabelle’s lives.

His phone buzzed again, and he turned to look at it. There was another message.

The ransom demand will follow.

Ransom? They were being held for ransom?

What did he have that anybody could possibly want? Money? He and Annabelle were comfortable but they were hardly in a position to pay millions, which was presumably what this person wanted. They wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble unless they thought there was a large payoff at the end of it all.

If so, they were mistaken. He earned a reasonable salary from his law firm, and Annabelle made a steady income as a writer. She had published four novels, but none of them had earned anything like the kind of money that would make this worthwhile.

So he and Annabelle would not be able to pay. The kidnapper was going to ask for millions, in the mistaken belief their victims had it, and when he said he didn’t have the money they would think he was lying, and hurt his children.

‘Oh God,’ he said, clutching his forehead. ‘Oh God, please.’

‘Are you OK?’

An elderly woman with a wheeled shopping bag, like the one his mum had had when he was a child, stood in the bus shelter.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean, yes, I’m fine.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let me know if—’

Another buzz, another message:

Remember. Do not contact the police under any circumstances. I will know immediately if you do and you will never see your children again.

He let out a wail of terror. The elderly woman studied him.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asked. ‘Can I help? I could call someone?’

He stood up. His house was on the other side of the village, about half a mile away.

‘I have to get home,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’

And then he started running.

Annabelle
1

Annabelle Westbrook sat on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, and sipped her tea. It was lemon and ginger, and even though she knew it made no difference she felt like it helped with her cold. If it was a cold. There was some new virus going about and she had been lethargic and achy and running a fever, so there was every chance it was that. Either way, it had been a rough few days, but she was feeling better.

And she was starting to feel hungry. When Matt got back she would make something to eat. Maybe cheese on toast, with a splash of Worcestershire sauce on the top. When she and her brother, Mike, were kids that had been their dad’s Sunday speciality; she associated it with memories of sitting around the kitchen table on Sunday evenings, their dad drinking a big mug of tea as they ate his cheese on toast. He was a creative and adventurous cook – after their mum had died he had had to learn, and he had turned out to be pretty good – and during the week he made tagines and curries and a fantastic lasagne and moussaka and whatever else he dreamed up when he came back from the school where he taught physics. It meant they ate late – at around 7 p.m. – but that was fine by her. She loved ending the day around the table with her dad and brother.

You have to eat together, her dad said. Every day if you can.

Sundays, though, were not for cooking. They were for spending together, as a family of three, small and tight and independent. They went for hikes and to football matches and on canoe trips and swimming in lakes and rivers and whatever else they felt like.

And then on Sunday evenings, all time for cooking consumed, it was cheese on toast, and it was her favourite meal of the week.

She felt ready for some this evening, thank God. It might perk her up enough to try for the baby Matt had persuaded her was a good idea.

She smiled at the thought. It was so sweet how much he loved being a father. It was clear he would have as many as she would allow, but four – if it happened – would be the limit.

Her phone started to ring. She had left it in the kitchen; it could wait. She cradled her tea and sank into the sofa.

A few seconds later it rang again. She closed her eyes and let it ring out.

It rang again. Whoever it was, was really trying. It could be her dad; there might be a problem. She put her mug on the carpet and walked into the kitchen.

She felt a jolt of concern when she looked at the screen. It was Matt.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You need me?’

‘Annabelle,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you answer?’

He sounded alarmed and her concern grew.

‘I was in the living room. My phone was in the kitchen.’

‘Good.’ He was panting, his breath short. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

There was more heavy breathing. ‘I’m on my way home.’

She noticed he had not answered the question. ‘You sound like you’re out of breath.’

‘I’m running.’

She looked up at her reflection in the window. She was frowning.

‘You’re running? Why are you running?’

‘I’ll explain when I’m back.’ He paused. His voice was tense and serious. ‘I’ll be there any minute. I need to know you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine. But it doesn’t sound like you are. What’s going—’

‘I’ll be right there,’ he interrupted.

The phone went dead. Annabelle leaned on the table. Matt was running? Why wasn’t he in the car? And why did he think she might not be OK?

What the hell was going on?

She held one hand to her stomach. Sweat prickled on her brow. The sick feeling was back.

