by Lake, Alex
Monday, 9 March 2020, 8 a.m.
Wynne
Detective Inspector Wynne studied Matt Westbrook closely. He was haggard and drawn. He looked like he hadn’t slept, which was more than likely.
He sat on the couch in his living room and rubbed his eyes.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You and your wife had no ideas who this might be?’
‘None,’ he said. ‘When we found out it was a ransom, we assumed someone wanted money – and that they’d made a mistake targeting us, since we don’t have enough to make this worthwhile. But when we found out the ransom was Annabelle …’ His voice tailed off and he shrugged. ‘We had no idea who it could be.’
‘And you have thought through all areas of your lives? Family, friends, work? Nothing unusual springs to mind?’
Matt Westbrook started to shake his head, then hesitated.
‘There’s nothing, really,’ he said. ‘But there were some weird emails, right before we got married.’
‘Emails?’ Dudek asked. ‘From who?’
‘They were anonymous. Saying things like “you don’t have to go through with this”. That kind of thing.’
Wynne looked at Dudek. ‘And you have no idea who sent them?’
‘None. They stopped, and we didn’t think too much about them. We thought maybe it was a stupid joke.’
‘They stopped?’ Wynne said. ‘Do you still have them?’
‘We looked. They’re gone.’
‘Good to know,’ Dudek said. ‘But it doesn’t help much.’
‘No,’ Wynne said. ‘But it is interesting. If the emails are linked, then this dates back to the time of Mr and Mrs Westbrook’s wedding.’
‘If,’ Dudek said. ‘We don’t know they’re linked.’
‘True,’ Wynne said. ‘There’s something else I’d like to explore. Mrs Westbrook is an author?’
‘Yes,’ Matt said.
‘I assume you considered that it might be a fan?’
‘We talked about it, but it didn’t help. It could be anyone. And whoever’s behind this knew so much about us. My phone number, where we live. The kids’ names. It seemed more likely it was someone who knows us.’
‘That information is relatively simple to get hold of.’
‘You think it was a fan?’ Matt Westbrook said.
‘If it was someone you know, that would be easy to find out. Whoever it was would have to have been missing from their day-to-day lives for the last forty-eight hours, and that would stand out. So I think it is very possible it is a fan. Or someone outside your circle of friends. But I know that doesn’t help.’
Matt flinched. ‘It could be anyone,’ he said.
‘Yes, but we have the details of the van,’ she said. ‘That’s the main thing at the moment. Do you happen to know of any fans she has interacted with? Does she have Twitter, Facebook? A website?’
‘All of them, I think.’
‘Do you have her password?’ Dudek said.
‘They should be on her phone,’ Matt said. ‘I’ll unlock it. You can take it, if it helps.’
‘Thanks,’ Dudek said.
‘Did she ever mention a fan who tried to get too close?’ Wynne said.
Matt looked up as he thought. ‘Not really. Not recently, anyway.’
‘Not recently?’ Dudek said. ‘There was someone in the past?’
‘Kind of. I mean, it was hardly anything, but there was a guy who came to a couple of her readings. He said he was a poet and gave her his books in exchange for hers. I think he had no money. He was a bit – I don’t know what the word is these days – but a bit off.’
‘Off in what way?’ Wynne said.
‘Very intense. He wanted her to write specific messages in the books. He came to at least two readings.’
‘Do you know his name?’ Wynne said.
‘No,’ Matt replied. ‘But I can find out. I think she kept the books of poems he gave to her.’
Matt
Matt opened the door to Annabelle’s office. It was, in theory, a shared office, but he rarely used it for anything other than a quiet moment reading the news.
The chair, an old leather office chair on wheels, was pushed back from the desk. She must have left it there. When was that? Was she working at the desk a couple of days ago, in the moments before all this happened?
