The Choice

by Lake, Alex

Matt glanced at the speedometer. They were going sixty miles per hour, so they would cover that mile in about a minute, but presumably the traffic light would change, maybe in half that time.

  Which would leave them half a mile away.

  Closer.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Matt said. ‘Maybe we can get there before they move on.’

  Rob accelerated. He felt his hope rise. This was the chance they had been waiting for.

  This was it.

  His phone buzzed.

  It was a text from Guy.

  How’s it going? Just finished up the literary festival and wanted to check in.

  Matt replied.

  We have the kids.

  Thank God. Annabelle?

  With the kidnapper. But we have a plan.

  What is it? You don’t have to tell me, if you’re in the middle of it. I’m just worried about her.

  I got someone with a professional drone and she’s tracking the car. But I have to go. Going to call the police.

  Good luck. Keep me posted.

  He put his phone down and turned back to the screen. The traffic light turned green.

  The car didn’t move. Maybe Annabelle had found a way to stop it.

  ‘Speed up,’ he said. ‘Faster.’

  Annabelle

  She relaxed, resting her muscles. She could feel the reduced pressure in her arm and the relief was blessed. She wanted to wallow in it, but there was no time.

  She drew her strength into her legs and pushed as hard as she could, then harder again.

  And then she started to slide up the back seat.

  She stopped and moved her arms, testing that she was free.

  What was she going to do? She looked at the door, her eyes drawn to the handle. She should wait a moment, recover her strength, then dash out of the door and get away from here. She didn’t know where she was but it didn’t matter. Once she was out of this car she would be free and she could deal with whatever came next.

  It would be child-locked. The kidnapper would have seen to that.

  Her only option was a direct attack. She gave a weak groan, like someone in distress, and manoeuvred herself slowly and silently into a crouching position.

  Then she launched herself at the back of the black hood, smashing her elbow against the driver’s head.

  It banged hard against the steering wheel and she fell forward, her hips and legs getting caught on the passenger seat. She lifted her arm, remembering what Brenda had told her. Hard as you can. Don’t hold back. You’ll only get one chance.

  She swung, and the kidnapper slipped away from her, twisting in the seat. One hand shot up and grabbed her around the neck. The other slammed into her sternum and pushed her slowly backwards.

  The hand around her neck started to squeeze.

  She looked out of the window. Maybe someone would be seeing this.

  There was no one. She watched the traffic light turn green.

  ‘Sorry,’ a low, rasping voice said, and then the world went black.

  PART THREE

  Sunday, 8 March 2020, 5.50 p.m.

  Why did she do that? Why?

  It is so irritating. I did not want to hurt her, not at all, but she gave me no choice. Was I supposed to let her hit me? What if someone saw? This would all be over. She would have ruined it.

  Stupid Annabelle. Stupid, stupid Annabelle.

  She could have made this easy, but now she will have to suffer. I cannot risk that again. Maybe she is a bit confused. I will explain it to her and she will forgive me. She will understand.

  But I am not sure I do.

  I am left with a question: why did she do that? Why did she try to ruin this?

  It is not what I expected.

  And that makes me nervous.

  Annabelle

  It was the pain in her shoulder that brought her round. At first she just had the sensation that something was hurting, that maybe she was sleeping awkwardly, lying on her arm in an uncomfortable position. Then she started to think no, it was worse than that, it really hurt, and then she was not sleeping at all.

  Because the pain in her shoulder wasn’t bad any more. It was excruciating.

  It all came back to her: the attempt to attack the driver, the hands around her neck, the certainty that she was being choked to death, and then the fade to black.

  She opened her eyes. She was still in the car, wedged in behind the seats. Her hands were still cuffed, although her right arm was twisted, her elbow caught between the corner of the front seat and the frame of the car.

  Which was the cause of the pain in her shoulder; her elbow was pulling it away from her body.

  She lifted her arm an inch, intending to bring it closer to her ribs and relieve the agony, but a sharp, searing, unbelievable pain ripped through her shoulder.

  It felt like the tissues and muscles and ligaments in her shoulder were being torn apart, and it fucking hurt.

  She let out a groan, the gag still in her mouth, then used her left arm to try and lever herself up a few inches. She had to do something to lessen the pressure in her shoulder.

  It worked, a little, but now she was leaning on her good arm, which she would not be able to do for long. She turned so that her weight was on her hips, and screamed – with the gag it came out as a kind of grunt – as her right arm did not follow.

  Bones in her shoulder moved. She felt the top of her arm press against her ribs.

  Which should not be happening. Her shoulder was not in the place it was supposed to be.

  She twisted her head and looked up. The back of the kidnapper’s hooded head was visible.

  ‘My arm,’ she tried to say. ‘It’s broken.’

  All that came out was unintelligible garbage.

  The head tilted and turned. The face was hidden under the hood.

  ‘Help,’ she said. ‘Help me.’

  There was no response.

  Beneath her the chassis of the car hummed. It felt like they were moving quickly. She glanced at the window. Overhead lights passed by at short, regular intervals.

