The Family Lie

by Jake Cross

  ‘Now you remember the hostage guy’s tricks, eh? Get out the sodding door, Nick.’

  ‘Are you going to run that name? A check for criminals named Lee? It sounds like one man slipped up and used the other’s real name.’

  ‘Calm down, Mr Middleton,’ Bennet said. ‘We know what to do.’

  Nick’s camera made for the exit, but at the door the voice stopped him. It stopped everybody.

  ‘Er, Nick, you seem to have left my money behind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just a joke, Nick. Now you’ve got to rob an old lady in a charity shop.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Why do japes exist, Nick? Because they’re bloody funny.’

  ‘You arsehole.’

  Surely such an insult was at the top of Miller’s list of ‘barbs’ – things you just didn’t say to a kidnapper – but nobody was worried this time. Sure enough, the kidnapper’s laughter bellowed out of the speakers. One of the detectives tossed down his pen. ‘This idiot’s just playing with us.’

  The second voice said:

  ‘No more games, Baltazar.’

  Another laugh.

  ‘Wow, now your police have two names to check. Okay, no more games, Nick. Get my money and get to the train station. Platform 2. Toss this phone down a grate outside. You’ll find another in the bin at the train station. And from now on don’t say a word unless you have to. No more hinting for the police, or I’ll turn your kid inside out. Let’s see if I’m joking about that.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Anna spun at the sound of the voice. Bennet was in the kitchen doorway, watching her. Anna put down the kettle and tossed a small sewing needle beside it.

  ‘Killing time,’ she told the detective. ‘This isn’t easy for me.’

  He nodded and stepped closer, wielding his phone. He showed a picture of a young guy and she instantly recognised the man last seen in a grainy still image from CCTV in a B&B. This was a high-quality face-and-shoulders shot, though: he was surely no more than twenty, ponytail and shaved sides ginger, and had patchy skin with teeth to match. The ginger hair immediately made her picture how Josie might look when his age. Bennet asked if she recognised him.

  ‘No. This is a – what is it called, a mugshot? From the police. So you’ve arrested this man? Did this man take my daughter?’

  He explained. The team watching the B&B for the man known as Dom had decided it was worth risking a peek inside his room. A spare key got them inside, where they fingerprinted a fidget spinner found on the bed and achieved a hit. Bennet just got the news seconds ago. The guy had been arrested for affray a few years back.

  ‘And Dom’s his real name. Dominic Watson-Bruce, nineteen years old, from Northampton—’

  There was a yelp as Anna, turning to replace the kettle, caught it on the edge of the worktop and dropped it. It hit the floor with a clump and vomited water across her leg.

  ‘Wow, are you okay?’ he said, grabbing a tea towel from the worktop.

  She snatched it off him.

  ‘Fine, it’s not boiling.’ Bending to rub at her wet jeans, she added, ‘I don’t know that name or anyone from Northampton.’

  ‘He gave a home phone number when he was arrested. I just called and got his mother. But she claims he doesn’t live there. He lives with his dad, always has done, and she’s not heard from him in a week, and she’s got no contact number for him or any idea who would.’

  She turned to the sink and ran the tea towel under cold water. Still she wouldn’t look at him. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘We keep watching the B&B in case he returns. You’re sure that leg is okay?’

  ‘Okay. I mean, my leg’s okay.’

  ‘Okay. I better get back in the other room. Do you want to come and watch the progress?’

  Her back to him as she wrung excess water from the tea towel, she shook her head. ‘It’s too much to bear. I can’t watch it.’

  Bennet said he understood, then got out of there, and he did so aware that she hadn’t met his eyes since she dropped the kettle. At his mention of the suspect’s name, or the location.

  Nothing in the bin outside Rotherham Central. Nick left behind a lot of puzzled people as he ran past the ticket office, over the bridge across the tracks and down on to Platform 2. Here, he stuck his hands into the only bin he could see and got lucky. An old phone, smeared with drying yoghurt. He couldn’t help wonder if that part was intentional.

