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