Although this time it was not only the cold. It was worry.

2

She heard footsteps outside the front door a few minutes later and went to open it. He was standing on the step, a shopping bag in each hand, a packet of pasta poking out of a hole in one of them. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily.

Her chest tightened in alarm. He had sounded terrible on the phone, but he looked worse.

And not only was he not in the car. He was alone.

‘Matt,’ she said. ‘Where are the kids?’

He stepped into the house. His expression was rigid, but there was a wild look in his eyes. She realized with a start that it was fear.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘You need to sit down.’

‘I don’t need to sit down,’ she said. ‘Where are the kids? Tell me where the kids are!’

He took her elbow and guided her into the living room and onto the sofa. Her tea was still on the carpet beside it.

Matt sat next to her. He was no longer breathing heavily; now he was taking short, shallow breaths. It could have been the running, but it looked more like he was trying not to panic.

‘Matt,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

He blinked, his expression almost puzzled. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

‘Matt! Where are the children? Tell me!’

‘They’re gone,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘The children are gone.’

Matt

She didn’t react for a few seconds, then, as the words registered, her mouth fell slightly open.

‘Gone?’ she said. ‘What do you mean gone?’

He swallowed. His heart was racing and his mouth was dry and it was hard to speak. Annabelle was staring at him, her eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown.

‘I …’ he started, ‘I went into the shop to get the stuff. I left the kids in the car—’

‘Oh my God.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Matt. What happened?’

‘I wasn’t gone long, maybe only a few minutes. I checked out of the window and they were OK, but—’

‘Matt, what are you saying? Tell me what happened?’

‘—after I paid and went outside the car was gone.’

‘Gone?’ He could see his words were not fully sinking in. ‘How could the car be gone?’

‘Somebody took it. But – Annabelle. The kids were in it. They took the kids too.’

His wife didn’t answer. She folded her arms, then lifted one hand to her mouth, then put her hands in her lap.

‘What?’ she said, a barely controlled panic in her voice belying her attempts to compose herself. ‘What did you say?’

‘The car was gone. With the kids.’

‘Maybe they took off the handbrake and it rolled away.’

‘No. I checked.’

‘Maybe you didn’t check in the right place.’ She stood up. ‘We need to look for them. We can take my car. Maybe they drove it off somehow. Or the police moved it. If it was parked illegally the police may have moved it. Did you call them?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t? Why not? We have to call them, now!’

‘We can’t.’

She was staring at him, her eyes wide, her nostrils flared. ‘Why not? Of course we can call the police. Our children are missing!’

‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘There’s more. And it’s worse.’

Annabelle

She was reeling from his breathless arrival. She could hardly grasp what he was saying. His words were close to meaningless sounds, but she forced herself to focus.

He had told her he’d left the kids in the car, and the car had been taken.

The kids were gone.

He had not called the police.

She could make no sense of this. The kids were in their car and someone had taken it and he had not called the police.

But it was the last thing he had said that scared her the most. He had said there was more, and it was worse.

How could anything be worse?

For a moment she was not sure she wanted to find out. She had an overwhelming urge to close her eyes and pretend this was not happening. All she wanted was for this to stop, right now, and be over before it got going. Because whatever it was, it was not good.

But she had no choice.

‘Matt,’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’

He looked at her, his face a mask of shock and fear. ‘They’ve been kidnapped,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Someone is holding our kids for ransom.’

The word hung in the air between them.

‘Kidnapped,’ she said, the word odd in her mouth, almost as if she did not recognize – or could not believe – what it meant. ‘Did you say kidnapped?’

‘Yes.’ His face was pale, the blood drained from it.

‘OK,’ she said. It sounded totally inadequate, but what was she supposed to say? This was a total catastrophe: normal language didn’t work. But there was good news in this. Ransom meant you paid the kidnapper’s price and they would release the hostages, which meant there was hope.

So this was good, in a way.

‘What do they want?’ she said.

‘I don’t know. They didn’t say yet.’ He held up his phone and showed her the screen. ‘These messages came just after I left the shop.’

She took his phone and read the texts.

Do not call the police.