  Nothing happened for the next couple of minutes. Nick scanned faces, seeking someone shiftily watching him. But the problem was that the seven or eight on the platform had watched him rooting through a bin, so all gave him furtive glances. He also watched who entered after him, knowing that both sides, good and bad, might seek to deposit someone close by at all times. Throughout, he said nothing, just in case, somehow, the kidnapper learned of his betrayal.

  The phone rang.

  ‘It’s 12.18, Nick. The 12.32 to Leeds, that’s your train. Once there, you’ll go to the Queens Hotel next to the station. Book room 50 and look under the bed. Take what’s there and give it to a man who will be sitting in the foyer when you come back down from the room. He’s going to leave your next instructions on his seat.’

  The caller hung up before Nick could reply. Withheld number. He fought the urge to throw the phone. And he kept his emotions in check.

  A middle-aged man in a white coat came on to the platform, just as the 12.20 to Meadowhall rolled in. The man tried his best to look casual, but Nick could see his chest heaving as if he’d been running. He knew something was off with the guy, but he turned his eyes away. If this guy was part of it, and he knew Nick knew, it would ruin everything.

  Soon everyone who had business in Rotherham or outside it had passed through a pair of sliding doors and the Meadowhall train was ready to depart. Nick looked at the phone and pretended to be reading something, but his peripheral vision caught White Coat taking a bench seat. And watching him.

  The phone rang.

  Anna entered the living room, her eyes on movement beyond the room divider as detectives crowded their technology in their little control centre. She heard Miller give instructions regarding a hotel. Something about Leeds. The number 50. From the speaker, she could hear Nick’s heavy breathing, and the public address system announcing a train about to depart. She paused while her mind raced. Leeds and hotels and train stations? What were those bastards making him do? She didn’t want to hear it. She certainly couldn’t watch it. It was a struggle, though, to detach herself.

  She peered through the blinds to see Jane and the FLO still on the garden bench, chatting away and enjoying the sun. Her poor sister, unable to listen to developments and shutting herself away. Jane was spinning her teacup around one finger. Empty.

  On speaker, a phone rang. Nick answered.

  ‘On the train, now!’ that horrible voice said.

  A bustle of activity suddenly, as detectives jumped into new action. They sounded worried. Fearful, Anna backed out of the room and checked her watch. 12.21 p.m.

  Nick leaped on to the train just before the doors locked shut. He fell against the doors, phone clamped to his ear.

  ‘What are you playing at now? Is this another trick? Don’t you want this damn money?’

  ‘New plan, Nicolas.’

  Nick froze. Similar accent, but a new voice. Why?

  ‘This train stops at Meadowhall and then terminates at Sheffield. Six minutes to Meadowhall, another ten to the terminus. Sit on the left side, window seat. Enjoy the view. At Meadowhall Interchange, there’s a row of lockers. Code 6437. Put the money inside number 15 and take out the new mobile inside, and then you’re done. I’ll call you again to tell you where your child is after we get the money and get away nice and safe.’

  ‘Who are you? Are you the one who’s got my daughter?’

  The caller hung up. Nick got to a seat on wobbly legs. Now he didn’t care who heard. He said, ‘I hope you got that. L
ocker 15 at Meadowhall station. Combination number 6437. And this voice was someone new. That’s two men who’ve called, not a woman. Get working on it. How’s my wife?’

  Then he remembered he couldn’t receive, only transmit. The tiny camera sewn into the inside of his T-shirt, his connection to so many protectors, no longer felt like a lifeline. As the train left the station, it became a raft sending him far out to sea. He thumped his chest to try to restore rhythmic breathing. He’d never felt so alienated, or lost, or helplessly weak.

  ‘Anna,’ he croaked into air, ‘if you’re listening, I love you. I love this family and I’m going to put it back together. I’m going to get her back if it’s the last thing I do. I promise.’

  ‘I have to get some air. I can’t listen to this.’

  ‘You can’t go out, Mrs Carter. Not yet.’

  ‘I need air.’ Anna grabbed her jacket from the peg. ‘I’m not under arrest. I’m going to see a friend across the road. I can’t be here, listening to that.’ That was the commotion in the living room as detectives scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.

