by Adam Croft
It’s amazing what changes when something like this happens. Everything you thought you knew is altered. Ordinarily, I’ve never been one for talking. Like Nick, I tend to keep my feelings to myself. Neither of us has really ever opened up to the other. I don’t think that’s ever caused a problem, but ever since Ellie went missing I’ve needed him there for me. If not him, someone else. As if I’ve been bottling it up all that time and now I just need someone to offload onto. Someone who’s shown some sort of care and attention recently. Someone female. Someone who isn’t a bloody police officer.
I decide to call Emma. She’s been in touch a couple of times recently and she knows I’m struggling because she helped me get the doctor’s appointment. She always seems to be available and at the end of the phone, too. Someone I know I can rely on. And in that moment I feel disappointed in myself that I’ve not been a good friend to her. We’ve been friends, of course, but of the Christmas-card-and-occasional-chat variety. The sort of friends that most adults have, I guess. We’ve never been particularly close, but right now she’s all I have.
She exudes calmness from the moment she picks up the phone. That’s one of the things I like most about Emma – that she always remains relaxed and reassuring. She asks immediately how Nick and I both are and if there’s been any news regarding Ellie. I tell her there hasn’t been. Before long, the ever-astute Emma realises something is wrong.
‘Is there something on your mind?’ she asks, knowing full well that there must be. She knows I’m not the sort of person who phones people up for a chat.
‘Yeah, one or two things,’ I say, almost sarcastically. As if my mind were going to be free and clear right now.
‘You know you can talk to me, don’t you?’ Emma says. ‘I know we’re not as close as we used to be, but I’m always here if you need to talk.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’ And she’s right. We used to be pretty close at university. The four of us were. We all fitted nicely into the stereotypes: I was the ringleader, the strong, confident one who got most of the male attention; Emma was the quiet, unassuming, slightly hippyish one who’d been convinced to go to university by her parents but had no intention of using her degree other than to keep them happy; Cristina was the one who’d drink far too much and end up disappearing halfway through the night, either back home or back to someone else’s home; and Leanne was the dedicated sporty one who didn’t drink, looked after herself but was still capable of having a good time. I lived at home with my parents as the university was only about three miles away. Emma was from Droitwich, Cristina had come from Wales, and Leanne from Devon. It was a group that just seemed to gel. They all stayed and settled in the area after uni, which led us all to believe that we’d be friends forever. I think that complacency was probably our downfall.
We all started to drift apart towards the end of our time at university. I’d met Nick not long before that. We met at the student union, even though he wasn’t at the university. He had a few friends at the uni because he was local, too, and we got chatting as friends first, before getting closer. Even then, thinking back, he didn’t open up. I’d never asked him if he had a girlfriend, what his background was, nothing. I wasn’t an asker and he wasn’t a teller. At first, we didn’t even tell people we were together. We were acquaintances, then friends, and then it just sort of happened. We never felt the need to tell anyone. There wasn’t even a starting point as such. I just remember being increasingly attracted to this arty, never-give-a-fuck sort of guy who was completely happy and comfortable in himself. There’s something very sexy about a man whose self-confidence is just that and never boils over into arrogance.
‘If I’m honest, it’s Nick,’ I tell her, cradling the phone closer to me even though no-one else is around to hear. ‘He’s making things worse by making this all about him. And his behaviour, it’s . . . worrying.’
‘Worrying? How?’
‘A couple of things,’ I say, trying desperately to think of how to word it all. ‘You know what he’s like. I can’t work him out.’
‘Why? What’s he doing?’ Emma asks.
I swallow. ‘I don’t know if I’m meant to be telling you this, but they didn’t tell me I couldn’t. He had this bee in his bonnet about the old guy across the road. He’s convinced there’s something dodgy about him. Something about him changing his statement or claiming he didn’t see Nick putting Ellie in the car. Anyway, he went over and asked him. Reckoned this man knew where Ellie was. He frightened the life out of him, Em. He ransacked the poor guy’s house. The police had to lead him away.’