He sat down and pulled the chair up to the desk. Her laptop was open, the screen dark, on the surface; there was an empty mug next to it. The tab of a green teabag hung over the side. On the left of the desk there was a manuscript, covered in edits and notes. Behind that was a photo of the five of them around a sunny pub table. He remembered it well; they had been walking in the Lake District and stopped for lunch.
He was overwhelmed by a sense of her presence. This room was hers; she had occupied it and shaped it. She was part of it. It was unthinkable that it could exist without her.
But it did. She was not here, and this was what she had left behind. His throat was constricted, his stomach hollow. This must be what it was like when someone died, he thought. The world they had lived in was still there; only they were missing.
He pushed the thought away. She was not gone yet. He could not think like that.
It would drive him mad.
He scanned the shelves above the desk, going over the books one by one. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he knew it was slim. It could easily be hidden between two books.
And then he saw it. Next to her first novel there was a small gap. He slid his finger into it and pulled it out. A slender, home-made book of poetry. He took it out and opened it. There was an inscription, in block capitals.
TO ANNABELLE
FROM ONE WRITER TO ANOTHER; WE SHARE A SPECIAL BOND
YOURS MOST FAITHFULLY
CARL JAMESON
This was it. This was the guy. It had to be. He headed out of the office to show it to DI Wynne.
Wynne
Wynne opened the door of Dudek’s Astra and sat in the passenger seat. In her hand she held the volume of poetry Matt Westbrook had given her. Outside, Dudek was on the phone.
He finished his call and got in the car.
‘Put in a request for his address and any details we have on him,’ he said.
‘Good. We’ll go and talk to him.’ She turned to Matt Westbrook’s house. There was something about this case that had been bothering her, and now she knew what it was.
‘You look thoughtful, boss,’ Dudek said. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s something confusing here,’ Wynne said. ‘I’ve been thinking it over.’
‘What is it?’
‘The motive. I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘They want Annabelle.’
‘Right. But if that’s all it is, why do it this way?’
‘He’s obsessed. Or she. You know how it works. The motives are always the same: money, revenge, love. A crazy fan. Ex-boyfriend. A friend she pissed off. We can’t rule anything out yet.’
‘I get that,’ Wynne said. ‘But if what they want is Annabelle, why do it like this?’
‘What do you mean, exactly?’
‘If all they want is Annabelle, why kidnap the kids? Why not simply take her? And if they want revenge, why not just kill her? Why bother with the kids at all?’
‘Yeah,’ Dudek said. ‘I see what you’re saying. He could have kidnapped her. It would have been a lot easier. Pick her up somewhere and then disappear. All this – the messages, exchange, switching to a van – could have been avoided.’
‘Which suggests there’s a reason for it,’ Wynne said. ‘There’s something more going on. The kidnapper wants something. Maybe to send a message of some kind.’
‘Like writer to writer,’ Dudek said. ‘It is sort of poetic.’
‘Yes,’ Wynne said. ‘Exactly, like writer to writer. I think it’s time to pay Carl Jameson a visit.’
Annabelle
The first thing she thought when she woke up was that she had slept on her sh
oulder in an uncomfortable way. It ached with a dull throb.
The second was that she had a terrible hangover. Her mouth was dry, and she had a piercing headache. Oddly, her mouth hurt, as though it had been bruised.
What did I do last night? she thought. Did we go out?
She stretched out her left hand to reach for Matt. She needed a hug, and, if she could persuade him, a glass of water and an aspirin.
He was not there. There was nothing there. Her hand flopped into space, which was weird, because she always slept on the right side of the bed.
And then she remembered.
The car. The kids. The reason her shoulder hurt. The reason her mouth hurt.
She opened her eyes.
The room was totally dark. She lay there, waiting for her eyes to adjust, but there was nothing to adjust to. She twisted on the bed, feeling behind her with her good arm. There was a wall. She ran her hand over it, hoping for a switch. There was nothing.
Then she froze.
