by Lake, Alex
He stood straighter. ‘What happened?’
‘We found the van the kidnapper kept your children in. The assumption is it’s the same one he used to transport Mrs Westbrook from the truck stop to the next vehicle. It was on a piece of wasteland in Sandbach.’
‘And? Did you find out who owns it?’
‘Not that. It was unregistered. But we did find DNA in it.’
‘Do you know whose it is?’
She paused. ‘No. We have no match.’
‘Then I don’t see how this helps.’
‘I know it seems that way, but this is a big step. It means we can eliminate people, at the very least. I’d like to start with you, if I could. We’d like a sample of your DNA.’ Before he could argue she carried on. ‘It’s standard practice,’ she said. ‘That’s all. We’ll be taking it from everyone who knows your wife.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How do you want to do it?’
‘We’ll send an officer,’ she said. ‘Hang tight, Mr Westbrook. We’re making progress. Real progress.’
Tuesday, 10 March 2020, 6 p.m.
Finn
Finn Daniels veered between being shocked how unfair it was and shocked how upset he was. He was in love with Suneela, in the most profound way possible, and now it was over. He had always thought they might face their challenges, one day. Her parents – her mum, especially – didn’t approve of him, and he had imagined them – her, mainly – trying to break him and Suneela up many times, finding an almost delicious enjoyment in the ways they found to circumvent her parents’ – her mum’s, that was – attempts to end their relationship.
In his imaginings, the attempts never succeeded. Their love was too strong. Who cared if Suneela was Hindu and he was Christian, more or less. Her mum had asked him once if he was a Catholic.
Maybe, he said. We go to church sometimes. Weddings and things.
You’d know if you were a Catholic, she said. You must be Church of England.
Yeah, he replied. That rings a bell.
She gave a sad shake of the head.
But who cared? Love conquered all, right?
Wrong.
He had accepted that her parents – her mum, primarily – might win out. Even that had been kind of OK. Their love was thwarted by forces beyond their control: it was almost heroic, and when they were older they would just find each other and be reunited in a glorious explosion of romantic joy.
At least in that – the worst case he could imagine – she loved him.
But it turned out it could be worse.
Because it wasn’t her parents that were breaking them up. It was her.
She didn’t want to marry him. He had asked, and she said, Well, let me think about it and he said, What is there to think about? and she said, We’re only sixteen and he said, So? We don’t have to do it today, we can just promise and she said I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that and he said, What? Getting married? and she said, No, us.
It turned out there was no ‘us’. She didn’t want to marry him; she didn’t even want to go out with him any more.
It’s me, she said. Not you. You’re too good for me.
I’ve fucking heard that one before, he replied, then started crying. I love you, Suneela, I really do. I can’t live without you.
I think you can, she said. That’s kind of what this is about. I feel a bit … crushed by you. At school you never leave me alone and then you call me as soon as you get home.
This was so unfair. You’re my girlfriend! I love you! I miss you. Don’t you miss me?
I don’t want to be mean, she said. But I don’t know if I miss you. You never give me the chance to find out.
Well, he would. He’d give her the chance and she’d find out she did miss him. So he left. And now he was in his dad’s old dinghy, rowing around on this stupid fucking lake wishing he’d stayed with her.
Because he’d said that four hours ago and hadn’t heard from her since.
He rowed along, soothed by the sound of the oars dipping in and out of the water. God, life was unfair. What was the point, without Suneela? He could slip over the side and sink to the bottom of the lake, letting the water fill his lungs.
Except he wouldn’t. He’d swim about like a crazy dolphin and end up going home wet and cold. He couldn’t even kill himself properly.
And now, he realized, it was dark.
Well, at least he hadn’t fucked that up. He’d anticipated the darkness and brought a headlamp. He switched it on. His dad had bought it for him last Christmas, and now it was coming in handy.
The beam of light illuminated the surface of the water.
He wasn’t totally useless, after all.
Annabelle
There was someone on the lake, not far from the house. There was a light – a torch, or something like that – reflecting off the water.
She turned off the lamp so she could see it better. It was cloudy, but the torch gave off enough light for her to see the outline of a small rowing boat, with a single figure sitting in the middle.
And if she could see them, they could see her. She had to get their attention, somehow.
She picked up the lamp and held it up to the window. What was the Morse Code for SOS? Three dashes, three dots, three dashes? Or was it dots, dashes, dots?
Shit. She couldn’t remember. She needed Google. But had no phone or computer.
Although she did have Google, or at least an earlier version of it. She ran her finger over the spines of the encyclopedias until she came to the volume L to N, then pulled it off the shelf.
There it was. Morse Code. She looked over the schematic showing the alphabet.
Three dots, three dashes, three dots.
S-O-S.
She held the lamp up to the window and flicked it on and off, three times, quickly.
