by T. M. Logan
‘But you can’t just arbitrarily make someone disappear. That’s not . . . it’s not . . . you just can’t . . .’
‘Perhaps not in your world. But in my world?’ He shrugged. ‘People vanish all the time. Most of them don’t even merit more than a few paragraphs. Not unless they are a pretty young woman or a child or a celebrity. Are you telling me there is no one in your life who doesn’t deserve it? No one who has wronged you? Your faithless husband, for example?’
‘No! Of course not.’
‘Or perhaps his little girlfriend in Bristol?’
Sarah hesitated. Volkov grinned.
‘Aha! You see? You are thinking about it, this is good. So: your husband’s girlfriend?’
‘No. Not her.’
‘But you hesitated.’
‘How do you even know about that?’
‘We know all about you. I wanted to find out all I could about the brave woman who saved my family.’
‘I just can’t believe what you’re saying. I can’t get my head around it.’
The man’s smile vanished. He leaned forward.
‘Give me a name. And I will make you believe.’
A memory rose to the surface of her mind.
‘The men who came for your daughter – one of them took my picture, my car registration number. I’m worried they might find me, come after me or my family.’
He waved his hand dismissively, smoke billowing from his cigar.
‘Don’t worry about them. Amateurs. They are already being taken care of. I’m asking for a name from you, from your life.’
She fought against her instincts. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right.
But why not? Why not let the hammer fall on this most deserving victim?
She lifted her gaze to look at Volkov again.
‘I don’t . . . I don’t have a name to give you. There isn’t anyone.’
‘Nonsense. Everyone has someone they would like to punish. To have just a little bit more justice in this world.’
‘Maybe I’m the exception.’
He considered her for a long moment.
‘Are you sure?’
She felt like a traveller who had been on the same straight road for a thousand miles, expecting it to be straight for a thousand more, and then suddenly arriving at a fork in the road. A choice she had never anticipated. And was he even serious?
‘Yes. I’m sure.’
‘Everyone has a name to give. Everyone. Whether they admit it to themselves or not.’
‘There’s no one.’
‘I advise you to think very carefully about this.’ He pressed a button under his desk and a moment later the scarred man came in. He handed Sarah two mobile phones – one of which was hers, the other an unfamiliar Alcatel handset with a clamshell design that she hadn’t seen for years.
Volkov indicated the Alcatel phone.
‘This is a single-use phone. A throwaway. There’s one number in the memory, you can reach my staff on it. If you change your mind, you have seventy-two hours to give me a name.’
She pocketed both phones.
‘Thank you.’
‘I ask only one thing of you.’ He leaned forward until his face was inches from Sarah’s, his breath sulphurous with old cigar smoke. ‘Show me the respect of keeping my confidence. Don’t tell anyone that we’ve met, or this offer I make you. Do you understand?’
‘Of course,’ Sarah said.
‘Can I trust you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let me just be clear how serious I am.’
The man with the scar placed four glossy 8 x 10 photographs on the table in front of her.
One of her house. One of her dad’s house. Two that were street views of school playgrounds filled with primary-age pupils. Small children in red jumpers, running, playing, talking. Harry’s school. Another image of a school playground, with bigger children, Grace there, in the centre of the shot.
Sarah felt her stomach contract as she studied the pictures.
‘How did you –’
‘Research.’
‘You’ve been spying on me?’
‘I told you: I wanted to know the woman who saved my child.’
The knot of fear in her stomach tightened.
‘You could have just asked me.’
‘And you would tell me?’
‘I’ll tell you now, if you like. There’s not much to tell.’ She paused, swallowed. ‘But then you must give me these pictures back.’
He smiled. Shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. I need to be sure that our conversation stays private. If you tell the police or anyone else we have met, you will force my hand, and then who knows who will be next to disappear. Do not tell Nick, your friends Laura Billingsley, or Marie Redfern, your father, Roger. No one.’
He knows all their names, Sarah thought.
As if reading her mind, Volkov continued: ‘Yes, I know who they are and where they live. I know where you live and where your beautiful children go to school. But please be sure that this is just for insurance. A man like me has to be careful; he has to have options. Nothing will make me happier than to burn all these pictures, forget all these names. And I will do this, after I have repaid what I owe you. But not yet. For now, I keep them in my safe. Insurance. Do you understand?’
Sarah thought for a long moment, contemplating the danger of lying to this man.
‘Yes. I understand.’
‘Good. And now we will take you back to your car, and then you will drive home, kiss your children and put them to bed. You and I will not see each other again, and we will not speak again.’
He stood up and held out his hand.
