A Family By Design

by Olivia Rytwinski

  “What did you find, Max?”

  “A bag, tucked behind a rock. Not a rucksack, but a small holdall. I brought it to him, tried to wake him, said I’d found his bag. I knew it could hold a clue as to who he was so I opened it. There was a black plastic bag, full, and a small trowel. The plastic was thick, stapled and I couldn’t tear it open. I ripped it with my teeth.” He paused, and lowered his voice. “It was full of notes - big ones. But the next part is muddled. He grabbed my leg, and his eyes were open and he was trying to sit up. He was scratching at my legs, my arm and, I don’t know, I didn’t like him touching me. So I pushed him off. Shoved him I suppose.” Max closed his eyes and relived it. “I shouldn’t have done that. He was too weak. If I’d only pulled away. When he fell, his head hit the rock. And he started fitting, shaking, thrashing his head against the rocks.” Max paused, and massaged his temples in small, feverish circles. “It went on and on, then just as suddenly he stopped. He wasn’t moving, or breathing.”

  “Oh God, Max. You told me about the fit.” But he’d been selective with the reason for its sudden onset. “You were upset in the helicopter.” I tried to figure out the chain of events up to when Max pushed Roy away and thought that this, on top of his already desperately fragile condition, could well have contributed to his death.

  “The money, Max - what did you do with the money?” I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear him say it.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I was in shock, him dying.” Max looked me in the eye and with a small shrug said, “So, I kept it.” He watched for my reaction.

  I stared back, my expression blank.

  “I hid it at the bottom of my rucksack. All these years, I’ve tried to justify taking it. Telling myself that he was dead so no longer needed it.”

  I tried to absorb his words and the enormity of his lies that penetrated deeper than any blade could reach. It seemed impossible to process. I could only wonder how he’d managed to keep it to himself that day, that night . . . for twenty years. Max wiped the hair off his forehead. He looked ahead and waited for me to react - to say something.

  “But you stole that money.” My voice sounded strangely matter of fact. “I’m not sure you intentionally killed Roy, but I can see why the guilt has stayed with you. If only you’d told me. Oh Max, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to.”

  I walked over to the window and stared at the impenetrable dark wall, then I turned back to him. “I don’t understand you. All these years we’ve been together. Twenty years. Jesus Max. All of this, our children, our home, the business. It’s all built on a lie.” I wept. “There was no inheritance was there?”

  “We were just getting to know each other. And I wanted you. More than I’d ever wanted anything. I remember so clearly you held me in the helicopter. You were lovely, and all I could think was how much I wanted that - wanted you. I felt guilty at the campsite, but you came to find me - and you kissed me. Everything was falling into place. You liked me, let me share your tent. And that incredible first night together. You felt it too, I know you did. That’s why you’re here with me and with our amazing children.” He sighed heavily. “At the hospital that officer didn’t mention any missing money. His wife didn’t report it missing, or we’d have heard, wouldn’t we? The police never contacted us again. No one even knew about the money.”

  I couldn’t listen any longer. He wanted to convince me that what he’d done had been justified in some way; that his behaviour was rational. In some bizarre, warped way, he still believed his actions were defensible, but now his guilt had resurfaced because of this man, this psychopath, whoever he was and what he was capable of.

  Then another thought occurred to me. Was this the first message? Were there others?

  “Shut up about the money, Max. We need to figure out how to talk to him… to find Lyssa.”

  “I know, but it won’t be easy.”

  I searched for the words. “Max, is this the only message? Have you replied?”

  His eyes flickered, and I saw guilt carved across his every feature. “This is hard to say, and I know when I do you’ll never forgive me.” He breathed deeply. “I’ve been getting messages for nearly two months.”

  I felt the sweat break out on my neck and chest. “What?” But I didn’t wait for a reply. “You’re out of your tiny fucking mind. Why didn’t you tell me a maniac was on the loose and threatening you?” I cried, enraged, and wanted to strike him.

  “At first, I thought they were a joke from someone who hated me. They were cryptic. I had no idea who he was. I thought it was someone who fancied you or you’d had an affair with or . . . still were.”

  “For Christ’s sake. You really thought that? When have I ever given you a reason to think that way?”

  “You haven’t. I know I was crazy. You can’t see it Kat, but you have a hold over men. You only need to look at them, and they’re hooked. I see how they look at you - their eyes. I thought maybe you were fed up with me.”

  “Jesus, Max. OK that’s for later, not now for Christ’s sake.”

  “If you read the messages you’d understand.”

  I sniffed. “I doubt it, Max, but please do go on. When exactly did you realise who this lunatic was and what he really wanted?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. The emails became threatening, and he told me in a roundabout way that I’d killed his dad and stolen his money. At first it didn’t occur to me who he was, I swear to God. I don’t know why. I thought it was someone I’d done business with. I remember you telling me about his wife and son after we left the hospital, but perhaps it was because I was in shock or had never spoken to them myself. One night I woke up thinking about the messages and the penny dropped. I should have known earlier, and I should have talked to you… to the police.”

  “But you didn’t, because you stole the money and you knew you’d be found out. Instead, you chose to put your family at risk.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Blood money, that’s what it is. Our daughter’s blood.” I’d lost all semblance of control. I sobbed and imagined Lyssa lying face down in a ditch.

