by Lake, Alex
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Did you ask why I arranged the ransom?’ he said. ‘Is that what you asked?’
His face was white, his eyes bulging in their sockets.
‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t matter?’ He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘You are such a bitch, Annabelle,’ he said. ‘Such a bitch. Well, I’m going to train you, you bitch. Like the dog you are. I should have done this years ago.’
He jumped across the room and grabbed her damaged arm.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Please. Don’t.’ Then she screamed as he lifted her elbow and twisted it. She felt the bones in her shoulder grind together and it was agony, eye-watering agony, and then he stopped and her arm flopped by her side.
‘The whole thing was about the ransom,’ he muttered, deflated. ‘And you pretend not to know why. How else could you have done it? You could never have left him for me. I tried, before the wedding. I offered you an out, but he had you trapped—’
‘That was you?’ she said. ‘You sent those emails?’
‘Yes. And it taught me that you were stuck, which only got worse when he made you have children. So you had to leave them as well, which you made clear to me in your last book was what you wanted to do.’
‘Why not just kidnap me?’ she said.
‘Because that would have been against your will! I had to give you the choice. You could have said no. You could have left the kids with me.’ He held up his hand. ‘It was perfect, right? It looked like you had no choice, because what mother would abandon her children like that? But I knew you didn’t care about abandoning them, so for you it was a choice. And you made it. You chose me. That was the final proof I needed.’
There was so much wrong with this, she didn’t know where to start. She hadn’t known it was Guy, so she couldn’t have chosen him. She had not been asking for his help. And she had never had any choice, because she did love her children, more than anything. She was not the mum he thought she was. She was the mum who would not have abandoned her children under any circumstances.
And that was the reason she was here. No other.
But she could not say that. She could not risk that anger again.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Here we are, again. Champagne?’
Tuesday, 10 March 2020, 7 a.m.
Wynne
1
They did not find his DNA in either vehicle.
Or hers. Wynne was still not sure this was a man. Pretty sure, but not certain. The kids thought it was, but they had described that high voice. It could have been a man with a high voice, of course, or a man disguising a low voice, or a woman.
The fact she couldn’t even be sure of which one summed up this entire case: she had no idea what was going on.
And the question of why bother kidnapping the kids only to return them was still unanswered.
She thought about Matt Westbrook. For her this was an annoyance – an extreme annoyance, yes, but no more than that. For him it was a total disaster, a collapse of his and his kids’ world. And he had no idea who or why, or whether he would ever see his wife again.
Wynne was beginning to think he wouldn’t, and the forensic results from the Golf and the Land Rover were not giving her much hope that her opinion would be changing any time soon.
‘So, yeah,’ Dudek said. ‘There was nothing. We found the kids’ DNA, Matt and Annabelle’s, but no one else’s.’
‘How’s that possible?’ she said. ‘How does someone drive a car for that long and not leave a trace?’
‘By being very careful,’ Dudek said. ‘And you know as well as I do. It’s not television. The forensics people aren’t miracle workers. You wear gloves and clean clothes, keep your hood up, maybe wear a face mask – you won’t leave much behind.’
‘Not much,’ Wynne said. ‘But nothing? That must have taken a lot of effort, which is telling in itself. They would only have taken such careful precautions if they felt that us getting their DNA presented a risk to them.’
‘Because we already have it?’
‘Right. Or because they think we could easily get it.’
Dudek nodded slowly. ‘Which suggests it’s someone she knows. They would assume that if we had DNA we would test everyone we could think of and find them.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘But we knew it might be someone she knows already. The question is who?’
‘Or it’s someone we have on file,’ Wynne said. ‘Which is new information.’
‘OK,’ Dudek said. ‘I’ll run a check for anyone with this kind of thing on their record, suspect or witness or interviewee.’
There was a knock on the office door. It opened and a uniformed officer came in. She gave a nod to Dudek then looked at Wynne.
‘Good news,’ she said. ‘We found the van.’
‘Where?’ Wynne said.
‘Near Sandbach. It was hidden away on a piece of wasteland. It’s well off the beaten track.’ The officer smiled. ‘It was a stroke of luck. A guy with a construction business was there – looking for a place to do a bit of fly-tipping, we think, but we’ll forgive him that – and he saw the van. Apparently it’s pretty bashed up, so he thought he could get parts from it. Turned out it started right up.’
‘The keys were in it?’ Dudek said.
‘I don’t think so. He seems the type who wouldn’t worry too much about keys. Anyway, he’d seen the news last night and remembered we were looking for a van that fit this description, so he called it in.’
Wynne stood up. ‘Let’s go. I want to see it. Then we can bring it in for forensics.’ She glanced at Dudek. ‘He may have been less careful with the van, or just in it for a longer period of time and so likely to have left more DNA. This could be it,’ she said. ‘This could be the break we needed.’
2
It was the van she had driven past. The windscreen smashed, the mirrors ripped off, the bonnet up, the metal creased and twisted: but the same van.
