by Lake, Alex
Which is great. Everything is going perfectly. It’s almost too easy.
Tap out the number. Let it ring. Here she is.
‘Wynne.’
‘Hi. Thanks for that.’ Pleasant, slightly submissive tone of voice. Make them think you’re harmless. Like I said, too easy.
‘Not a problem. Could you tell me where you were over the weekend, Mr Sanderson?’
She’s looking to see if I have an alibi.
As if I would not have an alibi. What kind of idiot would not have an alibi? I mean, no wonder the police never get anything done. Does she seriously think that someone who could plan and execute this would neglect to give themselves an alibi?
It’s almost insulting.
‘Let me see, I was in the office on Friday, left around four p.m. and went to my lake house.’
‘Your lake house?’
‘Yes. I have place by a lake. Between London and Brighton. I go there often, but this weekend I was there because I had a meeting in Brighton on Saturday morning.’
All true. All verifiable.
I left the office at four. Got to the house at six.
Then I drove the van up to a truck stop. Four long, boring hours.
But necessary. You see, I had decided that this was the weekend I was doing it. I’d been watching them for a while – since the most recent book, when I realized the children weren’t an issue – and the time had come.
There will be travel restrictions soon, like in other countries. They will be here before long, and who knows how long they will last? I had to act, now.
The plan was to take one kid. Pick him or her up from the garden, or as they were walking to the corner shop.
It was just luck that had presented all three.
Another four hours back to the lake house, on the motorbike I’d taken up in the back of the van. Small, but does the job.
I towed it back up North on Saturday afternoon, on a trailer hooked up to the Audi. It was how I got around while I was up there. No one recognizes you under a helmet. It’s very useful. You can get very close to people, and they have no idea you’re there. The bike’s at the truck stop now. They might find it, one day, and trace it back to one Andrew Stephenson, of Skegness. Which won’t help them.
‘What was the meeting in Brighton?’ the detective asks.
‘It was to plan a literary festival. I was offering to do a talk on how to get an agent.’
‘What time did that end?’
‘About midday.’
‘And then?’
‘Back to the lake house.’
‘Did anyone see you there?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ I put a regretful tone into my voice. ‘It’s quite remote.’
‘There might be someone,’ Wynne said. ‘We’ll ask around.’
Wynne
DI Wynne cut the connection. Dudek glanced at her.
‘Anything?’ he said.
She looked at the screen of her phone. It was dark, and her face looked back at her. There were no answers there.
‘No. He’s known her for years. Since they were teenagers. They’re good friends.’
‘Ever more than that?’
‘He said not.’
‘Believe him?’ Dudek said.
‘I think so. Even if there was something, it was a long time ago.’
‘He could have been secretly in love with her, all along,’ Dudek said, then shrugged. ‘I know. Clutching at straws.’
‘And he has an alibi,’ Wynne said. ‘He was in Brighton on Saturday at a literary thing. Until midday, at least. I’ll check it, but I don’t think it’s him.’
Dudek’s phone rang. He picked it up. ‘Forensics,’ he said. ‘They might have something on the cars.’
Wynne held her hand out. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said. ‘No talking while driving.’
Matt
The kids were asleep. At different points during the night all three of them had been awake. Molly was first; around one in the morning she came into his room. He was awake anyway; he held out his arms and she climbed into bed with him.
Where’s Mummy?
She’s still gone.
I thought you were going to find her?
She was too young to understand that finding Mum might not be as easy as finding a lost teddy bear or book. For Molly, Mum being gone was a temporary thing. Confusing, yes, but soon to be over.
He wished he could be as confident.
Once she was asleep, he managed to nod off. He was woken by Norman. He was standing by the bed, shivering.
Hey, Matt said. Come in the bed. Are you cold?
Norman shook his head. I’m scared.
He held his son tight against him until his shaking stopped. He had not held him like that for a long time and he was shocked by how big he was. He was starting to become aware of the world in a way that younger kids weren’t. These were key years, and it was possible he would be without his mum for them. Matt turned his face away. He didn’t want his tears to run off his face and onto Norman’s.
Last to come was Keith. He opened the door noisily; that was always how he had tried to get attention. He wouldn’t come and tell you he wanted to talk, or burst into tears. He would stomp around a room, or kick something or open a door with a bang, so you’d ask how he was. Then he’d say fine, and you’d say are you sure? And he’d say, yes, but and whatever it was would come out.
Only because you asked, though. Not because he wanted to tell you.
Are you OK? Matt said.
Fine.
Come here and give me a hug.
I’m fine.
I want a hug anyway.
He came over. Matt moved to make space for him. Everything OK?
Yes. Then a pause. Is Mum coming back?
He kissed his forehead. Yes.
How do you know?