‘Goodbye, Dr Haywood.’
She stood and shook hands with him, his grip strong and dry against her palm.
PART II
23
Sarah sat in her car in front of the house, the events of the past hour turning over and over in her mind. The words bouncing around inside her head until they drowned out everything else.
Give me one name. One person. And I will make them disappear.
She felt exhausted, as if she’d just returned from a long journey to a foreign country. As if she could sleep for a month. Finally, she got out of the car, locked it, and walked wearily into the house.
Her dad leaned on a mop in the corner of the kitchen. Tall and straight-backed with a full head of curly white hair, he was a regular visitor since becoming a widower some eight years previously. Still fit and trim in his mid-sixties, his face crinkled into a smile at the sight of his daughter. Sarah kissed him on the cheek, gave Grace a hug and admired the story she’d written at school, then sat Harry on her lap so she could give him a proper cuddle, her son chattering on about the football cards that Grandad had bought him at the sweet shop, showing her each of them in turn.
Home. Familiarity. Safety.
It was the same as it had always been. But also subtly different, shifted on an angle, as if she was looking at her life through a pane of frosted glass. She had glimpsed the people in the shadows, and now she knew they were there.
They took the children upstairs at seven o’clock for teeth cleaning, pyjamas and stories. Harry was always finished with stories first – was first to fall asleep and first to wake in the morning – so Sarah soon found herself back at the table in the little kitchen. She dug in her purse for DC Hansworth’s card, stared at it for a long moment. Two numbers, mobile and landline. She should call him. Report what had happened. She took the landline out of its cradle and held it in her other hand.
Tell no one.
The instruction had been clear. But she felt like she was stepping over some line by not telling anyone about what had happened to her this evening. It already felt like a heavy weight that she wanted to put down, but she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps not ever.
Footsteps on the stairs. She put the policeman’s card back in her handbag.
Her dad appea
red in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, hands in his pockets.
‘Princess Grace is officially asleep.’
‘Does she want a mummy kiss?’
‘Dropped off before she could think to ask.’
‘Harry only managed a few minutes before he zonked out. What were you mopping the floor for earlier? That’s definitely above and beyond.’
‘Jonesy brought a squirrel in.’
‘Alive or dead?’
‘Alive to begin with, I think, then he made a bit of a mess of the poor little chap all over the kitchen floor.’
‘Ugh. Did the kids see it?’
He nodded, gritting his teeth.
‘Grace was a bit upset. She wanted to give it a proper funeral, with flowers and a headstone.’
She smiled. ‘Thanks for sorting it out.’ She looked over at her ginger cat, who was sitting on a box next to the radiator. ‘Bad boy, Jonesy. Poor squirrel.’
Jonesy blinked slowly at her and began to purr.
Her dad pulled out a chair and sat down next to her at the table.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Sarah?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What happened today? You look like you’ve been to hell and back.’
She thought quickly.
‘I got stuck in a horrific traffic jam and my phone was about to die, so I thought I’d just text you before my battery went totally flat. Thanks so much for helping out.’
He raised an eyebrow and for a second Sarah thought he was going to call her out on the lie, but he seemed to think better of it.
‘You look as if you’re carrying the world on your shoulders.’
‘Busy at work, that’s all. Lots to keep up with.’
He studied her for a moment longer, then went to the kettle on the kitchen side.
‘Cup of tea?’
‘I’ll be up all night if I have tea now.’
‘How about a snifter instead, before I head off? I bought you a new bottle of single malt, your stocks were getting low.’ He opened the cupboard and took out the bottle of Glenmorangie from the back, with two glasses.
Sarah was about to say no – ordinarily she would never drink whisky on a school night – but this had been no ordinary day.
‘Go on then.’
He poured a generous measure, then the same amount again of water, and set the glasses down on the kitchen table.
‘So, are you going to let me in on it?’
‘On what?’
‘Just want to know what’s up with my youngest girl, that’s all.’
Proper chats with her dad were still a relatively new phenomenon. When she and her sisters had been growing up, most of the real heart-to-hearts had been with her mum. The long discussions about friends and fall-outs, school, boyfriends, break-ups, anxiety and exams had always been her domain. Handing out tissues and hugs along with calm advice – not always what they had wanted to hear, but what needed to be said. Her dad had been there, but usually in the next room, one step removed from the emotional whirlpool that was living in a house with three teenaged girls, hearing about it afterwards from his wife and getting involved only when he deemed the situation required his intervention, as with Sarah’s year of teenage rebellion at sixteen. Her dad had spent the eight years since his wife’s death trying to bridge that gap, to fill the void left by her passing. And as it turned out, he was a good listener.
