29 Seconds: From the author of LIES. You will not put this thriller down until the final astonishing twist . . .

by TM Logan

  ‘Grace!’ Sarah said, catching up to them. ‘Stop that! Say sorry to your brother.’

  ‘He was in the way.’

  Sarah picked Harry up and stood him back on his feet, before his crying could reach full volume. Experience as a mother told her that crying was not always a cause for alarm. It was when they were hurt but quiet that you really needed to be worried.

  ‘There’s enough room for all of us. Say sorry.’

  Grace stared at her brother, eyes blazing.

  ‘Cry baby,’ she said.

  ‘Say sorry,’ Sarah repeated.

  ‘He is, though.’

  ‘Grace!’

  ‘Sorry,’ her daughter mumbled to no one in particular.

  Sarah straightened her son’s coat and brushed his hair off his forehead. She checked her watch: 8.46. They were still OK for time – just.

  ‘Let’s try again, shall we?’

  Harry put his little hand in hers and they walked to the front door. As they passed Grace, he swung his book bag in an exaggerated arc so it slapped against his sister’s back, then clung tighter to Sarah’s hand as Grace tried to swing her bag to retaliate.

  Sarah hit her car remote to unlock the doors and turned to secure the front door behind them.

  Harry released his grip on her hand and hared off across their short drive, grabbing open the rear passenger side door and clambering up on to his booster seat.

  ‘First in the car!’ he said, beaming.

  Following him, Sarah strapped her son into his booster seat and glanced quickly at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She’d had all of sixty seconds to put a bit of make-up on, in between sorting the children out, and it wasn’t enough to hide the tiredness she felt.

  Grace went around the other side and climbed into her seat, glowering at him.

  ‘First in the car,’ Harry said again, bouncing in his seat. ‘I was first.’

  Grace leaned over and pinched him, hard, on his forearm.

  ‘Ahhhhhhh! Mummy, Gracie pinched me!’

  Sarah shot her daughter a look. She loved her children more than anything else in the world. But she also longed for harmony, for something to be easy, once in a while, for a time when she didn’t feel like she was continuously policing a fragile truce between the Crips and the Bloods.

  ‘Didn’t,’ Grace said, with a look of angelic sweetness.

  ‘It hurts!’ Harry cried.

  ‘Stop it, both of you,’ Sarah said.

  The children got their competitive streak from her, she supposed. Nick wasn’t the competitive sort, quite the opposite in fact. So presumably that meant it was her fault: always the competitive one. Apart from the wild year in her mid-teens, Sarah had always been top of the class, the overachiever, desperate to please, the third of three daughters trying to win the approval of her parents. She had always harboured a suspicion that she was her parents’ last shot at having a boy – and when she turned out to be another girl, she faded into the background of the first and second-born, Lucy, who now lived in Glasgow, and Helen, in Nottingham. Sarah was somewhere in there, somewhere in the mix, just never at the front.

  She walked slowly with them up to the gates of Grace’s school, giving her a kiss and an extra hug before her daughter squirmed away and ran towards her friends in the playground. Sarah stood at the gates, studying the adults in the playground, checking who was coming and going, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary. All seemed normal. After a minute she moved further up the hill to the infant school next door, holding Harry’s hand tightly as they walked into the playground. Looking at each car parked on the street, looking for the black BMW 4 x 4 from last night or any other cars that didn’t look like they belonged there. She knew many of the parents here, knew their cars even if she didn’t know their names.

  Four years of coming here every weekday had taught her the rhythm of morning drop-off at school. There was a pattern to it: those who were always early, who were late, who always parked their 4 x 4 up on the kerb, who risked the head teacher’s wrath by parking on the zig-zag lines, the ones whose kids ran ahead and those who had to be half-dragged, half-carried to the school gate. There were parents dressed as if ready to hit the boardroom and others who looked as if they’d dressed in the dark in thirty seconds flat. She would notice something out of place, a person who didn’t belong – she knew she would. She just needed to keep her eyes peeled.

  There. A man in a black suit and long overcoat standing at the far edge of the fence, looking into the playground through dark sunglasses. He looked as if he was trying to remain inconspicuous, trying to blend into the background. Unsmiling, scanning the area. She had never seen him before. She slowed her pace, Harry tugging at her hand, pulling her towards the school. The man was looking for someone in particular, his head moving from side to side as he took in the crowded playground.

  He was hiding something. He had something concealed under his coat.

  Oh no.

  Sarah stopped walking, the breath catching in her throat. Her phone vibrated in her pocket but she ignored it. She gripped Harry’s hand tightly, remembering the words of the man she had met the night before.

  To make sure you know how serious I am, I’m going to show you some pictures.

  Pictures of her house. Her dad’s house. The schools her children attended.

  But she’d told no one, so why was this man here? It didn’t make sense.

  Unless it was a warning. We are watching you. We know where you will be, where your children will be. We know where you are weak.

  ‘Mummy, come on,’ Harry said, tugging at her hand again.

  The man had not seen them yet. They could still get away.

  She was about to turn and walk back to her car when the man stopped scanning the playground. He broke into a smile and waved as a small boy came running up and reached through the bars of the fence. The man produced a small green Tupperware box from under his coat and handed it to the boy.

