by TM Logan
A university spokesman confirmed Lovelock had been suspended from his position with immediate effect pending the outcome of criminal proceedings.
The story was everywhere, and the tabloid attack dogs were baying for blood. Lovelock was a combination of all the things they hated the most: an ivory tower academic, a BBC luvvie, and a millionaire socialist. They scented blood and wouldn’t be satisfied until his reputation was smashed beyond repair. With a twinge of irony, Sarah noticed that the byline on the front-page story was Ollie Bailey – the journalist who had first given her the idea. A random question tossed into a car park conversation: ‘Is it true that he’s been picked up as part of Operation Yewtree?’ The police operation that had uncovered a string of high-profile paedophiles and sexual predators from Jimmy Savile onwards.
The grey-haired lady caught Sarah’s eye as they both read. She tutted and shook her head.
‘Disgusting, isn’t it? Mind you, I always thought there was something not quite right about that fellow. Didn’t you?’
Sarah shrugged.
‘I never really watched his show.’
‘No smoke without fire, trust me.’ She turned to a double-page spread inside the paper, pictures of police officers carrying box after box of personal belongings out of Lovelock’s house, and the same at the faculty office at work. The woman tapped the page with a delicate index finger. ‘Look – they’re bound to find something in all that lot, aren’t they?’
They’ve already found plenty, Sarah thought.
She had spiked Lovelock’s drink with a particularly potent cocktail of the drugs GHB and Rohypnol – provided by Volkov along with the surveillance equipment – that rendered him unconscious within thirty minutes and shredded his short-term memory. Combined with alcohol, the combination of drugs was known to erase memories several hours before it was even taken. And within twelve hours of ingestion, all traces disappeared from the victim’s system. The dosage had to be exactly right, using precise details of size and weight – calculations made possible using the dimensions of Lovelock’s tailor-made ceremonial academic regalia.
A regalia kept in immaculate order by his PA, Jocelyn Steer.
With her target unconscious, Sarah had opened the package from the ‘courier’, removed a throwaway phone to summon Mikhail back to the house, and then let him in. Also inside the package was Nick’s old boiler suit and two pairs of rubber gloves. While Sarah got changed and began to erase all physical traces of her presence in the house, the young hacker had gone to work. And while Laura and her dad believed the plan was all about catching Lovelock on tape – hence the covert recording equipment – the real reason for Sarah’s visit went deeper. Much deeper. They had to be shielded from this real reason. And her efforts to record Lovelock had to be convincing enough so that he wouldn’t realise it was all a decoy.
Because when he turned on his PC the next day, a self-replicating virus corrupted every single file – including his new book – and crashed the machine. On Monday, the technicians at PC World trying to fix it made a grim discovery: more than 9,000 child pornography images in the computer’s hard drive. A call to the police had brought simultaneous Tuesday morning raids to his house and office, where they had discovered thousands more images on his work computer and still more on an external hard drive concealed in his study at home, with date stamps going back fifteen years. A second external hard drive, concealed beneath his desk at work by Jocelyn, contained thousands more. Associated email traffic linked the professor with a notorious paedophile ring – and suggested that a recent falling-out over payment had led to his kidnapping two weeks previously.
Sarah knew there was a risk Lovelock might remember some of what had happened between them, and that he would have his suspicions. But there was no physical evidence of her ever being at his house – and she had a rock-solid alibi. She had been caught on CCTV going into work, and her mobile phone had connected to the university Wi-Fi. She had sent a text from work to her dad. Logged into her work computer at 7.34 that evening and stayed there for the best part of an hour. She had been caught on CCTV again on the way home – when she stopped to use the cashpoint.
Sarah had done all these things on Saturday evening – her electronic footprint proved it.
Or at least, someone who looked like her had done so: another slim brunette in her early thirties. Same height and hair colour, with Sarah’s clothes, bag, hat and sunglasses. Driving her car. Someone else who fitted Lovelock’s very particular type to a T.
Someone like Gillian Arnold.
Mikhail had even dealt with the recording from the CCTV camera over Lovelock’s front door. He had deleted the sequence showing Sarah’s arrival – and his own dressed as a courier ten minutes later – and replaced it with an unremarkable hour from the previous evening. Leaving nothing to suggest anyone had visited on Saturday evening.
Sarah settled back into her business class seat, giving her lap belt a little tug to make sure it was tight enough. It was a seven-hour flight to Boston and it was going to be a full-on four days in the city, to make sure she landed the Atholl Sanders funding. It would be a huge coup for the university, for the department, for her, if she could pull it off. All the signs were good so far. The dean of the faculty had been very quick to clarify with the Atholl Foundation that all of the work, and research, would be led by Dr Sarah Haywood – who, after all, had made the initial contact. That Alan Lovelock had only been brought in to oversee the early part of the process and would not be involved with the work in any capacity whatsoever from now on. The department was bigger than one person, they insisted. It was bigger than one individual. Much bigger.