Sarah picked up her tumbler and took a sip, trying to get the thoughts straight in her head, trying to disentangle the things she could tell him from the things that were forbidden.
‘Things have been tough at work, Dad. They aren’t really going the way I expected them to.’
‘I wish there was some way I could help, Sarah.’ He rested his chin in the palm of his hand. ‘Has Nick called you? Has he . . . said something to you?’
‘No. He still hasn’t called.’
‘Is there something else bothering you?’
Tell no one.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
*
Tidying the kitchen alone later, Sarah realised she didn’t even know Volkov’s real name. Or his daughter’s full name. Or the surnames of any of his men. Or where they had taken her. What exactly could she tell her dad, or the police? The implied threat to her family was real enough – the pictures of the children’s schools, her house and her dad’s house. But what meaningful information could she give the police? What could she tell them that would make her family safer, rather than putting them at even greater risk? The man said he was rich, and was some kind of businessman; he had a daughter who was maybe eight or nine years old. But that was it.
That night, she lay in bed alone, listening to the tick of her watch on the bedside table, turning the situation over and over in her mind. Sleep wouldn’t come.
She wished so hard that Nick was here to talk to. Someone she could share the burden with, so she didn’t feel so utterly alone with this secret. Would she have told him everything? Probably. But could he be trusted to stay silent? She wasn’t sure. He certainly couldn’t be trusted to keep his marriage vows.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she blotted them on the duvet cover.
The smart thing to do would be to just pretend it had never happened. Put it behind her and never mention it to anyone. The risk to her family – to her children – was too great. She didn’t know much about Volkov, but it seemed clear enough that he was highly dangerous. The best thing to do would be to move on with her life.
Forget the offer he had made to her.
Give me one name.
But she couldn’t forget. She couldn’t.
Because as soon as he’d made his offer, the very instant the words had left his lips, she’d had only one thought. One overpowering thought, drowning out everything else. It had not taken minutes, or even seconds for it to come to her. First name, last name. Two words, four syllables.
Of course she had a name to give him.
Everyone had a name to give, didn’t they?
24
Harry had dressed himself – or tried to – but had only got as far as pants, odd socks and his red school jumper, back to front. No shirt or trousers. He lay on his bedroom floor, surrounded by Lego and Star Wars toys, oblivious to the rapid approach of the school day.
Sarah leaned against his bedroom door, a fierce bloom of love in her chest.
‘Time to get you ready for school, young man.’
‘I’ve done school already,’ he said to his toys.
He had been at infant school for all of two months.
‘Not for a while yet, Harry boy.’
‘I want to do playing now.’ He parked the Millennium Falcon in its Lego garage, carefully pushing the doors closed behind it. ‘A playing day.’
Don’t we all, she thought.
‘You can have playing days on Saturday and Sunday.’ She realised as she said it how lame and inadequate this must sound to a five-year-old.
‘Is today Saturday, Mummy?’
‘No, darling, it’s Tuesday. Come on, let’s finish getting you dressed, shall we?’
In films and on TV, she thought as she poured out bowls of cereal, people’s rosy-cheeked children trotted out of the house and got in the car holding hands, smiling at their mother and sitting quietly on the way to school. Maybe the big one would help the little one put his seat belt on. And the little one would give the big one a hug, then they’d sit quiet and smile angelically whenever mummy turned to check on them.
Her children had never done that.
She finished getting them both ready, checked Harry’s book bag and made sure – in between quick bites of toast – that they’d both cleaned their teeth and had everything they needed. She knelt down to do up the Velcro on Harry’s little black shoes for him, used her thumb to wipe away a trace of toothpaste from Grace’s top lip as she flinched away in protest. They stood side by side in fro
nt of her for a moment, dark-haired daughter and blond-haired son, junior school and infant school, and she felt a burst of pride. These two. They were everything, they were what mattered. Whatever happened with her and Nick, whatever happened at work. Whatever she had to do, she would do it – for them. They were the rock her life was built upon. I must remember what this is like, she thought to herself. What they’re like when they’re little. Before I know it they will be grown and gone, and I will miss them being like this.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Are we ready to go?’
Harry shot off out of the kitchen and down the hallway, getting a head start on his sister, his unzipped coat billowing out at the sides. Grace caught up with him in five quick strides and grabbed his hood, hauling him back. It threw him off balance and he collapsed backwards as if poleaxed. Lying full-length on the hall floor he began to cry, a loud and piercing air-raid siren wail that cut through her like broken glass.
‘First to the door!’ Grace said triumphantly, putting her hand on the front door handle.
‘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.