I repeat: tell no one and do not inform the authorities. I will know if you do and you will never see your children again.

My instructions will follow. Await them.

He reached over and tapped the screen. ‘Then these came from a different number.’

This is a kidnapping.

The ransom demand will follow.

Remember. Do not contact the police under any circumstances. I will know immediately if you do and you will never see your children again.

So that was why he had not called the police. It made sense now, but she wanted them to know. They needed help with this.

‘Shouldn’t we tell the police?’ she said. ‘How would the kidnapper know? It could be a bluff to stop us involving them.’

‘It could be,’ Matt said. ‘But it could be real. Maybe whoever it is knows someone. Or it’s a cop. And if there is a way they could find out—’

‘We won’t see the kids,’ she said. ‘If it’s true, we can’t risk it. We have to wait. See what they want.’ She looked at the phone. ‘Were there any other messages?’

‘No. That was the last one.’

‘Did you call the number?’

‘Not yet.’

‘We should. I will.’ She tapped the screen and lifted the phone to her ear.

‘Are you calling?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She listened for the ringing to start, but it never came. It went straight to a recorded message.

The number you have called does not have a voice mailbox set up. Thank you.

Then the line went dead.

She put the phone down.

‘What is it?’ Matt said.

‘An automated message saying no voicemail has been set up.’

‘If they’re using different numbers, they probably get rid of the phones afterwards.’

She pictured someone throwing a phone into a bin then taking a new one from a rucksack and typing in a number.

Matt’s number.

‘My God,’ she said. ‘They know your number. Which means this isn’t random. It isn’t someone who saw an opportunity and grabbed it.’ She took a deep breath in an attempt to control the panic rising in her chest. It didn’t work. ‘This was planned,’ she said. ‘Someone was watching and waiting.’ She felt a wave of nausea. ‘They’ve been watching us, Matt.’

Matt stood and began to pace the room. ‘I know.’

‘But why? What do they think we have? What do they want?’

‘I can’t think of anything,’ Matt said.

‘But to go to all this effort …’ Annabelle’s voice tailed off. ‘This is fucking unbelievable. Why would anyone do this? What do they want from us?’

‘It must be money,’ Matt said. ‘What else is there?’

‘But we don’t have the kind of money that would make this worthwhile,’ Annabelle said.

‘Maybe they think we do.’

‘But we don’t,’ she said. ‘And if we say we don’t they’ll think we’re holding out on them and’ – she choked back a sob – ‘and they’ll hurt the kids. Matt, they’re going to hurt my babies. We have to stop them. Please, we have to stop this!’

‘How?’ Matt said.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any ideas.’

And then, in her hand, her husband’s phone buzzed.

This will be a shock for them. It will be the last thing they’re expecting. They will be thinking the ransom will be for money, because they – in particular he, I don’t blame her so much – are people of very feeble imagination.

Like the rest of the common herd, snouting around in the dirt for a few scraps, leaving the real prizes for those who can see the truth.

What else is there, they will think. What else could anyone want from them? The dirty Land Rover Discovery? No – that has already been taken. The three kiddoes? They too, have already been taken. Their house, as modest as his ambition? Impossible. How could they give me their house without me revealing who I am? It’s hardly portable property.

So what else could I want?

His resignation? What would be the point? For him to humiliate himself? It’s a pleasant thought, I admit, but please. I am not that sort of petty-minded person. I am not that shallow.

And he’ll be humiliated enough, as it is.

Which leaves only one thing. That grubbiest of motives, money.

Which is, frankly, beneath me.

They don’t know that, though, so they will conclude that I will be asking for cash. Lots of it. Which confuses them, because they aren’t wealthy. Not poor, but nowhere near rich enough to make their kids the target of kidnappers looking for a ransom. I mean, think about what has gone into this. To pull this off required preparation and time. And a vastly superior nerve and intelligence. Let’s not forget that. Even they will have worked out that the person who took his car and children must have been watching, waiting for an opportunity.

And they would only do that if there was a significant reward, which means a lot of money.

Which they don’t have.

So they’ll conclude it’s a mistake. This is a mistake and someone thinks they’re richer than they are, so they’re going to have to say they can’t come up with the one or two or three million they get asked for.

