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

by TM Logan

  ‘The word from who?’

  ‘It’s all over Twitter. Is he ill, or something?’

  ‘No, don’t think so.’

  The man raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Woah. So the rumours are true, then?’

  48

  Sarah put the last few things back into her handbag before zipping it up.

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘People are saying on Twitter that he’s been suspended. Criminal misconduct.’

  If only, Sarah thought.

  ‘Don’t think it’s that, either.’

  The man looked down at her with dark, confident eyes.

  ‘Really? So, he’s not ill and not suspended. Done a runner then, has he?’

  A slim, dark-haired woman appeared at the man’s side. Sarah knew her from somewhere but she couldn’t quite place her. She had an iPhone in her hand and was wearing an exquisitely cut black trouser suit over a crisp white blouse. Sarah read the name on the university ID card hanging around her neck on a lanyard. Lisa Gallagher, Press Office.

  ‘Hi,’ she said briskly to the tall man. ‘Are you a student?’

  ‘Yeah. Postgraduate. Politics.’

  ‘Long way from your faculty, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was just on my way back to my hall of residence.’

  ‘Really? Which hall?’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to be off now.’

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes, I do. You’re Ollie Bailey. Daily Mail, isn’t it? Or is it the Evening Standard?’

  The man looked at her, seeming to contemplate his options. After a moment he smiled and held up a hand in mock surrender.

  ‘Mail,’ he said finally. ‘So where is he?’

  ‘Where is who?’

  ‘Alan Lovelock. Your star professor?’

  ‘Give me a card and I’ll send you our statement.’

  Bailey produced a small notepad from his back pocket and scribbled some notes in shorthand.

  ‘Already got your official line: doesn’t say very much. But there is a police investigation going on, right?’

  ‘I’ll send you the university’s formal statement,’ Gallagher repeated. ‘In the next hour.’

  ‘Is it true that he’s been picked up as part of Operation Yewtree?’

  ‘You can go now.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Bye bye.’

  ‘I don’t have to go anywhere. This is public property.’

  ‘Wrong. I’d be quite happy to have my colleagues from Security escort you off campus, if you like.’

  He shrugged, and turned to Sarah again.

  ‘It was nice to meet you, Dr Haywood.’

  As he walked away, Sarah looked down and realised she had her own staff card on a lanyard around her neck, her name and title on display.

  ‘He’s a reporter?’ Sarah said, feeling the flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks.

  ‘In the broadest sense of the word.’ She turned to face Sarah. ‘You’re staff, aren’t you? What did you tell him?’

  ‘Well, just that Alan isn’t ill.’ She felt herself going red again. ‘And that he wasn’t suspended.’

  Gallagher frowned, fixing Sarah with her blue-green eyes.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Sarah opened her car and began strapping Harry into his seat.

  ‘Well, I’ve just been interviewed by two detectives.’

  ‘What else did you say to Bailey?’

  ‘Only that Alan and I were colleagues, and that he hadn’t been around for a few days. People are speculating about it on Twitter.’

  ‘Don’t say anything else. To anyone. All right?’

  Sarah was struck by a horrible thought.

  ‘Is he going to quote me?’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Or tonight, if it’s online.’

  ‘But I didn’t give him permission.’

  ‘This is the Mail we’re talking about.’

  Sarah finished strapping Harry into his car seat and closed the door.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. I was distracted with the kids, and we just got chatting.’

  Gallagher handed her a business card.

  ‘If you have any other approaches from media, refer them straight to me. All my numbers are on the card.’

  ‘Of course.’ She tucked the card into her handbag. ‘I didn’t realise that Alan would be such big news. I’m sorry.’

  ‘As soon as there’s blood in the water, the sharks start to circle.’

  Sarah felt her heart clench.

  ‘Blood? Is he – is he hurt?’

  ‘It’s just a figure of speech – I’m sure he’s fine. What I mean is, when the nation’s favourite professor goes AWOL, it’s bound to get attention from the more prurient sections of the media. Sniffing for a story.’

  ‘I really am very sorry about this. I just didn’t realise he was a journalist, he didn’t introduce himself.’

  Gallagher checked her phone’s display briefly and put it in her jacket.

  ‘Just remember: any other media ask you for comment, refer them straight to me. No exceptions. This situation with Professor Lovelock has all the makings of a real, gold-plated shitshow, and we don’t want to make it any worse than it already is, do we?’

  49

  Sarah woke with a piercing white wine hangover on Saturday morning and it took a minute – as it did every morning now – before reality settled on her again. The briefest of moments while she floated out of pre-dawn sleep, before she’d even opened her eyes, when she wasn’t aware of anything – not Volkov, or the scarred man or Alan Lovelock. Not the phone call that had sealed her boss’s fate.

  Then it all came crashing back in, all at once. And from that point on, every minute she was awake, thoughts of him were within touching distance all day long.

  That was how it was now.