  They were on the motorway.

  Which meant the drone could not keep up with them. Their plan had assumed they would stay on back roads, but the kidnapper had gone on the motorway after all.

  Which meant she was on her own.

  Although maybe not. If Matt knew the drone would lose them, he would call the police, and the police would know which motorway they were on, and could find her. Block the exits. Anything.

  That was what Rob had said. He had said motorways aren’t safe. Not enough ways off. It’s easy to apprehend someone on a motorway.

  So even though the drone would have lost them, it was good they were on a motorway.

  But she was still shoved in the back of her car, her shoulder in pieces. A thudding panic joined the pain and the edges of her vision darkened.

  The world began to swim. She felt herself slipping away. She let herself; it was blessed relief.

  Matt

  On the screen he watched the car pull onto the M56.

  ‘Shit,’ Matt said. ‘They’re going on the motorway.’

  ‘What?’ Rob replied. ‘We’re going to lose them.’

  ‘You said they wouldn’t do that,’ Matt said, fighting the urge to shout at him. ‘You said they would avoid motorways.’

  ‘Looks like I was wrong,’ Rob said. ‘Call the police. Now. Tell them what’s going on, and where they are.’

  ‘M56, direction Manchester, just joined at junction ten,’ Brenda said. ‘Tell them that.’

  Matt picked up his phone and dialled 999.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require? Fire, police or ambulance?’ the dispatcher said, her voice brisk and calm.

  ‘Police. It’s urgent.’

  Another voice came on the line. This time it was a man. ‘Hello. What is the nature of your emergency?’

  ‘It’s a kidnapping,’ Matt said. ‘It’s complicated.’

  There was pause. When the ma
n spoke again his tone was more urgent. ‘OK. What is the location of the emergency?’

  ‘It’s not fixed. I’m in a car. We’re following the kidnapper. They have my wife.’

  ‘Sir,’ the man said. ‘This is not a hoax, I hope?’

  ‘No!’ Matt said. ‘And it’ll take a long time to explain. Time we don’t have. My kids were kidnapped and the ransom was my wife. We were following the car she’s in, but we lost it.’

  ‘Where exactly are you, sir?’ the man said.

  ‘On the A49, heading towards the M56,’ Matt said. ‘That’s where the car went. It’s on the motorway, heading towards Manchester.’

  ‘Can you repeat that?’

  ‘The car we are following – the car with my wife in it – just went onto the M56 at junction ten, and is heading towards Manchester. But we can’t see it any more. Our drone can’t keep up.’

  ‘Your drone?’

  ‘Never mind. It’s a blue Golf.’ He gave the registration. ‘You need to find it. Soon.’

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  ‘Matt Westbrook.’

  ‘And your address?’

  ‘Twenty-four Pepper Avenue, Stockton Heath.’

  ‘I hope this is not a hoax, Mr Westbrook.’

  Matt took a deep breath. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s urgent. And it isn’t a hoax.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We have your number. I’ll put out an alert. We’ll do everything we can.’

  Matt put the phone down.

  Rob glanced at him. ‘There’s a fair possibility it ends here,’ he said. ‘Going on the motorway is a big mistake. There are cops on that motorway right now and there are cameras on every exit. There’s nowhere they can hide.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Matt said. ‘Because if not, I’m getting the feeling I’ll never see her alive again.’

  Annabelle

  When she came round this time, she realized the car was no longer moving. The searing pain in her shoulder, however, was ever present.

  She opened her eyes. It was dark out, although there was the glow of lights somewhere outside.

  The lock clicked and the car door opened, then the front seat moved forward and the pressure in her shoulder eased. The hooded figure appeared above her.

  Two hands reached down and grabbed her under the armpits. Her shoulder screamed in agony and she grunted, the ball gag muffling the sound.

  ‘Sorry you’re hurt.’ The voice was gruff and forced, like someone trying to disguise how they sounded. There was something in it she recognized, but it eluded her.

  The kidnapper dragged her out of the car. They were in a car park, outdoors and next to a white van. The side panel was open; she was shoved inside.

  She lay on the metal floor as the door slammed shut. The floor was cold; she curled into a ball to keep herself as warm as she could.

  The door slammed shut.

  Her right shoulder throbbed, but at least in this position there was nothing pressing against it. The pain began to subside to a bearable level.

  After about a minute, the door opened. The kidnapper was silhouetted in the frame.

  For a moment, she thought she recognized the silhouette. Again she had the feeling that there was something familiar about it; again she couldn’t quite grasp the knowledge. It slithered just under the surface, elusive.

  The kidnapper stepped inside and clicked on a torch. Three dirty yellow straps were hanging from a hook on the wall.

  The kidnapper sniffed, then gestured for her to get into a sitting position, before dragging her alongside the strap and pulling it across her arms and chest. Once the strap was cinched tight, it was secured with a buckle.

  She breathed out, the air forced from her lungs; when she tried to inhale she could only take a shallow breath.

  The next strap also went into a hook, then over her thighs, securing them flat to the floor. The third strap went around her ankles.