Emma exhales. ‘Christ.’
‘And then he gets back home and the police are there, of course, and they start asking him these questions. Turns out he got a suspended prison sentence years ago for kidnapping his girlfriend at the time and tying her to a tree while they were both drunk and high.’
‘Bloody hell. And this was before he met you?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. It’s why he doesn’t drink very often, apparently. I know he used to smoke cannabis and things before we got together, but even that was far less than he was doing when this all happened. And I didn’t know a thing about it. How can someone just hide that from you for that long? As if he just forgot.’
‘I don’t know,’ Emma says. ‘People do, though. Would it have changed your view on him if you’d known earlier?’
I sigh. ‘It depends how much earlier. Right at the start, if he’d come out and said, “Hi, I’m Nick. I abducted my last girlfriend,” I probably wouldn’t have hung around too long.’
‘It might not have been his last girlfriend,’ Emma says. ‘It might have been ages before.’
‘Might have been,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t get the details. I never asked him about his ex-girlfriends. I mean, who does?’ As I say this, I realise I actually know very little about Nick’s past. I know the basics – where he grew up, who his parents were, where he went to school. But never any details. Never any anecdotes. Never any fond stories and memories.
‘Forgive me for saying it,’ she says, ‘but it sounds to me like you’ve got doubts about Nick.’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. I guess it’s just a shock. I found that out, and then it all blew up. I couldn’t cope. And now he’s started going out, saying he needs some space. I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing. I don’t even know if I want to know.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Emma says after a few seconds of silence.
‘I doubt it. I just needed someone to speak to. There’s the policewoman, Jane, but I don’t feel I can really open up to her. I always feel like she’s watching me, keeping an eye on me and waiting for me to do or say something wrong.’
‘That’s the police for you. I guess they’re just doing their job. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. If you ever need to offload, you can call me, okay? I’m always at the end of the phone.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, not knowing what else to say. I think if I say much else I might be at risk of breaking down completely.
33
Nick
The Talbot Arms is a pub I’ve never been in before. I’ve lived in this town all my life and the pub’s always been here, but I don’t think I know anyone who’s ever drunk in it. Put simply, it’s the roughest of rough estate pubs; a concrete monstrosity covered in St George’s crosses and Sky Sports banners. There’s always at least one window boarded up, and you can smell the cigarettes and stale piss from a passing car.
The car park is strewn with dog-ends and lager cans, but there’s a distinct lack of cars. I’m only inches from the door when I suddenly wonder what the hell I’m doing. This is a massive step to take. The fact that the kidnapper wants me to do this rather than hiring someone themselves tells me they want to make me suffer, too, which means it’s someone that Tasha and I have both upset. That makes it even more impossible to work out who it could be. How do I know I’m not being set up? It’s definitely possible, but the cha
nces are slim compared to the likelihood of me never seeing Ellie again unless I go through with it. Anyway, what harm can a little chat in a pub do?
I push open the door and walk inside. My feet immediately stick to the carpet and I feel eyes on me. This isn’t the sort of place that gets much passing trade and I must stand out like a sore thumb. I’ve got hair, for a start.
I walk up to the bar as casually and confidently as I can and order a lager. The landlord looks at me a second more than would be comfortable and starts pouring. ‘Just moved in,’ I say. Christ knows why. I get my pint of lager and pay for it. The landlord sits on a barstool a few feet away from me, glancing over at a group of four bald men playing pool.
‘I’m actually looking for someone,’ I say. ‘Warren MacKenzie, his name is. Does he drink here?’
‘Who’s asking?’ the landlord says, not taking his eyes off the pool table.
‘I am,’ I reply.
He slowly rises and walks over to me, leaning across the bar between two hand-pulls. ‘And who are you?’
‘I’m a friend,’ I say, for some reason extending my hand as if inviting him to shake it. To my surprise, he does. ‘I just need to speak to him. A friend put me in touch with him.’
‘A friend put you in touch?’ he says. ‘I thought you said you were a friend.’