This will worry them. They will fear that the kidnapper will be angry if they say they can’t pay. And eventually, if they keep saying it, the kidnapper will realize it’s true and disappear, along with their children.

They are probably working out what they can offer. Sell the house, ask relatives. Maybe they can come up with half a million.

Tops.

But they don’t need to worry. I won’t be asking for money. I want something much more valuable.

And the time has come to let them know what that is.

I will tell them what I want, and they will give it to me. It will be a shock to him. A blow, a loss almost beyond imagining.

Not to her, though. Neither a shock, nor a blow. It will be welcome.

Time now, then, to introduce them to their new futures.

Same method: take out a new phone. Type a new message.

Press send.

And wait.

Annabelle

The message was from another new number. Annabelle held it so that both she and Matt could read it.

If you want to see your children again you will do exactly as I say. Understood?

She squeezed his upper arm. ‘Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘This is actually happening.’

He glanced at her. ‘I think they want a reply. For us to say we got the message.’

‘OK,’ she said. She typed a reply.

Understood.

The reply was immediate.

Good. And I see you have not informed the police. So we can move forward.

‘They know,’ Annabelle said. ‘They know we haven’t told the police.’

‘It could be a bluff,’ Matt said. ‘Or a guess.’

‘Maybe.’ She pressed her head to his chest. This was unbelievable. They were having a text conversation with the kidnapper of their children. Her stomach heaved. She dropped the phone and staggered out of the living room. The door of the downstairs bathroom banged as she slammed it open and threw up in the toilet bowl. She stayed kneeling before it, her hands on the tiled floor.

Matt appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t left them—’

‘Don’t,’ Annabelle said. She didn’t want to go down this route, not now. She didn’t know where it would end, because he was right, if he hadn’t left them …

But that wasn’t going to bring them back, and at the back of her mind she couldn’t stop the idea that this was coming someday, whatever they did. This person was so determined, so twisted, that they were going to get to their kids one way or another, come what may.

‘Ask for proof they’re alive,’ she said. ‘I need to know my babies are OK.’

He typed a message and showed it to her.

Please send proof the children are well.

The reply was immediate.

Later. First, I tell you what I want.

‘This is it,’ Matt said. ‘This is when whoever this is asks for something we don’t have and we have to try and sort this mess out.’

‘You still think it’s money?’

‘It’s always money. What else could it be? We’ll do whatever we have to, Annabelle. Sell the house. Ask my sister. Your brother. They can have everything we own.’

She closed her eyes. ‘What if it’s not enough? What if we’re nowhere near having what they want?’

‘We’ll offer what we can,’ Matt said.

‘And if that’s not enough?’ Annabelle said. ‘If they think it’s too risky to be worth it to them and we never hear from them again?’

‘We’ll take the risk anyway. Beg them to return the kids. We’ll promise not to pursue them if they do. We’ll promise not to tell anyone. They can have everything and walk away.’ He got to his feet. ‘But we can cross that bridge later.’ He held out her hand for the phone and typed a message.

What do you want?

They stared at the screen, waiting. The silence seemed to stretch forever, then the reply came.

The ransom is Annabelle. If you want to see your children again, you will exchange them for her.

The silence stretched on.

‘No,’ Annabelle said eventually. ‘No, not this. That’s crazy. It’s impossible.’

‘I’m going to call the number,’ Matt said. ‘Talk to them. This is madness.’

Before he could call, another message arrived.

You have my demand. It is simple and non-negotiable. Further instructions will come tomorrow morning. You will have one chance to agree. If you accept my terms, your children will be returned to you unharmed. If not, you will never see them alive again.

Matt pressed call. She watched as his face contorted in agony.

‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Too late. Just a message saying there’s no voicemail. The phone’s dead. It’s been switched off, or destroyed.’

Annabelle barely heard the words. She folded her arms tightly.

‘Matt,’ she said. ‘It’s me. I’m the ransom.’

‘No. That’s not going to happen. It’s ludicrous.’

‘Maybe,’ Annabelle said. ‘But it’s happening. This is real, Matt.’

‘There’s a way out of this,’ he said. ‘There has to be.’

‘Then what is it?’ she said. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’