  The kidnapper opened the side panel, stepped out into the car park, and was gone.

  Matt

  They sped along the motorway, well above the speed limit, flashing past car after car.

  None of them was Annabelle’s blue Golf.

  Up ahead was the blue motorway sign for junction nine. Matt shook his head.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘They could have gone off there.’

  Rob nodded. ‘It’s possible. They’re moving too fast, so without the visuals from the drone we’ve got no way of knowing where they are. But my bet is they’ll have stayed on.’

  ‘In about ten miles this motorway runs out and we’ll be in Manchester,’ Brenda said. ‘And then they could be anywhere. I think we should pull off and wait. Let the police do the searching. Plus I need to land my drone. You need to stop soon, or you’ll be buying my boss some new kit.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about the drone!’ Matt said. ‘I want to find my wife!’

  ‘She’s right. There’s nothing we can do now, mate,’ Rob said. ‘Time to let the professionals have a go.’

  Matt stared out of the window. He knew Rob had a point, but the thought of stopping made him feel sick. At least if he was still looking for her he was doing something. Stopping meant accepting she was gone.

  Which she was.

  They had tried, but they had failed.

  Already he was wondering if they could have done something different, something better.

  Probably. And he knew he would never stop wondering what.

  But it wouldn’t change anything.

  Annabelle was gone.

  Now the only hope she had was the police.

  Annabelle

  She wasn’t sure how long she lay in the van. More than a few minutes, for sure, and less than an hour, but other than that she couldn’t tell. It was dark and silent and freezing and smelled of oil and grease.

  And her shoulder was causing serious pain. Now she was still she could feel the bone at the top of her arm – she had no idea what it was called – pressing against the side of her chest. She tried to brace it against the yellow strap and push it back, but as soon as she did the pain flared up, white-hot.

  The only relief was that it still moved, so it wasn’t dislocated.

  Once she heard a car, and she tried to bang against the floor and sides of the van, but the straps held her motionless, which was presumably what they were for. The kidnapper really had thought of everything.

  What was not obvious was why.

  And when she thought of the options the pain in her shoulder seemed irrelevant, because they were all horrifying.

  Torture. Rape. Murder. She tensed her whole body to try and contain the panic, but she could feel her mind fraying. Every one of those possibilities was beyond horrific.

  The front of the van opened. It shook as someone got in. The engine started, and they began to move.

  There was a sliding sound and a panel between her and the front opened. The kidnapper looked back at her, then a hand snaked out and removed the ball gag. It fell to the floor.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘Why are you doing this?’ And why had the ball gag been removed? It was almost as though, now no one could hear her, her captor wanted to minimize her discomfort.

  There was no answer. The panel slammed shut and they began to move. She slumped against the wall.

  So they had switched vehicles to a van. That was the plan. They had pulled off the motorway and parked next to this van to put anyone following them off the scent.

  But there was a flaw in the plan. It would be easy enough for the police – she hoped Matt had called them – to track her car as it exited the motorway – there were cameras everywhere – and so they would know where it went.

  Say, into a car park.

  And if they’re smart, Annabelle thought. They’ll see this van leave the same car park and wonder who was in it.

  It was a slim hope, but it was hope nonetheless, and, for a moment she felt better.

  She rested her head again
st the side of the van. Her shoulder pulsed with pain.

  Suddenly, the hope vanished. Her chest tightened and she was overwhelmed by panic. Adrenaline flooded her muscles and she felt a surge of strength. For a moment she was sure she could break free of the straps, then she could open the hatch and reach through and throttle the kidnapper, or open the door and leap out when the van was stationary.

  She clenched her fists and strained against the straps.

  They did not move. Of course they didn’t. The idea she would have a sudden access of strength that would snap them was foolish. This wasn’t a movie.

  This was real. This was actually happening.

  The panic gripped harder. She had no control, no options, and her children were gone. And she still had no answer to the question: why do all this? Why not just grab her off the street? And why her?

  There had to be a reason, and that was what frightened her the most. There was something huge behind all this.

  A scream rose in her throat, and, once it started, she could not stop it.

  Wynne

  Detective Inspector Jane Wynne took the call in her kitchen. She had just put two glasses next to a bottle of Italian red wine – she had no idea what it was but it had cost £15 so she hoped it was good, since her guest had mentioned she was a wine drinker – and was peeling an onion to start making her signature spaghetti bolognese, when her phone rang.

  She knew the number. It was Detective Sergeant Michael Dudek, newly promoted and her partner for the last six months.

  She glanced at the time. It was nearly 6 p.m.

  She didn’t want to answer it. She knew what it meant. It meant the red wine would go undrunk and the spaghetti uneaten.

  But she had to. That was the job. Not for the first time she wondered whether it was worth it.

  She answered the call.

  ‘Dudek,’ she said. ‘How wonderful to hear from you.’

  ‘Right,’ Dudek said. ‘Sorry to bother you, boss. But I thought you’d want to hear this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s pretty unusual,’ Dudek said. ‘I’ve never come across anything quite like it.’