‘Well, a friend of a friend,’ I say, stuttering.
A wry smile rises up on the landlord’s face, and his shoulders rise and fall as he makes a noise that sounds like a deep-sea diver clearing his snorkel. ‘Warren. Bloke over here wants to see you,’ he calls to the guys at the pool table.
One of them stands and walks over to me, not once breaking eye contact as he makes his way across the pub.
‘Yeah?’ he says as he reaches me. He’s a big guy, and he’s wearing a short-sleeved chequered shirt that makes it difficult for me to work out if it’s muscle or fat. There’s a tattoo protruding under the sleeve on his right bicep, but I can’t quite make out what it is.
‘Hi,’ I say, extending my hand like I did with the landlord. Warren’s not quite so accommodating, though, and ignores it, still not breaking eye contact. ‘A friend said you do a bit of work and might be able to help me out.’
‘Yeah, you need an extension building, then?’ he replies. I can hear a quiet murmur of chuckles from his friends at the pool table.
I squint at him, unsure as to whether he’s messing with me or if this is meant to be some sort of code. What should I be saying?
‘I need help with a favour,’ I say. It’s all I can think of.
‘Sorry, mate. Don’t do favours. Paid work only. Price of bricks has gone up recently, you see.’ The ripple of laughter from his mates increases.
‘Look, can we talk outside?’ I say. ‘A friend sent me. Said you were reliable. It’s probably best if we talk in private.’
‘Oh, is it?’ he replies, edging a couple of inches closer to me. ‘Well, I don’t agree. If you want to say something, you can say it here. Who’s your friend?’
‘I can’t say. He asked me not to.’
He responds by making the same snorkel-clearing noise the landlord did earlier. ‘You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Out,’ he says, pointing at the door.
I can see the menace in his eyes and I’m not going to argue. I fucked that right up.
I open the door and head out into the car park, the soles of my shoes dragging against the tarmac. I sit on a low wall and close my eyes, feeling the sun beat down on the back of my head.
A few moments later, I can hear a metallic scraping noise. I turn and see the landlord repositioning an empty beer keg against the outside wall of the pub. He turns and looks at me before walking over.
‘Don’t worry about Warren,’ he says. ‘He’s just being careful. It’s his way.’
I force a smile and carry on watching the passing traffic.
‘Why did you say you’d just moved in?’ he asks, perching on the wall beside me.
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno. Didn’t want to seem odd just walking in randomly.’
‘Warren’s had a few run-ins with the police. As you can imagine, he’s suspicious of people he doesn’t know. I’ve seen your face in the paper, though. I know who you are. Wait there a sec.’
Before I can really process what he means, he’s gone. Fuck. He knows who I am. That doesn’t help one bit. I have absolutely no idea if I can trust this guy. All I know is that it seems perfectly normal to him to have professional gangsters drinking in his pub, so I have to hope for the best. I can’t back out now. I have no other option.
Less than a minute later he’s back, followed by Warren. I stand and walk towards them as we meet in the middle of the car park.
‘Richard tells me you’re alright,’ Warren says.
‘Yeah. Sorry we didn’t get off to a good start. Not exactly something I’m used to, all this,’ I reply.
Warren gives Richard a look, and the landlord heads back inside, leaving the two of us together. Warren looks at me and waits for me to speak.
‘I need someone taking care of,’ I say, trying my hardest not to sound like a stock character from a gangster film. ‘My wife.’
There’s a few moments’ silence before he speaks. ‘Richard told me who you were. I’m going to level with you. Honour and trust mean a lot to me, you understand? I have my business model but I’ve also got my ethics. I don’t go in for any of this shit that women are faultless. They’re worse than men, usually. What’s gone on between you and your missus is your problem. Not for me to judge. But I draw the line at who I help for different reasons, alright? Now. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know what’s happened to your kid.’
He makes it sound so threatening and difficult, but it’s the easiest thing I’ve had to do for a long time. I look him in the eye. ‘I swear I have no idea. I just want my daughter back. It’s the only way to get her back.’