With a rising whine the jet engines spooled up to full power and Sarah sat back in her seat, ready for the rush of acceleration that would start them on their way. She thought about her dad, about a conversation in a moment of crisis. A conversation that led to a decision. A decision that led to a plan – and a carefully orchestrated sting.
There are only ever really three options in life, Sarah.
You can cut and run, make a fresh start somewhere else.
You can trust the process, the powers that be.
Or you can stand and fight.
She had chosen to stand and fight. Even though it meant getting right down in the gutter with her opponent, and fighting dirty. Because it was no more than he deserved. And sometimes – just sometimes – maybe it was true that an impossible situation required an unthinkable solution.
The plane started rolling down the runway, slowly at first, then picking up speed, dashed lines on the tarmac blurring into a continuous white stripe. The Boeing’s nose lifted, then the rear wheels, and finally they were airborne, climbing out of Heathrow en route to Boston.
Sarah watched the roads and houses diminish beneath her, the big jet turning towards the setting sun as it headed for the Atlantic.
She closed her eyes, and smiled.
THE END
Acknowledgements
That thing they say about the difficult second album? It’s true. Luckily, I had a lot of people to help me bring 29 SECONDS into the world.
First and foremost, thanks to you for picking up this book. I appreciate it. And thanks to everyone who has taken the time to leave a review, tell a friend or share with their reading group.
Thanks to my agent, Camilla Wray, at Darley Anderson, who always manages to offer the right mix of encouragement, guidance and insight. Thanks also to the brilliant rights team at DA for bringing my stories to new readers in countries around the world. Mary, Sheila, Emma and Kristina – you’re all fab.
A huge thank-you to Sophie Orme, my editor at Bonnier Zaffre, and the wonderful team there, including Bec Farrell, Katherine Armstrong, Kate Parkin, Emily Burns and Felice Howden. Also, thanks to Joel Richardson, for opening the door in the first place.
I am grateful once again for the help of Chief Superintendent Rob Griffin of Nottinghamshire Police, for his guidance on evidence and procedure; and to Dr G
ill Sare, for her help on medical matters. Thanks also to Charlotte, who suggested Christopher Marlowe as the ideal subject specialism.
I’m indebted to the investigative reporting of the Guardian, which has worked hard to expose some of the issues that feature in 29 SECONDS. Also to Laura Bates and her powerful book Everyday Sexism, which makes for grim, but eye-opening, reading.
A shout out to my wonderful former colleagues, who have been very kind with their comments and encouragement. In alphabetical order: Anne (those badges!), Charlotte, Debs, Emma H-B, Emma L, Emma R and Emma T, Esther, Katy, Leigh, Lindsay, Lisa, Liz C, Liz G, Paul, Paula, Rob, Ryan, Tara, Tom. I miss you all. Particularly the tea.
To Team Twenty7 (you know who you are), it has been great to get to know you all – an unexpected delight since first getting published. Thanks for all the support, solidarity and sensible advice. And to the Doomsday Writers, for all the same reasons.
Thanks to John, Sue, Jenny and Bernard, whose help and encouragement is invaluable. Also to my big brothers, Ralph and Ollie, who have been enthusiastic supporters of my writing.
A massive thank-you to my wonderful wife, Sally, for steering me in the right direction at an early stage of this story, for being one of my diligent first readers and for always telling me which parts she’d skip. To my amazing kids, who make me proud every day and keep me grounded in a way that only teenagers can: Sophie, who succinctly (and very accurately) described what I do as ‘sitting in the spare room making stuff up’. And Tom, who still asks me when I’m going to get a proper job again.
Lastly, thanks to my Mum and Dad for their love and support over many years. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the heroes of my first two books are a teacher and an academic. Thank you, both – for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TM Logan is a former science reporter for the Daily Mail and subsequently worked in higher education communications. He was born in Berkshire to an English father and German mother. His debut novel Lies was a number one bestseller and has sold over 300,000 copies. He now lives in Nottinghamshire with his wife and two children.
Also by TM Logan
Lies
A message from TM Logan . . .
If you enjoyed 29 SECONDS, why not join TM LOGAN’S READERS’ CLUB by visiting www.bit.ly/TMLogan?
First of all, I want to thank you for picking up 29 SECONDS. Even though this is my second book, it’s still slightly surreal to be writing full-time and to have had so much positive feedback about my debut thriller, LIES. I feel incredibly lucky to be creating stories that people have embraced, and I’m very grateful that you’ve given your time to reading my latest.
I’ve always been fascinated by the boundary between right and wrong – the shades of grey in between the two; the tension between what is just and what is right. How might that boundary become blurred if you were to find yourself in a situation where your options are being taken away, where the laws and rules intended to protect us fail us? How much pressure would it take for you to make a decision you never would have considered under normal circumstances? And what happens when you do?
These questions were the inspiration for 29 SECONDS, a ‘what if’ story that pivots on a single question and a single decision.
I started writing this novel in the autumn of 2016, a year before the New York Times broke its story about sexual harassment in Hollywood. The ripples from that brilliant piece of journalism have underlined the damage that can be caused by a powerful individual, operating with impunity, who has total control over the careers of those around him: a man like Professor Alan Lovelock. The New York Times story reminds us of the potential for situations like this to develop, not just in the film industry, but anywhere – wherever there is a major imbalance of power and a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.