  Not suspicious after all. He was just another school-run dad who’d forgotten to give his son his packed lunch.

  OK. She exhaled a heavy breath and felt the relief flood through her. It’s OK. It’s nothing to worry about. She walked with Harry into the playground, stood with him when the bell rang for the children to line up, and went with him into his classroom as she always did. She hugged him for a few seconds longer than usual when it was time to say goodbye. He had that beautiful child smell, sweet and clean and unsullied by the world, that she loved breathing in as she held him close. She was about to say something to him but before she could get the words out he was pulling away from her embrace, trotting off across the classroom to see his friends Esther and Leigh. Sarah lingered a moment longer, not wanting to let him out of her sight. Her fears of a few minutes ago may have been misplaced, but that didn’t mean the danger wasn’t real.

  And Harry was so small, so trusting. So vulnerable.

  His reception teacher, Mrs Cass, caught Sarah’s eye and smiled. Raised her eyebrows. Sarah knew what the young teacher meant: Everything is OK. I can take it from here. Harry adored her, as did all the other children in the class. Sarah took the hint and retreated to the door, taking her place among the other anxious parents watching their babies become reception year schoolchildren.

  Mrs Cass clapped her hands and all the children turned to look at her, their faces wide-eyed and eager.

  With one last look at her son, Sarah turned and walked back out into the playground.

  25

  Walking quickly back to her car, Sarah checked the time on her phone – 8.59 – and saw a text from Marie.

  Where are you? M x

  She typed a quick reply.

  On my way. You OK? x

  She was driving away from school when the next text message dropped in, and waited until she’d pulled up at some traffic lights before reading it. Traffic was solid all the way to campus and she knew she’d be cutting it fine to make the Tuesday morning staff meeting.


  Did you get the email this morning? M x

  Sarah didn’t like the sound of that. She fired off a quick reply as she sat at the red light.

  What email? x

  The lights turned green and she put the car in gear, the old Fiesta’s engine almost stalling before it shuddered back into life and slowly picked up speed. It was fifteen years old and seemed to develop a new strange noise every week, but Sarah had no spare money to spend on getting it fixed. She was dreading its next MOT.

  Traffic was thick all the way to campus but there were no more texts from Marie. With a growing sense of unease, she drove up the hill to the main arts faculty building in search of a parking space. It was never easy finding a space if you had to do the school drop-off first and Tuesdays were always the worst, for some reason. She circled the car park in front of the faculty – a sprawling Georgian manor house had been converted into offices and seminar rooms – looking in vain for one last parking space. But there were none. She gave up and drove back down the hill, checking by the library and the staff club. Still no spaces.

  Eventually she parked in the main staff car park and hurried up the hill, on foot this time, towards the arts faculty building. The sky was overcast and the air felt heavy with impending rain. Students bustled by her, heading for lectures, a few of her own undergraduates smiling and saying hello as they passed. There was a turning circle in front of her building, with a Victorian statue of the Roman god Neptune in a fountain at its centre. Someone – a student, presumably – had climbed up the statue and put a traffic cone on Neptune’s head. The building’s porter, Mr Jennings, was contemplating the water god’s new headgear from the bottom of a stepladder propped against the stone rim of the fountain.

  ‘Morning,’ he said to her with a nod.

  ‘Morning, Michael,’ she replied, a little breathless from her speed-walk.

  Hurrying through the main doors, she ran up the stairs to the second floor, dumped her laptop in her office and headed for Lovelock’s office. His office space actually consisted of three rooms – the outer office, where his PA sat, his inner office to the right, lined with books from floor to ceiling, and a large conference room.

  Jocelyn Steer was in her mid-forties and had been Professor Lovelock’s PA for years. Sarah had never got beyond a relationship of basic cordiality with her – she’d tried to be friendly but had come to realise that Jocelyn never cracked a smile for anyone. She considered herself to be the gatekeeper to Lovelock’s diary, his office, his university life, and it was a role she executed with the zeal and commitment of a member of the Waffen SS. Idle enquiries, time-wasters and members of the university’s administrative staff were to be shut down with ruthless efficiency. The last time they’d seen each other was as Sarah stormed out of Lovelock’s office the week before.

  Sarah checked her watch again: 9.27. Three minutes to spare.

  ‘Hi, Jocelyn,’ she said, walking into Lovelock’s outer office.

  ‘Morning,’ Jocelyn replied, her tone clipped.

  Sarah stopped: even by Jocelyn’s standards, this was an unusually cool welcome.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  The older woman pursed her lips.

  ‘It’s not my place to say.’

  ‘Not your place to say what?’

  Jocelyn drew herself up in her seat, but wouldn’t meet Sarah’s gaze.

  ‘What happens behind closed doors is none of my business. But you might want to –’

  ‘What does that mean, behind closed doors?’

  ‘In Alan’s office. He’s a very important man, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said, frowning. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Perhaps you should think about that the next time you’re alone in there with him.’

  26

  Sarah felt an unpleasant chill crawl up her spine. What had Jocelyn seen? What conclusions had she jumped to?