Was she alone in here? Was there someone with her, sitting beside the bed, watching? She pictured the figure in the hoodie, here, now, arms folded, watching …
She listened. For a second she thought she heard someone breathing, thought she could detect the sound of a heart beating.
She realized it was hers.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Is anyone here?’
There was no answer.
She moved her legs to the right, feeling for the end of the mattress. It was a double bed, at least. She shuffled across it, and sat on the right-hand edge, her left hand in front of her. She inched forward until she felt a wall, then gradually raised her hand until she was standing and her arm was above her head. She reached as far as she could, but did not get to the ceiling.
A high ceiling, then. Probably not a basement.
She swept her hand down in an arc, keeping it on the wall. When it was almost at ninety degrees to her body, her fingertips brushed something. It felt like a raised piece of wood; a window frame, she assumed.
She felt around the edge, then into the middle. Her fingers did not touch glass or the fabric of a curtain. Rather, there was a hard, plastic cover. A shutter, maybe.
She inched along the window, her left hand – the right was uselessly strapped to her body by the sling – running along the bottom of the window frame.
And then the window frame ran out, and, at the far side of the window, her fingers met a rod, dangling against the wall.
She pulled it, but it did not lengthen. She turned it to the left, then to the right and it began to rotate.
Gradually, dull spots of light appeared in the window. They merged into lines and the blind started to rise. After a few seconds it was up, and she was looking out of a window.
It was a view that was somehow familiar. A lawn sloped about fifty feet to a small stony beach, on the shore of a placid, grey lake. It looked like a large body of water, the far side about three hundred yards away.
And she realized that she knew this place.
She had the same feeling she’d had when she saw the kidnapper, face obscured by the hoodie. There was something about that slender, thin-hipped build and the measured, precise way they moved that she recognized.
It was the same now. She had seen this place before. She hadn’t been here, but it was familiar. It wasn’t the Lake District – there were no mountains – and she racked her brains for other bodies of water that she knew. Budworth Mere. Carsington Water. They were this kind of size, but it wasn’t them. She knew them. Maybe it was somewhere famous, maybe it had featured in a film or TV show.
God, it was frustrating. It was right there in her memory, but agonizingly out of view. She was sure that if she could just figure it out, it would hold the key to what was going on.
But it slipped away.
She turned to look at the room. To her left was a double bed. On the far side of the bed was a table with a lamp. To her right was a door. It was closed and, she had no doubt, would be locked. On the far wall was a desk, above which were shelves filled with books.
On the desk was a bottle of champagne, with two plastic flutes next to it. It looked set up for a romantic celebration.
She felt a shudder of apprehension.
The books were mainly fiction, a mixture of classics, Booker winners, modern authors. There was little that wasn’t considered literary.
On the top shelf was a set of encyclopedias. There were six volumes, so hardly the Britannica, but something.
And next to them were copies of her books.
All four of them.
The most recent, This Is Not the End, on the desktop itself.
Plus the translations.
All four into French, German and Spanish. The first two into Italian and Greek. The second one into Polish. The first into Korean, too.
There was a copy of everything.
What the fuck was this?
She ran to the door and tried the handle. It didn’t move. She hammered on it.
‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘Open this door! Come here and tell me what’s going on?’
The words faded into the silence.
And then there was the sound of footsteps outside, and the scrape of a key in a lock.
Wynne
1
DI Wynne sipped a mug of coffee. DS Dudek sat opposite her, a piece of A4 paper in his hand.
‘Here’s what we know about Carl Jameson,’ he said. ‘Thirty-nine years old, unmarried. No kids. Lives in a terraced house in Padgate with his mum. About ten years back he got arrested for shoplifting. Got off with a warning. That’s about it.’
‘Plus he’s a poet and a fan of Annabelle Westbrook,’ Wynne said.
‘That too.’ DS Dudek folded his arms. ‘If he has her, where would he keep her?’