My next psychological thriller has the working title SEVEN DAYS. It’s set in the south of France where three families are holidaying together, the women having been best friends for as long as they can remember. But one of them – Katy – has a secret: her husband is having an affair. And this trip is the perfect opportunity for Katy to catch him in the act, because all of her instincts point to the other woman being one of her two best friends. But Katy realises too late that the stakes are far higher than she ever could have imagined – and someone in the villa is prepared to kill to keep their secret hidden . . .
If you would like to hear more from me about my future books, you can visit www.bit.ly/TMLogan and join the TM Logan Readers’ Club. It only takes a few moments to sign up, there are no catches or costs, and new members will automatically receive exclusive content from me that features a scene cut from the original draft of my debut novel, LIES – think of it as a novel version of a DVD extra, with a bit of author’s commentary! Your data will be kept totally private and confidential, and it will never be passed on to a third party. I won’t spam you with lots of emails, but will get in touch now and again with book news, and you can unsubscribe any time you want.
And if you would like to get involved in a wider conversation about my books, please do review 29 SECONDS on Amazon, on GoodReads, on any other e-store, on your own blog and social media accounts, or talk about it with friends, family or reading groups! Sharing your thoughts helps other readers, and I always enjoy hearing what people think about my stories.
Thanks again for your interest in 29 SECONDS, and I hope you’ll return for SEVEN DAYS and what comes after . . .
Best wishes,
Tim
Don’t miss T. M. Logan’s unputdownable debut thriller . . .
THE SENSATIONAL #1 BESTSELLER
OVER 300,000 COPIES SOLD
Joe Lynch is just an ordinary happily married man – until one split-second decision throws his life into crisis.
When Joe sees his wife having a confrontation with family friend Ben, it’s the first hint that she’s been lying to him – about everything.
And when he steps in to protect her, a harmless shove knocks Ben to the ground.
And he’s not moving . . .
AVAILABLE NOW IN PAPERBACK AND EBOOK
1
My son’s first word wasn’t Daddy or Mummy. His first word was Audi. Which was strange because I’d never owned an Audi, and on my salary probably never would. But William had played with toy cars before he could walk, and recognised the badges long before he could actually read the names. At the age of four (and a bit) he was already something of an expert, playing his car game as we inched along in the sluggish north London traffic, spotting badges and calling them out from his car seat in the back.
‘Audi.’
‘Renault.’
‘Beamer.’
We were almost home. The traffic lights up ahead began to change and I pulled up third in line as they turned red. In the mirror I could see him clutching his first School Superstar certificate in both hands, as if it might blow away in the wind. A CD of kids’ songs was playing low on my car stereo. I am the music man, I come from down your way . . .
William continued calling out cars.
‘Ford.’
‘’nother one Ford.’
‘Mummy car.’
I smiled. My wife – William’s mum – drove a VW Golf. Every time he spotted one, he’d call it out. Not a Volkswagen. A Mummy car.
‘It’s a Mummy car. Look, Daddy.’
My phone buzzed in the hands-free cradle: a Facebook notification.
‘What was that, Wills?’
‘Over there, look.’
Across the dual carriageway, on the other side of the junction, a line of cars in the far lane were filtering left onto a slip road. Rush hour traffic streaming through the junction, everyone on their way home. The low sun was in my eyes, but I caught a glimpse of a VW Golf. It did look like her car. Powder blue, five-door, same SpongeBob SquarePants sun shade suckered to the rear passenger window.
‘Good spot, matey. It does look like Mummy’s car.’
; I buzzed my window down and felt the cool city air on my face. A gap in the traffic opened up behind the Golf as it accelerated away down the slip road. It was a 59 reg number plate. My wife’s car had a 59 plate. I squinted, trying to make out the letters.
KK59 DWD.
The number plate was hers – it wasn’t like her car, it was her car. There was the familiar buzz, the little glow in my chest I still got whenever she was nearby. The VW indicated left off the slip road and turned into the car park of a Premier Inn. It headed into the dark entrance of an underground car park and disappeared from sight.
She’ll be meeting a client, a work thing. Should probably leave her to it. She had been working late a lot recently.
‘Can we see Mummy?’ William said, excitement in his voice. ‘Can we can we can we?’
‘She’ll be busy, Wills. Doing work things.’
‘I can show her my certificate.’ William couldn’t quite pronounce the word and it came out as cerstiff-a-kit.
Honking from the car behind me as the traffic lights turned green.
‘Well . . .’
‘Please, Daddy?’ He was jigging up and down on his booster seat. ‘We could do a surprise on her!’
I smiled again. It was almost Friday, after all.
‘Yes we could, couldn’t we?’
I put the car in gear. Made a spur-of-the-moment decision that would change my life.
‘Let’s go and surprise Mummy.’
AVAILABLE NOW IN PAPERBACK AND EBOOK