  She made the children’s breakfast and spent the best part of two hours combing news websites and social media for any hint, any clue, that the police were closer to finding Lovelock – or his body. Sure enough, the Daily Mail had run a story on their website about his mysterious disappearance from the campus of Queen Anne University, quoting various unnamed sources alongside the university’s official response which said very little apart from the fact that they were cooperating fully with police and their thoughts were with Lovelock’s family ‘at this difficult time’. The story carried the byline of Ollie Bailey, the reporter who had buttonholed her the day before, and she had frozen for a moment when she thought he might have singled her out to quote her by name.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. He’d used her quote, but not named her – referring to her as ‘a close academic colleague’.

  At ten, she took the children to Harry’s football match where her dad joined them to cheer his team on as they went down to a 12–1 defeat. Harry and her dad stayed at home after lunch while she took Grace on a girls’ shopping trip to The Mall in Wood Green.

  By four, Sarah was flagging and the pair sat down in a Costa Coffee. While Grace fussed with the marshmallows on her hot chocolate, Sarah sipped a cappuccino and did a quick search on her phone for any updates on Lovelock. The Evening Standard had done a version of the story, lifting the Mail piece virtually word for word, and the local paper, the Gazette, had done the same with the addition of a little local colour. The only update seemed to be the addition of some older pictures of Lovelock, and a ‘no comment’ response from his wife.

  She put her phone down and cradled the last of the cappuccino in both hands, savouring the strong earthy taste and the instant hit of caffeine. She studied her surroundings for the first time as Grace played with her new stationery set. It was a normal Saturday afternoon, with normal people doing normal things: a table of teenage girls giggling over their phones; a pensioner reading the paper; a young dad with a baby in a pram; a woman opposite a man in a wheelchai
r at the table across from them, the woman laughing a light, high-pitched laugh.

  Sarah frowned, the sound was out of context, out of place. Wrong, somehow. The woman’s laugh was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. She looked more closely at her. Late forties, smartly dressed in a woollen jacket and jeans, straight hair falling to her shoulders. Sarah knew her, but the context was wrong. She looked different. Everything about her was different.

  The woman laughed again as she stood up and put her coat on, and this time the man in the wheelchair laughed with her.

  Sarah studied her, not quite believing how different she looked out of work. She also couldn’t ever recall hearing her laugh before, or even seeing her smile.

  ‘Jocelyn?’

  Jocelyn Steer turned, the smile still on her lips.

  ‘Oh – hello there, Sarah.’

  ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘I mean you look so – so different.’

  And she did. At work she always dressed in muted greys and blacks, cardigans and long dresses, hair tied back, no make-up. No smiles – and definitely no laughter.

  ‘My work clothes are rather different to my normal wardrobe.’ She motioned to the man in the wheelchair. ‘This is my husband, Andrew, by the way.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Sarah said.

  Andrew smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Sarah introduced them to Grace, and Jocelyn shook the little girl’s hand with a wide smile.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s just a bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Really.’

  It wasn’t just Jocelyn’s appearance that confused Sarah. It was her mood as well – how upbeat she was.

  ‘How are you doing? With – with everything that’s going on at work?’

  ‘I’m fine. You?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Jocelyn leaned down to help button her husband’s coat.

  ‘Listen, we were just on our way home. Do you want to walk back to the Tube with us, if you’re heading that way?’

  They walked up the hill towards Wood Green underground station in the gathering darkness. The air was cold and smelt of winter, the streets busy with people as shoppers headed home and early Saturday drinkers came out. Sarah held Grace’s hand tightly while Jocelyn pushed her husband in his wheelchair, manoeuvring him expertly through the crowd.

  ‘I want to apologise for the other week, by the way,’ Jocelyn said. ‘That Monday meeting.’

  ‘When I was late?’

  ‘The thing I said about you being alone with him in his office. I think it might have come out the wrong way, how I said it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell the police I was in a relationship with him?’

  ‘No! Of course not. I hate how he treats people, how he’s treated you. I hate what he gets away with.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell him I tried to record my last meeting with him?’

  Jocelyn looked taken aback.

  ‘Me? No. I had no idea.’

  They walked a little further through the crowds.

  ‘If you hate the way he is, why don’t you just leave?’ Sarah said.

  Jocelyn shrugged.

  ‘I can’t afford the upheaval of looking for another job, not with everything else we’ve got going on at home and me being the breadwinner now. Alan upgraded me right to the top of the next pay scale a couple of years ago, so I earn more there than I could elsewhere.’ Her eyes dropped to the wheelchair and she gave a sad smile. ‘And he’s told me more than once that he wouldn’t give me a reference if I quit, or it would be an atrocious one. Alan has a habit of – shall we say – making it difficult for people to leave.’

  ‘I noticed,’ Sarah said.

  ‘I know where the bodies are buried, so to speak, and he knows I know it, too. It’s kind of an unspoken thing between us.’

  ‘He wants to keep you close because of what you’ve seen and heard?’

  ‘Yes. So I worked out a way to survive: I play a role. I play the frosty, frumpy bitch and keep absolutely everyone at arm’s length. Including Alan.’

  ‘Has he tried it on with you, too?’