He nods.
‘What do you do?’ I ask. ‘I mean, how long does it take? Is it violent? I need to know.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replies with a neutral look on his face, although I can see in his eyes that what he’s really saying is We don’t talk about this. I understand he’s being cautious, but there’s no way he can think I’m possibly an undercover police officer or anything. I’m asking too many direct questions, for a start. It’d be the worst case of entrapment ever.
‘How much do you charge for your . . . services?’ I ask.
‘Fifteen grand,’ he says, without blinking an eye.
I try not to look shocked. ‘Right,’ I say.
‘Cash, up front.’
‘What, all of it?’ I ask.
‘That’s what up front means. Despite what Richard says, I don’t know you from Adam.’
What choice do I have? But if Tasha’s found dead and there’s a paper trail that shows me having withdrawn a huge amount of money, how am I going to explain that one?
‘That’s a lot,’ I say. ‘What’s my story going to be for where all that money’s gone?’
‘Story for who?’ he asks.
‘For the police.’
‘Why would the police ask? You keep your nose clean, buddy. You give them no reason to suspect you.’
I swallow. ‘My nose is already a bit dirty,’ I say.
His eyes narrow. ‘Well, you’d better fucking clean it, then, hadn’t you? This is my business. This is what I do. I can’t go working with people who I can’t rely on.’ He must spot something in my eyes, because he stops and looks at me for a moment. ‘Look, my brother’s got a betting shop over on the Dunhill Road. Only takes cash. You know how it is. It’s a traumatic time, you’re weak, upset. You take to gambling. Horses, greyhounds, the lot. It gives you an escape, a quick buzz. Before you know it you’ve lost fifteen grand. Easily done.’
I see exactly where he’s going with this. ‘How, though? The police will know I never went into the bookies. They’ll have CCTV.’
&
nbsp; ‘You’d be amazed how often that CCTV goes down,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘But he’s a reliable witness. Been in business about twenty years. Gives terrible odds, but he has a few regulars who like to spend their money there, if you know what I mean.’
‘What, you mean money laundering?’ I ask.
He shrugs innocently. ‘I don’t even know what the word means, mate. Now, can you get hold of fifteen grand or what?’
‘Yeah. No problem,’ I say. I quickly try to do a few sums in my mind. We’ve got some money in a savings account, but not much. The overdraft would probably get me an extra five grand, and I could probably withdraw some cash on credit cards. ‘When do you need it by?’
‘Depends how urgent the job is,’ he says.
‘Pretty urgent,’ I reply. ‘Thing is, it’s got to be totally away from me. An accident or something.’
Warren nods. ‘What sort of woman is she, your wife?’ he asks. ‘Does she work? Go to any evening classes? Hobbies?’
‘Uh, not much,’ I say. ‘She works but doesn’t do much in the evenings. It’s usually late by the time she gets home. Why?’
Warren raises an eyebrow at me.
‘Oh,’ I say. I try to rack my brains to think of something. ‘How soon can it be done?’
Warren shifts his weight to his left leg. ‘How soon can you have the money?’
‘As soon as you want it,’ I lie. ‘She’s off work at the moment . . .’ I trail off, hoping Warren will pick up and take control of the situation. Every word I say feels like poison.
‘Go to the Crazy Chicken takeaway on Northway. It’s one of my businesses. Buy something and ask them to pass on a letter to me. Give them a sealed envelope with a picture of your missus in it. Tell them your name is George and that you’ll call back in to see me on whichever day you want it done. Got that?’
‘I think so,’ I say, trying to take it all in.
‘Make damn sure you have,’ he says. ‘Do all that as soon as you can. Leave the money in the purple bin in the alley down the back of Crazy Chicken. Put it in a bag or something, for Christ’s sake. I’m not fishing through there with my bare hands. Then immediately ring this number,’ he says, passing me a plain business card with just a number and the word John printed on it, ‘from a payphone. When you get an answer, ask for John. They’ll say you have the wrong number. You hang up.’