‘Good question. An abandoned building? Or in the house. Maybe his mother knows what he’s done. Maybe she helped him. Stranger things have happened.’ Wynne finished the coffee. ‘Let’s go and see him.’
DI Wynne knocked on the door. There was no doorbell; the door looked like it needed painting. Two houses down, a man in his forties came out. He was wearing overalls and carrying a flask.
He studied them. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ DI Wynne said.
The man didn’t move. ‘You looking for Edith?’
‘Her son,’ DS Dudek said.
‘Carl?’
‘Yes. Does he still live here?’
‘Aye,’ the man said. ‘He does.’ He sniffed. ‘Are you police? Is Carl in trouble?’
‘We are the police,’ Wynne said, then gave her standard response to these kind of questions. ‘We’re making routine enquiries.’
‘Involving Carl? I don’t see what you’d need from him.’
‘What’s your name, sir?’ Wynne said. The man flinched. No one liked giving their name to the police, however innocent they were.
‘Jim Franks,’ he said.
‘Are you related to Carl Jameson?’ she asked.
‘No. Just a neighbour. Known him since he was a baby. He’s a good kid.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Wynne said. She was about to knock again, when there was the sound of a lock being drawn and the front door opened.
A woman, in her seventies at least, looked at them.
‘Hello,’ she said. She looked worried, her eyes moving from DI Wynne to DS Dudek. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Jane Wynne,’ Wynne said. ‘And this is DS Dudek. I take it you are Edith Jameson? We have some questions for your son, Carl. Is he here?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Edith Jameson. And Carl is in the front room. Do you have any identification? Sorry to ask, but – you know.’
Wynne and Dudek held up their warrant cards. ‘Take your time,’ Wynne said. Edith Jameson’s neighbour was still watching them. ‘If you have any concerns, we’re happy to have your neighbour join us.’
‘That’s OK,’ Edith said. ‘Come in.’
Inside the hall, Edith gestured at a closed door. ‘He’s in there,’ she said. ‘He’s up, but let me check he’s ready.’
She knocked gently on the door, then eased it open and looked inside.
‘Carl,’ Wynne heard her say. ‘There’s people here to see you.’
There was a muffled response.
‘OK. I’ll let them know.’
She turned back to look at them.
‘He says can he have a few minutes?’
Wynne nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Would you like a drink while you wait?’ She smiled. ‘Tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ Wynne said. ‘I just had one.’
‘Do you have coffee?’ DS Dudek said. ‘I’m not much of a tea drinker.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I don’t. Neither of us drink coffee. Although, come to think of it, I did have instant, a while back. Let me check the cupboards.’
‘That’s fine,’ Dudek said. ‘No need to go to any trouble.’
‘Water, then?’
‘Really, Mrs Jameson,’ Wynne said. ‘We don’t need anything. But thank you for offering. It’s much appreciated.’
‘Not at all,’ Edith said. She gave a quiet cough. ‘If I could ask – what is this about, exactly?’
‘Do you recognize the name Annabelle Westbrook?’ Wynne said.
It was clear from the puzzled expression on her face that she did not, or at least, wanted them to think she did not. Wynne was getting the impression that deceit of that kind was not in her repertoire, however.
‘Who is she?’ Edith said.
‘Someone we’re making enquiries about,’ Wynne said.
‘Do you think Carl knows her?’ She frowned. ‘He’s never mentioned her. He doesn’t have all that many friends, Mrs—’
‘Wynne. Detective Inspector Wynne. We think he may know her. He’s certainly met her on at least two occasions. She’s a writer. He attended her readings.’
The frown fell away. ‘Do you mean Annabelle Anderson?’
Wynne glanced at Dudek.
‘Maiden name?’ he said.
‘Or pen name,’ Wynne said.
‘I’ll check.’ Dudek took out his phone and tapped on the screen. After a moment, he nodded. ‘That’s it. She publishes as Annabelle Anderson.’