Then three dashes, then three dots.
She counted ten seconds then repeated it.
And then again, and again, and again.
She watched, looking for a sign that the person on the lake had seen her.
And then the torch went out, then on, then out.
They knew she was there.
Finn
At first he didn’t realize what it was. He saw the flashing light and thought that whatever kid was switching the lights on and off was going to get in trouble, but then he saw that it was in a pattern.
Three short flashes, three long, three short.
It rang a bell. That meant something, didn’t it? It was a kind of universal signal asking for help. He typed it into Google.
Holy shit.
It meant SOS. Save our souls.
Someone was asking for help. Or maybe they were just messing around. That was more likely. It was a teenager who’d seen his headlamp and was trying to fool him.
Still, it might not be. He looked at the window.
It happened again, then there was a gap – maybe ten seconds – and there it was.
SOS.
It stopped. Maybe he should reply, but he had no idea what to say.
He looked on his phone. ‘H’ was four dots, ‘I’ was two.
He clicked his headlamp on and off quickly, four times, then paused and did it twice more.
Hi.
It was a bit lame, but what else was he supposed to say?
He waited for a few seconds, and the reply came.
Annabelle
‘A’ was dot, dash.
‘N’ was dash, dot.
She started to spell out her name. Presumably the police were looking for her, so if someone showed up saying they’d seen an SOS signal followed by the name ‘Annabelle Westbrook’ the police would know immediately what was going on.
There may also have been a public information announcement so whoever was in the boat might recognize the name themselves.
Either way, this was her chance. And they didn’t even need to know Morse Code. They just needed access to a phone so they could google it.
Dash, do
t: ‘N’.
Dot, dash: ‘A’.
Dash, dot, dot, dot: ‘B’.
Dot: ‘E’.
Dot, dash, dot –
She heard the key in the door, and jumped. Her heart started to pound in her chest. She could not let Guy find her signalling to someone on the lake. There was no telling what he would do.
She finished the L, then put the lamp down, and lay on the bed. She clenched her fists to stop her hands shaking with the adrenaline that was flooding her system.
So near. So fucking near.
She’d got as far as ANNABEL. It would have to do. Now she needed the person in the boat to go to the police and tell them what had happened.
An SOS, and part of her name. It was enough. Surely, it was enough.
The door opened and Guy came in. He looked around the room, his lips pressed together. His gaze settled on her.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Good day?’
‘Yes,’ she said. There was a tremor in her voice. She fought to control it.
His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. I – I feel a bit ill.’
‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’m not getting a doctor.’
‘I wasn’t asking for one. I have a cold, or something.’
‘Of course you do.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose you’re not hungry, either?’
‘A bit.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to bring food?’
I can hardly get it myself, she thought. ‘Please.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Finn
ANAEL?
What the fuck did ‘anael’ mean? He had struggled to decipher the dots and dashes. The problem was he had to remember the sequence and then look at his phone to get the letters, by which time a new letter had started.
He’d missed a few, he was sure of that, but he’d hoped to be able to fill in the blanks. ‘Aneal’, though – that meant nothing to him. Was it a name? A Neal?
He had no idea.
Maybe he’d got a letter wrong. Maybe it was a real, but a real what? Or a near, but again, a near what?
He sat in the boat, patting the oars on the water and looking at the house. It was pretty big, and remote. You could easily hide someone in it.
He waited to see if the light would come again, but there was nothing.
His phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. It was Suneela.
Hey. You OK? Wanted to check in.
Ha. This was it. She had seen the error of her ways.
Fine, he replied. Just out on the lake. Heading back. Will call when on dry land.
He wanted to call right then and there, but that was a bit desperate. It could wait until he was out of the boat.
Which wouldn’t be that long, especially if he rowed fast.
He grabbed the oars and set off.
Wynne
DI Wynne put the phone down. It had rung out to voicemail but she didn’t want to leave a message. She preferred to hear people’s reactions. She doubted there was anything to learn in this case – the Westbrooks’ friend, Guy, was not a suspect – but you never knew.
She waited a few minutes then rang again. It was possible that he had seen the call but chosen not to answer it because he didn’t recognize the number. She’d give him another chance to pick up.
He answered on the second ring.
‘Guy Sanderson.’
‘Mr Sanderson, this is Detective Inspector Jane Wynne. We spoke yesterday.’
‘I remember. How can I help?’
‘This is part of our routine enquiries, Mr Sanderson, but we’d like a sample of your DNA.’
‘My DNA?’
Was that a slight hesitation before he answered? And a note of concern in his voice? It was hard to say, but she sat a bit more upright.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’
‘Why my DNA, if I may ask?’ If there had been hesitation or concern, it was gone. ‘I’m happy to help, of course, but why would you want mine?’
‘Routine,’ Wynne said. ‘We take a sample from as many people as we can in cases like this, just in case anything turns up.’