  ‘What?’

  Jocelyn tucked her grey cardigan more tightly around herself.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sarah said, ‘what does that mean, what you just said?’

  ‘I think you know very well what it means.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t, but whatever you’ve heard, whatever he’s told you –’

  ‘Anyway,’ Jocelyn said, cutting her off, ‘I don’t want to make you any later than you already are.’

  Sarah checked her watch again. She still had a minute.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They started at nine sharp today.’

  Sarah felt panic wash through her like a tide. She noticed for the first time that the conference room door was closed.

  ‘How come? Why?’

  ‘I sent a reminder email this morning, asked colleagues to let one another know.’

  ‘I didn’t see any email.’

  She checked her phone. She normally looked at email when she first got up, around seven, but she didn’t have time – in between getting herself and the kids ready for school – to be constantly checking it before she got to work. Scrolling up, she found the email from Jocelyn. It had arrived at 8.52.

  ‘This gives me eight minutes’ notice of the time change,’ Sarah said. ‘I was still dropping the kids off at school then.’

  ‘Everyone else seemed to be fine with it.’

  ‘Did they all get eight minutes’ notice too?’

  ‘The meeting information was circulated last week, as per usual. Professor Lovelock thought it would be helpful to bring the meeting forward slightly to accommodate the dean’s other commitments today.’

  The dean. Shit. The head of the whole faculty. Basically, one of the most important people on campus. Sarah had forgotten he was attending today.

  ‘Departmental meetings are 9.30 every second Tuesday,’ Sarah said desperately. ‘They’re always 9.30 and the meeting information last week was the same as always. Why has it changed today? I’ve got the school drop-off just before nine.’

  ‘Not everything can be arranged to suit your domestic arrangements, Dr Haywood.’

  ‘I don’t expect things to be –’ Sarah started, then thought better of it. Her ‘domestic arrangements’ seemed to be mostly used as a stick to beat her with. She wondered, idly, if they would merit a mention if she were a man. You know the answer to that one.

  Her life had happened in a different order to most of her colleagues. She had fallen pregnant at twenty-four – she and Nick were being sort of careful at the time, without actually believing it would happen to them – then married in a quick registry office ceremony and she finished her PhD a scant three days before going into labour with Grace. She had taken six months out and gone back to work, and when Harry had come along three years later – she had not wanted to have too big a gap between her kids – she had just ploughed on regardless, working hard, juggling work and family and childcare while most of her colleagues were not even contemplating marriage yet, let alone children. Most, like Marie, would put off having kids until they had a permanent position and a semblance of stability in their working lives.

  She turned away from Lovelock’s secretary and knocked on the conference room door.

  All faces turned towards her as she hurried in, and proceedings stopped for a moment. Marie flashed her a nervous smile from across the table.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Sarah said. ‘Didn’t see the email. Sorry.’

  The dean of the faculty – a small, round-faced man named Professor Jonathan Clifton – was at the head of the table next to Lovelock. She was well aware that they had studied at Cambridge University together.

  ‘Ah, Dr Haywood,’ Clifton said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Good of you to join us today.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sarah said again, digging a notebook and pen out of her bag. She sat in the one remaining seat and Marie passed an agenda to her, a sympathetic expression on her face.

  ‘Shall we continue?’ Clifton added sharply.

  ‘Of course,’ Sarah said, trying to regain her composure.

  Peter Moran, the sc
hool manager, gave her a stern look and gestured towards Lovelock.

  ‘To bring you up to speed on what you’ve missed already, Sarah: we’ve covered staffing and resourcing, and issues around the January exams. We were just now talking about new funding streams for the school’s research – it looks like Alan has uncovered another fabulous opportunity for us.’

  ‘Great,’ Sarah said, scanning the agenda.

  ‘It could be a really significant source of funding for the department. And it’s in Boston, of all places.’

  27

  Sarah looked up from the agenda, an alarm bell starting to ring in her head.

  ‘Boston?’ she repeated.

  ‘Indeed. A philanthropic organisation with a particular interest in Marlowe’s life and works. Only established last year, but they’ve already given Harvard almost two million dollars for work in this field, so it’s a significant find for us. Could be really good for the department.’

  Sarah was about to speak when Clifton added: ‘Alan has already made some initial enquiries to the fund director.’

  She felt her face burning.

  ‘This is Atholl Sanders, right?’

  ‘Correct. I assume Alan’s already let you in on it.’

  ‘But that was my –’

  Lovelock interrupted in his usual way, his voice booming over hers.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember, Sarah,’ he said. ‘We haven’t discussed it since the conference. Hats off to you for making the most of the complimentary wine at the reception there, by the way. As Head of Department I’m all in favour of my staff members getting maximum value for money. I think you and Marie must have drunk the place dry.’

  There was a bark of sycophantic laughter from Webber-Smythe and chuckles from Moran, Clifton and a few of the others around the table. Sarah exchanged a confused look with Marie, who frowned back at her and gave a tiny shake of her head.

  ‘Alan’s been in touch with the trust,’ Moran said, ‘and they’ve invited him to Boston for four days in January to give a guest lecture and have some further discussions around funding opportunities.’