I believe it, Keith. I just believe it.
Norman would not have accepted that as an answer; he would have asked for proof and facts. Keith was a different type of person. He nodded.
I believe it too, he said.
Now – in the late afternoon – all three were asleep in the living room. Tiredness had caught up with them; they were too young to fight it.
He wasn’t. He was exhausted but sleep seemed a distant possibility. He could fall asleep, but almost immediately he would jerk awake, his heart racing. The few minutes of rest were enough to – barely – keep him going. He’d read once about sailors who went solo around the world. They were unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time in case something went wrong, and so that was what they did. Every hour they napped for ten minutes, which added up to four hours a day.
Hardly high-quality sleep hygiene, but clearly enough. Maybe that was his future.
He opened the drawer where they kept the tea and took out a teabag. Next to the Tetley’s was a box of jasmine green tea.
It was what Annabelle drank. They had an ongoing debate about whether it was proper tea or not. She claimed it was; he said it wasn’t. She was right, of course, and in truth he quite liked it, but it had become part of the furniture of their relationship.
Drinking that muck again?
You should try it, Matt.
He had various stock responses:
I did. Thought I’d picked up some warm drain cleaner by accident.
Or:
I have been using it, actually. It’s good for cleaning your feet.
Or:
Someone came over the other day who I really don’t like, so I made them a cup.
She would roll her eyes, and laugh, and he would say, Go on then, I’ll have a cup, and they would sit on the couch and drink jasmine green tea together and enjoy the quiet and be happily in love, married now and forever.
He dropped the teabag and sank to his haunches, a huge sob heaving his chest painfully.
Was that all gone? Was their relationship – the bedrock of his entire adult life – over? Because of an unknown individual with an unknow
n reason?
It felt that way, and it felt like an unbearable fate. If that was what the world had in store for him, he wanted no part of it. He wanted oblivion.
But that was not an option. Norman and Keith and Molly needed him.
He wasn’t sure he could do it.
The door opened. He wiped his eyes and got to his feet. Norman was looking at him, his eyes swollen and puffy.
‘Daddy,’ he said. ‘I want Mum. Can you get her? Please?’
Annabelle
It was dark outside. She had watched the day pass by, the shadows of the trees growing longer. From the position of the sun she could tell that the house was facing south to the lake, not that the knowledge was much use to her.
She looked out across the water. There were no lights visible, no houses that she could see. Occasionally car headlights moved on the far side of the lake. There must be a road there, although it was very lightly used. The cars were very infrequent.
She tapped the glass again. It was much thicker than ordinary glass; her dad had taken her and Mike to Brittany one summer and it reminded her of the windows on the ferry. They were scratched and salt-caked, but they felt similarly robust and unbreakable.
She thought about the builder who had put the window in. Had they not wondered why Guy wanted a room like this? Or had Guy told them some story? It was hard to think what it could be. Either way, even if the builder had been suspicious, it didn’t help her now.
She left the window. There was a door in the corner of the room which led to a small bathroom. There was a plastic cup next to the sink – anything heavier might be a weapon, she supposed – which she filled with water. Guy had left no food, although there was a small packet of ibuprofen. She had already taken six of them – her shoulder was throbbing – and there were only two left.
She popped them out of the foil and put them in her mouth, then washed them down with the water. It was cold, and delicious. Perhaps it came from the lake, or a well, but it tasted much better than what came from the tap at home.
That was something.
She tilted her neck to one side to stretch it. It pulled on her shoulder muscles and she grunted in pain. She would have to ask him for stronger painkillers. The ibuprofen just wasn’t cutting it.
She was also starting to feel hungry. She had hardly eaten since the kids were taken, so she might try to eat when Guy came back.
There was a chance she would throw it all up, though. She had a constant, low-level nausea.
When would he be back? He had gone to the office, intending to keep up appearances. That was in London, so what? An hour away? If he left at five, he’d be here soon. She had no watch, but it began to get dark in the late afternoon at this time of year, so he should be here soon.
And then what? Food, more painkillers, but what else? Beg him to let her go? That didn’t seem likely to work.
Which left one option. She could explain to him, calmly and rationally, that she did not love him, that the books were not secret messages, and that he was mistaken about the whole thing. If he knew that then surely he would see that this was pointless.
Let me leave, she’d say, and I’ll find my own way home. I’ll say I have no memory of what happened to me. Everything can go back to normal.
She turned back to the window. A car was passing on the far side of the lake.
She heard a noise behind her and jumped, startled.
There was a click, and the door unlocked.
She will be glad to see me, obviously. She was tentative earlier, which is to be expected. After all, she has been waiting for this for most of her adult life, ever since she realized – early on – what an error her marriage was and began to plan for how to get out of it.