  DC Ella Hicks, standing in the hallway, said, ‘Nobody should go out. Not yet. Not until we know what’s happened.’

  ‘Let me tell you what’s happened,’ Anna said as she threw her jacket on. ‘You people failed. My little lady is gone, and I’m not about to sit and listen to you people run around like headless chickens.’

  ‘But what about your husband? He’ll need you here when he gets back.’

  Both women heard the living room patio door open, and then raised voices as Jane learned the bad news. She started calling for Anna. Anna quickly opened the front door and darted through.

  Moving faster than she should have, and holding her belly to stop it wobbling, Hicks got past her on the path and put up her hand. That clear and universal gesture again. This time it got the recognisable obscene one Anna had avoided offering earlier.

  The friend across the road was Mr Parker, a middle-aged man in a wheelchair courtesy of a fall from his roof while tiling. Just before he opened the door to her knock, Anna glanced back to see the young DC in her garden, looking like she couldn’t decide what to do.

  ‘Anna? You okay?’

  Hicks went back inside. Anna turned to Mr Parker, who asked if Nick was okay, if there was trouble, what the police were doing here, and if there was anything he could do to help. Thankful that the street didn’t know about the kidnap yet, she quickly invented a story.

  ‘Oh, we’re fine. Nick’s workplace got broken into late last night, so he’s been in and out of the house all night sorting that. Josie is with friends while we give statements to the police. Everything is fine.’ She smiled, gave a sly glance at her watch, stepped inside and closed the door. ‘The police are being so nice, and I wanted to make them some of that chargrilled mackerel and sour beetroot you did for us last week. Do you mind if I pick some of your beetroot?’

  Of course he didn’t. He spun his chair and led, and she had to contain her eagerness to get into his back garden.

  Ninety seconds later, Nick was still talking to Anna, who wasn’t there to hear any of it, when the train rumbled past the New York Stadium and took a small iron bridge across the River Don. That was where it happened.

  The phone rang. Nick jammed it to his ear and opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance.

  ‘Don’t say a word. Wait. Take the money out of the box, but leave it in the freezer bag. I want you to read out a couple of the serial numbers for me.’

  Nick did as instructed. He dropped the box on the floor and held the wrapped cash in one hand, thoroughly disjointed. Serial numbers? He could feel blood pulsing in his neck. Ahead, six rows away, he saw White Coat, peeking at him from behind a guy in a beanie.

  But Nick had only just made it on to the train. White Coat must have bombed through the doors in a serious hurry, and that could mean only one thing.

  Suddenly, it hit him. White Coat would be taking the money. Minus the box, the cash bundle was small enough to secretly slip to the guy as he walked past. It was all another trick. There was no locker awaiting him at—

  ‘Toss the money and the phone out the window, RIGHT NOW!’

  The vehemence in the scream allowed no pause, no deliberation. Nick leaped to his feet and rammed open a sliding portion of the window at the top, and tossed out the package. The phone was right behind, before he’d had chance to realise he was killing his only link to the kidnappers.

  In the half-second he got to imprint the lay of the land in his memory, he saw a river, and thick shrubbery along both banks, but he also saw a path running parallel to the water, and on that path was what looked like a quad bike. And then the train was over the bridge and the money was far behind. He didn’t see where it landed, whether it was on land or water, and he didn’t see anyone near the quad. But he didn’t need to.

  Face against the window, looking back as the river and the money fell far behind, Nick tried to digest what the hell had just happened.

  ‘Base, it’s gone,’ he heard someone yell. ‘He took a call and just lobbed the money and the phone right out the window, quick as a flash. Bridge over the River Don. Money is in the River Don just past New York Stadium.’

  White Coat, who was on his feet and holding a radio by his mouth. Not a kidnapper at all. A police officer. Across ten feet and a dozen heads, both men leaned against glass and stared at each other.

  ‘So where the hell is my daughter?’