Wynne felt a chill in her back. She had been that close to Annabelle Westbrook. Mere feet away.
And now they had the van, maybe she’d be that close again, except this time she would not miss the opportunity.
It was clear now what the kidnapper had done. He had left the Golf at the pub, then walked to the truck stop and switched to the van, knowing that the police would figure out what they had done. So they had brought it to this deserted place and moved into another vehicle, well out of the sight of any cameras or prying eyes.
And then they had smashed it up so that it looked like another old van, abandoned so that the owner didn’t have to deal with disposing of it.
It was a good hiding place. The kidnapper would know that the police would have alerted junkyards to look out for the van, and this was the next best thing. Perhaps they planned to come and move it at some point in the future, but for now this was a near-perfect solution.
But not perfect.
Someone had seen it, and wondered what it was, and now here she and Dudek were.
‘Bring it in,’ she said. ‘I’ll call forensics and make it a top priority. I want to know what’s in that van as soon as possible.’
Annabelle
Annabelle lay on the bed, her shoulder throbbing. It was early; the dawn freshly broken, but she had been awake for a few hours, turning over what Guy had said.
She had a good idea of what he was thinking, and it terrified her. It was so outlandish and far from the truth that, if he believed this, he could believe – and do – anything. She had no idea how he had reached the conclusions he had, but that could wait. She had to deal in facts, and the fact was he thought she was secretly in love with him – so secretly she didn’t fully realize it – and had been communicating with him through her books.
So he had constructed this monstrous plan to kidnap her children and then exchange them for her. For him, if she accepted the exchange it was proof he was right: she was c
hoosing him over her family, all while being able to pretend to the world that she had no choice because she had to rescue her children. But since he thought she didn’t really care about her kids – it was in the most recent book – that meant she was choosing him.
And everything else flowed from there. Every other fantasy he had constructed was proved right.
There was no point in trying to challenge the edifice he had built up. The whole point of the last book was that she did love her kids, but he was clearly beyond reason. She wondered how long his madness had been going on. Had he always been like this? It went at least as far back as the wedding – the emails proved that – but was it even deeper than that?
It hardly mattered, and she could hardly ask him. It would only provoke another painful attack on her damaged shoulder. Or worse. Maybe he would try to hurt her children, or do something awful to Matt.
So she had to tread carefully, try to find out his plans in a way that did not upset him.
She could make it sound like she was interested, that she merely wanted to know, for the good of them both.
Could she do that? She wasn’t sure. But she was about to find out. There was a click as the door unlocked.
It opened, and there he was.
I’m going to have to get her better clothes. She looks scruffy. Bedraggled, almost. I want her to look her best. Sexy. I’ll get her some lingerie, too. She’ll want it. She’s going to want me to think she’s still a prize.
And right now she’s slipping. There’s no excuse, really – it’s a lack of respect for herself – and for me – and I won’t be able to accept that for long, but I can allow it this time.
This time.
She is in bed. She looks tired. She’s going to need to sleep more. That’s something else for her to work on.
‘So,’ I say. ‘What are you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘What do you mean?’
‘A medium?’ I look her up and down. Slim, but quite tall. She probably has problems getting things to fit, particularly coats, sweaters and shirts. It’s those long arms. ‘A twelve?’
‘Twelve what?’ She looked confused.
‘Size twelve. In clothes.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Yes. More or less.’
‘Long arms? That can be problematic. Most clothes are made for standard measurements – if you differ it can be a problem.’ I give her a wide reassuring smile. Her reply – I am starting to lose my patience now – is a grimace. ‘That’s why I get my clothes bespoke. You will be too, soon enough.’
‘We’re going to a tailor?’ she says. She sounds impressed.
‘Of course. Life is going to get much better, for both of us.’
‘Guy,’ she says. ‘What are you planning to do? You can’t keep me here forever.’
I laugh. ‘I know! I mean, we both want the same thing, right? To be together?’
She looks at me and there’s fear in there – I’m not surprised, this is a brave new future for us – but also something else. Intrigue maybe.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘We both want the same thing. But this is no way to live.’
‘I agree.’ This is great. Fantastic. She’s coming round sooner than I hoped. More proof – if more was needed – that I was right.
‘So what are you planning?’
I smile again. I’ve been waiting for this moment. For the moment when it is no longer just me, but us, working out our future together.
And I’ve been looking forward to telling her the plan, because it is a fucking genius plan, and she will love me for it.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘We want to live a normal life – as normal as two people like us can live, two extraordinary people—’
She interrupts me. Another opportunity for improvement. Interrupting is rude. ‘I’m not extraordinary, Guy. You might be, but not me. I’m just a normal person.’
‘Hardly!’ I laugh, and this time I mean it. ‘You are far from normal! Far above, that is. Anyway, we want to be able to go out and eat and have friends and go on holiday. Right?’
She nods again, still intrigued.