She could have just asked me, but I understand it wasn’t that easy for her. Maybe she didn’t even fully understand her desperation herself. A kind of protection mechanism, maybe, to stop herself from losing her mind.
She was starting to see it, though, earlier. She wanted to test me, which I can accept. She needs to be sure.
Like I am. I am sure this is right, and that helps with everything. It provides clarity. Who could do what I have done if they had doubts? Even if she tells me she does not want this, I know she does. I see more clearly than her. It’s my job to guide her to the light.
I have food for her. She will be hungry. Smoked trout. Greek salad. Feta, cucumbers, tomato. Fresh bread from my favourite bakery. The bottle of Piper Heidsieck I removed earlier: 2008, a vintage year. Very good with seafood.
Not the kind of crap she is used to. Last time I was at her house I was appalled at the swill her fool of a husband was letting her pollute herself with.
I think it was Australian. I could hardly bear to look. She deserves so much better. And this is the start of her getting what she deserves. It will take time for her to realize what she has been missing. In a way it is like deprogramming someone from a cult, but I have time. Time does not worry me. I am above time. Beyond it.
I unlock the door. I am looking forward to seeing her. This has been in the making for years but now I know she is there it is hard to be away.
She is standing by the window. Her face is pale. She looks tired.
It must be the pain. The package of ibuprofen is empty.
My poor darling.
‘Here,’ I say. ‘Have a little food.’
Annabelle
1
The door opened. He was wearing a pair of dark grey trousers and a white, tailored shirt.
In his hands he held a tray with a plate of salad on it, and a bottle of champagne. Probably the one from earlier.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Have a little food.’
What hunger she had been feeling drained away.
‘Maybe later,’ she said.
‘You’re not hungry?’
‘A little. I might try it in a bit.’
He put the tray on the table and gestured at the bottle.
‘Drink? It’s a good bottle. Vintage.’
She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know the difference.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But you will. Should I open it?’
She didn’t know what to say. Champagne was for moments of celebration: a wedding, or the birth of a child, or seeing a good friend after a long absence. It was not for this. It was a sign of how far apart they were: he was hoping to drink champagne; it was the last thing she wanted.
‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘If you want to, go ahead.’
He frowned. ‘I got it for you!’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
He inhaled through his nostrils then blew out his cheeks as though dealing with an unreasonable child. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it. I don’t want to drink alone. So. How was your day?’
He held her gaze, smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes. She had the sense that he was fighting to control a strong emotion.
The fear came back. He was not stable at all, and that terrified her.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘It was … unusual.’
‘Good, though?’
‘Yes. Good.’
The smile stayed exactly as it was. ‘Mine too. Nobody suspects anything. The police called me. They have no idea.’ The smiled widened. ‘Which is fantastic, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You don’t sound very convinced!’ he said, his voice rising to a higher pitch. ‘I mean, the least you could fucking do is try to sound fucking convinced!’
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just – you know – I miss my children.’ It was not a good time to mention Matt. ‘I’m worried about them.’
‘You didn’t even want them!’ he shouted. ‘You wrote a book about it. About the regret! About how you were depressed because of them!’
That was fiction, you moron, she wanted to say. Are you that deluded?
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know. But I grew close to them.’
He sighed. ‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘
After all I’ve done, all you can say is that you’re worried about those brats? Those irrelevant brats?’ He massaged his temples with his forefingers. His hands were shaking. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s start again.’
He rearranged his features into the smile that did not reach his eyes.
‘So. How was your day?’ he said.
2
She had a strong impression that if she antagonized him further he might snap, and she did not want to see what would happen then.
She took a deep breath. She could say whatever she needed to to get through this. It was just words.
‘My day,’ she said, ‘was great.’
‘Did you miss me?’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘How much?’
How much? How much was enough for him?
‘A lot. I missed you a lot.’
‘More than you missed your children?’
No sane person would ask that of a mother, but then he was no sane person.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘More than them.’
‘How much more?’ he said. ‘How many times more? Let’s say you missed them a five. What did you miss me? A ten? A fifty?’
‘A fifty,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Wow. I never expected that. You did miss me!’
This was going nowhere. He was totally delusional. He thought she was in love with him and had been secretly wanting him to rescue her from her husband and children, and nothing would change his mind.
That was the most frightening part. Nothing would change his mind.
At least she knew that now, but there was still one thing she did not understand.
‘Guy,’ she said. ‘Why did you take the kids? Why did you arrange the ransom?’
He had been looking at the champagne; she had the idea he was about to suggest drinking it again, but he whipped around to look at her.
His eyes were narrow, his lips thin and white, pressed together in what looked like fury.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you say?’
She had no idea why he was reacting like this, what it was that had tipped him into this fury.