  When Bennet pulled up in the car park at Meadowhall Interchange, Nick walked away from White Coat without a word. He seemed to fall more than climb into the back seat. Bennet climbed in and said, ‘Why did you refuse to answer the tactical team’s questions?’

  ‘Is my girl dead?’

  Bennet turned to face Nick. ‘Don’t think like that. I told you how this might go down, do you remember?’

  ‘No. What do you mean? You knew this was going to happen?’

  ‘No, nobody knew what would happen. I apologise for being blunt, but we couldn’t expect these people to carry your daughter about with them. We believe that once the kidnappers are clear, someone will either call us with details of where to find her, or she’ll be let go in a street somewhere. Someone will find her, take her to a police station, and you’ll get her back.’

  Nick really wanted to believe that, because it made sense, but paranoia created major doubt. ‘That’s the way it goes, is it? Every single time? No third option?’

  Bennet gave a careful, analytical look. ‘Stay off the Internet, Nick. Trust me.’

  ‘You mean you promise?’

  Bennet started to drive. He didn’t answer the question, but said, ‘You refused to talk to the tactical team. Why?’

  Nick lay down across the back seat and scratched his forehead with all ten fingernails, as if trying to coax away a headache. ‘Tactical team. Is that why I don’t recognise that guy you stuck on the train? Why did nobody say there were a bunch of strangers following me around? So how many people was it who watched my daughter slip through their fingers?’

  Bennet started the car and pulled out of the car park. ‘DCI Miller was in joint-command, but we used a ransom kidnap call-out team from the National Crime Agency. They’re trained for this kind of surveillance—’

  ‘Forget that. I’ll decide how many people I’m suing later. There was a quad bike near the river. What do you know?’

  ‘We’re looking for the quad. We’ll try to find CCTV, witnesses, the usual. We’re going back to all the places you’ve been. We’re working hard to—’

  Nick groaned. ‘Don’t say anything else. Always the political answers. I’m getting tired of it. Just drive me home. My wife will be beside herself and I need to get there.’

  ‘We’ll be home soon. Nick, you should have answered Tactical Support’s questions. I’m sorry about what happened, and I promise we’ll do everything we can to get Josie back home. But now you need to help us with that. From the start,
at the bingo club. We saw and we heard most, but pretend I know nothing. It’s the little details we need.’

  Nick kicked out, catching the back of Bennet’s seat. The detective ignored it. ‘I want to kill every one of them.’

  ‘Completely understandable. But believe me, a life sentence in a cage is worse, and that’s what they’ve got coming.’

  ‘What if Josie is in a cage and they can’t get back to her? Or they just decide it’s too risky to go back? If she’s tied up and she can’t breathe properly and she’s got no water and they just abandon her…’

  Legs again thumped the driver’s seat. Bennet slid the car into the side of the road and turned to face Nick. ‘You have to try to relax, hard as that seems. Look, I’ll be honest, I don’t know for sure if they plan to release your daughter. Not for certain. But they wanted money and they got it. It makes no sense to hurt Josie now.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Tell me about the callers. You said two men. Did you recognise either voice? Are you sure this wasn’t one person?’

  ‘Two men, Bennet. Not some woman doing a damn Darth Invader impression. Look, no more questions from you. You saw the show. You know what I know. Now you talk to me. You tell me what you know and what you’re doing to find my daughter and these bastards. And start driving again so I can get back to my wife and make sure she’s okay.’

  Bennet didn’t object. The vehicle started rolling.

  ‘Dominic Watson-Bruce,’ Nick said, tasting the name while staring at the man’s mugshot on Bennet’s phone. ‘They were going south and Northampton is a straight run south. So that’s where they’re going? I want to go there. If they’re going to release my daughter, and it’s going to happen there, I want to be there for her as soon as possible.’

  Bennet said, ‘We’re not certain this man is in charge of your daughter. He’s only nineteen and he’s only ever been done for car theft and some petty troublemaking. We think his role was to secure stolen vehicles for the rest of the team. He might even have no idea what the vehicles were for. He might not have many answers. And you said the caller had the Sunderland accent, which this kid doesn’t.’