  ‘Once, when I first started. Then I figured out my own set of rules. My camouflage. You have your Rules, and I have mine.’

  ‘You know about the Rules?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I keep my ears open.’

  ‘You don’t seem too upset about what’s happened. Him going missing, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll turn up. He always comes out on top, one way or the other.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  They stopped walking at the mouth of the Tube station and Jocelyn leaned towards her, voice low.

  ‘Let’s just say I don’t think it would be a terrible tragedy. But what do you make of it all?’

  ‘Me?’ Sarah said, searching for the right sentiment. ‘Obviously, I hope he’s OK, same as everyone else.’

  Jocelyn studied her for a moment.

  ‘Of course. The same as everyone else.’

  Sarah put out her hand and they shook.

  ‘It was nice to meet you. I mean the real you.’

  ‘You too.’ Jocelyn gripped her hand, her face hard again – a hint of her work persona. ‘If you mention any of this, I’ll deny it all, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But if not, perhaps we could do it again some time?’

  They exchanged mobile numbers and went their separate ways.

  50

  Caroline Lovelock’s pale face greeted her when she got home. Sarah was making tea for the children with the TV news in the background, mulling over her encounter with Jocelyn Steer. She set pasta on to boil and took two tins of tuna from the cupboard, still struggling to get over how different Jocelyn looked outside work. How different she was, in reality. How badly she had misjudged her. She chopped a red pepper and an onion, stirring the pasta sauce on the hob.

  On the wall-mounted TV, the national news finished and switched into the regional bulletin for BBC London.

  ‘Our top story tonight,’ the presenter said. ‘The wife of TV academic Alan Lovelock appeals for his safe return.’

  Sarah turned and dropped the cutlery she was holding with a clatter, grabbing for the remote as the presenter continued, a picture of Lovelock appearing in the top left corner of the screen.

  ‘Detectives say they are becoming increasingly concerned for the safety of the popular TV professor after he failed to arrive at work on Tuesday morning. Caroline Lovelock, his wife, appeared at a police press conference this afternoon. Our reporter Anna Forsythe has the story.’

  The picture switched to a crowded room, a table festooned with microphones, bright lights shining on four people behind the table. DI Rayner was there, with another senior officer in uniform, and a woman that Sarah didn’t recognise at the other end. At the centre of the table sat Caroline Lovelock in a dark jacket and cream blouse. She looked calm and composed, despite the forest of microphones angled towards her face.

  ‘It’s been four days since Professor Alan Lovelock was last seen,’ the voiceover intoned. ‘And the Metropolitan Police are now stepping up their search in what they say is becoming an increasingly high priority case. Caroline Lovelock had this to say today.’

  The picture switched to a tighter shot of Caroline Lovelock, a large Metropolitan Police logo plastered on the blue background behind her. She picked up a piece of paper from the desk and began to read.

  ‘Alan, if you’re watching this, I just want you to know that we’re all worried about you, and we want you home safe as soon as possible. Please just get in touch, either with me or with the Metropolitan Police, to let us know that you’re safe. Or if anyone knows anything about where Alan might be, please pass on your information to the police.’

  She finished talking, put down the piece of paper, and stared straight int
o the camera. She looked intensely uncomfortable but seemed determined not to cry, not to break down in front of the nation’s media.

  I did this, Sarah thought to herself, feeling an icy chill at the back of her neck. I made this happen. I put her in that chair, in that room, with those people.

  I’ve made her a widow.

  She wanted to look away but couldn’t tear her eyes from the screen, from Caroline Lovelock’s unblinking brown eyes staring back at her, the guilt pressing in on her from every direction threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs. Not for the first time she thought of Doctor Faustus, the Elizabethan tragedy she had spent so many hours of her professional life reading, dissecting, analysing. He had sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for earthly success, money, power, knowledge, sealing the deal in a contract written in his own blood. And after twenty-four years the Devil had returned, to drag his soul to Hell for the rest of eternity.

  Stop it. That’s nothing to do with you. With your situation.

  Faustus is just a story, just words on a page.

  The image on the screen cut away to a shot of Lovelock’s house, taken from the end of the drive. The reporter was still talking, wrapping up her story, but Sarah couldn’t hear anything she was saying.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  But what’s done is done.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ Grace appeared at her side.

  Sarah jumped.

  ‘Gracie! You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘What are you sorry about, Mummy?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s gone now.’

  Grace looked at the cutlery scattered on the floor, at the pasta starting to boil dry and the unopened tins of tuna.

  ‘Is tea ready, Mummy? I’m starving.’

  51

  By Monday, the story was everywhere.

  The cafeteria was packed and it seemed to Sarah that everywhere she looked, all the students eating lunch on the long bench seats were talking about one thing: Professor Alan Lovelock, who had now been missing for almost a week. The lads behind her in the queue had spent the last five minutes trading theories back and forth that they’d seen circulating on social media: either he had been suspended, or arrested, or was on a crystal meth binge in Las Vegas. Or maybe all three, one of the students said with a trace of admiration in his voice.