five-three and about eight and a half stone, and he was six-foot-three and probably sixteen stone. She knew from the times he had lain on top of her how heavy that was, and how hard it was to move that kind of weight.
She’d get only one chance to hit him and it would have to work, or he’d overpower her and take Max anyway and repeat the awful, awful punishment he had meted out last time.
So that one hit had to work. She had to maximize its effect. And for that she needed one more element, an element she thought she might have figured out.
The man opened the door. He was holding a tray, and he locked the door, his attention on the key.
When he turned to Maggie, he frowned.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’
Maggie was sitting on the mattress. She smiled at him. Max was sleeping on the floor, his head on a pillow; it had been a struggle to get him to go to sleep.
She stood up. The man’s gaze moved up and down her body.
Her naked body.
‘Put the tray down,’ she said, in the closest approximation she could manage of a sultry tone. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’
The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion but she could see the sudden flare of desire in them.
Desire for sex, yes, but more for love.
He bent at the waist and placed the tray on the ground and she launched herself at him, hitting him hard in the small of his back. He fell forward and there was a thud as his head hit the wall. The tray fell to the floor, the plate and cup clattering together before settling on to the carpet. She grabbed for the key, but he twisted his hand away and rolled on to his back, staring at her, his breathing heavy. Blood beaded on his forehead. He put his finger to it, and examined his blood.
‘You fool,’ he said. ‘You stupid fool. You really think that is enough to hurt me?’
He levered himself up on to his elbows then stood up. Maggie took a step backwards. It was over, already. Her plan had failed miserably. And now he was going to punish her.
At least Max was still asleep. He was a good sleeper, so she doubted he’d wake up. She was glad; he didn’t need to see this.
He grabbed her upper arm and shoved her, hard. The gasp she made as her back hit the wall and the air left her lungs reminded her of his strength, of the strength she had thought – ridiculously – she could overpower.
And now, the payback.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ she said.
The man contemplated her.
‘Fruitcake,’ he said. ‘My little Fruitcake. I understand why you did that. I’m not inhuman. I know how hard what’s to come will be for you. But it’s for the best. I can’t leave him with you. If I do, we won’t be able to be together.’
Maggie didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The fear of what he was going to do to Max and her anger at her failure to save him were too great.
‘So I won’t do anything to you, this time.’ His expression hardened. ‘But don’t do it again, Fruitcake. This is your one free pass, OK?’
She nodded.
He smiled.
‘Love you,’ he said, and unlocked the door.
Twelve Years Earlier, 9 July 2006
Martin Cooper opened his eyes. He looked at his watch; it was almost four thirty in the morning, which meant he’d been asleep for around two hours.
That was all he was going to get.
It had been two nights. He rubbed his eyes. They felt raw. The night Maggie disappeared he hadn’t slept at all and, with tonight’s two restless hours, he could feel the exhaustion building up. It made no difference, though. There was no way he would be able to sleep again.
And he didn’t want to. He wanted to find his daughter.
He got out of bed and crossed the landing to her room. He opened the door and looked inside, half-expecting, half-hoping, to see a shape in her bed, sleeping off the effects of wherever she’d been.
It was empty.
On his way back from the park the night she disappeared he’d called the police and reported she was missing.
We’ll put out an alert, the officer he spoke to said, but she’s probably with a friend. More than likely she’ll turn up in the morning.
Except he’d spoken to all her friends and she wasn’t with them, and they didn’t know of anyone else she would have been with, any boy or man she’d mentioned.
So he and Sandra and James and his brother, Tony, and his friend from work, Reid, and Freddie, his neighbour, had spent the day looking for her. Between them they’d gone to every pub in Warrington and Manchester and Liverpool and Wigan and St Helens and anywhere else they could think of, and shown them a photo of Maggie.
None of them remembered seeing her. Quite a few said they couldn’t be sure.
Busy night, mate. Lots of people in here. Have you tried the cops?
He had. They hadn’t done much. They were looking for her, but they still thought she’d show up.
He’d lost track of the number of times he’d heard someone say most of the time teenagers do.
Most of the time wasn’t good enough. And Martin knew his little girl. She hadn’t gone off with a new boyfriend, enjoying herself while her parents worried. Some teenagers would – and maybe they were the ones that showed up – but not Mags. Not his Fruitcake.
If she was missing there was a reason, and he needed to find her.
He hadn’t, though. He came home, eventually, at one a.m., flat and exhausted and terrified. He’d slept, for those two hours.
And now he was awake. He didn’t know when he would ever be able to sleep again.
Next to him, Sandra rolled on to her side. Her breathing quickened and she sighed.
‘Are you awake?’ he said.
‘Yes. I barely slept.’
‘Me neither.’ He looked