‘And the problem is that people will see you and recognize you. Even if we avoid old friends, who knows what will pop up on Facebook or Instagram?’ I raise a finger. ‘But I have a solution.’
‘Which is?’ she says.
‘It’s obvious when you think about it,’ I say, and I take an envelope from my jacket pocket. I hand it to her. ‘Take it out. Have a look.’
She reads it, and I see she is confused.
‘I don’t get it,’ she says.
Annabelle
1
Guy was smiling, but not in his eyes. His eyes gave him away. It was a smile she recognized: wide, open, easy, charming. He had been doing it all his life, but now she realized it was all a sham. It was a mask. Had it always been? And why was he going on about clothes sizes?
He handed her an envelope. ‘Take a look.’ She unfolded a piece of A4 paper.
It was a birth certificate for someone called Angelica Rina Schmidt, born in Munich in 1984.
She caught his eye. ‘I don’t get it.’
He smiled. Again it did not reach his eyes. It was not like a smile at all; more like a deliberate rearrangement of his features.
‘It’s brilliant,’ he said, his voice almost reverent. ‘Genius.’
‘What is?’ she said. ‘Who is Angelica Schmidt?’
‘She’s you,’ he said. ‘This is a birth certificate I … procured. And with it I can get you a passport, everything you need for identification. You’ll be Angelica. Angie. Guy and Angie. Got a ring to it, no?’
She was amazed he had not seen the flaw.
‘But, Guy,’ she said, ‘people will still recognize me.’
‘No they won’t,’ he said. ‘Not if you change your appearance. Short hair, different colour.’
He was wrong. People would see through that, eventually. But that was fine by her. She’d get recognized and this would be over.
‘OK,’ she said.
‘You’re thinking that’s not enough,’ he said. ‘And you’re right. That’s the plan. We are going to fundamentally change the way you look.’ He leaned down, his face close to hers, his lizard smile fixed. ‘Plastic surgery,’ he said. ‘Quite extensive.’
She stared at him.
‘Great idea, no?’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to a plastic surgeon already – an American, who can be relied on to keep quiet. He can’t work any more, officially at least. He found his female patients a bit too appealing, shall we say. You’ll be safe, though. I’ll be there for your surgery, so he won’t get up to any of his mischief with you. Anyway, he said that to make someone unrecognizable you need to do quite a lot of work. Nose shape, cheeks, jawline. None of it impossible, though. He’ll be here this Friday. No point wasting time!’
He backed towards the door.
‘I’ll be the only person in the world who knows who you actually are,’ he said. ‘Think about that! You’ll be all mine. I hope I still love you when you look different.’
She blinked. She had no idea what to say.
‘Just joking,’ he said. ‘I’ll always love you. Anyway, I have to go. I can’t be out of the office. We don’t want to mess this up when we’re this close, do we?’
He held index finger and thumb a half-inch apart.
‘This close,’ he said. ‘Right?’
She nodded. ‘Right.’
2
So he was going to keep her here until his pet cosmetic surgeon had turned her into someone else.
Angelica Rina Schmidt.
Then Guy and Angie would sally forth into the world and dazzle it with their love for each other.
Her chest tightened. Every time she thought he couldn’t get any crazier, he found a new level. It was like looking into an abyss, and she felt dizzy and unmoored.
She tried to breathe deeply. His plan was utterly grotesque, but at least she was clear now that they were beyond any possib
ility of reason. He could not be convinced to change his mind, and not only was it pointless – it was dangerous. If she succeeded in convincing him she did not love him, and had not been sending secret messages in her books, who knew what he would do?
It was perfectly possible – likely – that he would badly hurt her. Or kill her. She was trapped, but not in the way he thought.
Which might be an advantage. If she went along with the pretence and he started to believe her, his guard might slip. She might find an opportunity to get out of here.
Because that too was clear. She had to find a way to escape, and soon. If the surgeon was here Friday, it had to be before then.
She could not let Guy change her appearance. She would leave here the same person – but better, stronger – that had arrived.
She tapped the window. It thudded, reminding her of the thickness of the glass.
And reminding her how hard it was going to be to get out of here.
Matt
There was nothing to do but wait. It felt like a dream; he wandered from room to room, unable to sit still, and everything around him looked the same, but it was all different. It wasn’t that the house lacked colour, or life, or looked flat: it just didn’t seem real.
He kept thinking he was going to wake up and all this would be over.
But he also knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not now, not ever.
He picked up his phone and unlocked it, then checked email and Facebook and his text messages. He didn’t expect there to be anything. It was a few minutes past 2 p.m. and he had probably checked his phone fifty times already since midday, hoping there would be something.
Maybe a message from Annabelle, telling him where she was.
Nothing.
And then his phone rang. He recognized DI Wynne’s number.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Mr Westbrook? This is DI Wynne.’
‘Do you have news?’
‘Not of Mrs Westbrook. Not yet. But we have made significant progress.’