‘Has something turned up?’ he asked.
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss details of the case, Mr—’
‘I’m a close friend of the family,’ Guy said.
‘I’m aware of that. But I’m afraid it doesn’t change anything.’
‘Very good.’ His tone was brisk. ‘How do I get you this sample? Send a few strands of my hair?’
‘No. We’ll make it as convenient as we can for you,’ Wynne said. ‘An officer will come and see you tomorrow. Will you be at your office?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I’ll make myself available.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sanderson,’ Wynne said. ‘We appreciate your cooperation.’
1
What the fuck is this? They don’t take everyone’s DNA on a whim. No, they do it if they have something to match.
Which is impossible. The cars are clean. I made sure of that. The van was harder. I spent more time in it, so it is conceivable there is DNA in that, which is why it is well hidden. They have not found it. It is not possible. They are too stupid.
Still, I will get the van tomorrow – as soon as they have my DNA – and make sure it is never found. A quarry, maybe, or the ocean. The bike is at the truck stop, so I will have to get up there another way, but I will figure it out.
It’ll be another long day.
And maybe unnecessary. Yes, they have something, but it is almost certainly not from me, so I can safely provide my DNA.
At least I think I can. I do have a way of finding out, though.
He – fool that he is – answers right away. He sounds terrible. Poor petal.
‘Guy,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
‘How are you, more like?’ I say.
‘Been better,’ he says. ‘Although there was some news today.’
Here it comes.
‘News?’ I make myself sound eager. ‘What happened?’
‘They found the van,’ he says.
It is like I have been hit with a sledgehammer.
‘And it has DNA in it. The kidnapper’s. At least they think so.’
Another blow. My mind spins. I am dizzy.
‘What?’ I say. My shock – I cannot hide it – is in my voice. ‘What?’
‘I know,’ he says. Thankfully he is too idiotic to interpret my tone correctly. ‘It’s amazing news. They’re testing everybody’s DNA. If it’s someone we know, they’ll find them, Guy. This could be over!’
‘That’s the best news we could have had,’ I say. ‘Apart from actually finding Annabelle.’
‘I’m not getting my hopes up,’ he says. ‘Not yet. I can’t face the disappointment.’
‘Wise,’ I say, knowing full well that disappointment is exactly what he faces. ‘But this is wonderful, Matt. It truly is. Thanks for telling me. I’m very glad I know.’
For once I am telling him the truth.
2
I am struggling to think. My chest feels tight, and my heart is beating quickly. This is, I think, panic.
And I do not like it.
I take a deep breath and start to lay out the facts.
They have found my van and in it, DNA which may be mine.
It may not, of course, but I have to assume that it is. I have to proceed on that basis. So they have my DNA and it is linked to the van Annabelle and her children were kept in.
Once they test me, they will know who took Annabelle. This is incontrovertible evidence. I will not be able to argue my way out of this.
So I cannot let them test me. I have to avoid it, at all costs.
Which is impossible. Maybe tomorrow I can say I am ill, but that will merely delay it, and it may not even do that. It may make them suspicious.
So I have to let them test me, but find a way to stop them getting a good test.
&nbs
p; Maybe I can give them someone else’s DNA. I picture the scene. A police officer – maybe two – in my office, a test kit in his hand. He swabs the inside of my cheek. They have rules and protocols and evidence integrity shit that they do.
The idea I can fake the test is ludicrous.
So I have to avoid it.
Which means we will have to disappear. That is not impossible. I will have to think through the details, but it can be done.
Two weeks somewhere very remote. Scottish Highlands, in my camper van. I have used it in the past for this sort of thing. It is wonderful: an untraceable source of transport and accommodation.
I will use that time to figure out how best to solve this. I already have the bones of an idea. I can use the identity I have set up for Annabelle, so all I really need is an identity for myself.
By no means impossible.
So I will have to change the plan. But no matter.
I need to buy some time, though. I cannot have them showing up at my office in the morning to find I am not there. I need to delay them until the afternoon.
Then tomorrow morning we disappear, for good.
Wynne
Guy Sanderson was calling.
‘Wynne.’
‘DI Wynne? This Guy Sanderson.’
‘Mr Sanderson. How can I help you?’
‘Nothing urgent,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to ask if we could change the location of the test tomorrow. I checked my schedule and I have a couple of meetings in the morning. I’ll be leaving London early in the afternoon, so could we do the test at my lake house? Maybe around three or four? If it’s not convenient, I could make another arrangement.’
‘I think that can work,’ Wynne said. ‘What’s the address?’
When the call was over, she googled the address and looked at the house. A lawn ran down to a stand of trees by the lakeside. It was very isolated.
And there was something odd about Guy Sanderson. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was looking forward to getting his DNA test and then sitting down to talk to him again.