  “Don’t Kat. She’s going to be all right. She has to be.”

  “She could be dead, and if she is, you’re to blame. Do you understand you bloody bastard?” I spat the words in his face. “And if by some miracle he hasn’t hurt her yet, abused her, raped her, she’ll have to live with it for the rest of her life - the trauma.”

  Max paced back and forth the length of the kitchen, and his hands scratched back and forth through his hair. “Before I knew who he was, he asked me to meet with him - twice. And I was there, but he never showed up. I said I’d sort it out with him. I did everything I could to resolve it but he must have got angrier and kidnapped Lyssa for ransom.” Max stopped pacing. “What a mess, Kat.” He thumped the table and kicked a chair across the floor.

  “How did he know who you were - that we were with his dad when he died?” I asked.

  “He said he saw us, our house, on that homes programme. Said he knew you straight away, remembered you from the hospital. Said he saw our home, our perfect family, our perfect life he called it. Called me a fucking smug bastard.”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have done that programme,” I said. “It seemed all wrong at the time. And that hideous woman who came here. What a bootlicking sycophant.” I picked up the chair and placed it back under the table.

  “Aren’t you clever?” Max threw back in a sardonic sing-song voice. “But how could I have known it would lead to this? It made business sense at the time.”

  “No, you only wanted the publicity for the business, nothing whatsoever to do with fame and seeing yourself on TV.”

  “You’re right, you’re always bloody right aren’t you?” Max shouted. “Little Miss Polly Perfect does it again. If only I were as perfect as you.”

  “Stop it!” I screamed. “This isn’t about who’s right, who’s wrong. It’s our baby. It’s only
about Lyssa.”

  He was no longer listening. Muttering and lost in his own troubled thoughts.

  “Max, can’t you see that?” I raised my voice to drag him into the moment.

  He swung around to face me.

  “He says we killed him to get the money. And it’s eaten away at him, stopped him from succeeding in life. For years he’s tried to find out who we were. He wants to repay us for what we’ve done. He wants me dead.”

  “Don’t you dare use ‘us’. It’s you who has to take responsibility.”

  “You’ve been happy living here, spending the money.” Max looked me in the eye for a moment before he turned and walked to the sink.

  “Do you think I’d have ever had anything to do with you if I’d known?” I said. “You’re living in a fantasy world.”

  Max stood with his forehead pressed against the overhead kitchen cupboard.

  “If his mum didn’t mention the money at the time Roy died, how come his son knows about it?” I said.

  Max swung around to face me. “I dunno. Perhaps it was stolen, or he was a drug dealer. I think he was going to bury or hide the money. A pretty stupid thing to do though.”

  “Not as stupid as stealing it,” I said.

  Then I pictured the boy, the desperately sad face of the child who had learned of the death of his father. And that young innocent face I now saw in the man’s reflection in the wing mirror. Strange, but even after all these years, I realised his face was familiar - the sharp arch of his eyebrows, the outline of his chin.

  I pushed back my chair. “What’s his name? I’m ringing Inspector Keir.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s no clue in the email address. But do you remember Roy’s surname was Simpson? Not the most unusual surname in Scotland.”

  “I only remember he was Roy,” I said.

  “I tried looking it up, but there are so many Simpsons around Loch Lomond, in Scotland, in Glasgow, that I didn’t know where to start,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I did know where he lived. I couldn’t just knock on his door and hand the money back could I?”

  “But you could have offered some money or exposed him to the police. But you didn’t want to. You were afraid of the repercussions for yourself, for the life you’ve made. Forget that - stolen.”

  He wept. “I know. It’s pathetic.”

  The truth had sunk in about our daughter’s abduction and he sounded pitiful. Anger prevented me from feeling sorry for him. No, if Max was in pain because of his wrongdoings, let him feel it, every splinter, every razor sharp edge. I wouldn’t protect him. He would have to face up to the aftermath.

  I said, “I’m phoning her now.”

  Max slumped onto the chair. His head hung in shame.

  The phone rang twice before it was answered.

  “Inspector Keir please, it’s Katriina.”

  The line became silent for a moment, then her voice sounded in my ear, expectant.

  “Katriina?”

  “We know who he is. We know who’s got Lyssa.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I rushed my words; the emails, the photo of Lyssa bound and gagged, the death of the abductor’s father, Roy Simpson, twenty years ago, and Max’s involvement, the stolen money.

  “Roy’s death will be in police records and from that we’ll know who his son is. I’m sending a car for Max. Tell him to be ready to leave with his phone. Just a moment.”

  I heard a muffled exchange before she came back on the line. “I’ll ring as soon as I have his full name. Our officers have been searching Arrochar and the surrounding area, showing residents the photo-fit to see if they know or have seen anything. But I told Max earlier, he’ll have told you.”

  “No Inspector, he hadn’t told me.”

  In the time it took for the police to arrive, Max showed me the emails exchanged between them, but I was still at a loss as to how he’d avoided confessing the truth. How could he have kept something like this to himself? I’d have shared straight away. But then I also knew I wouldn’t have kept the money in the first place.

  I read a message received a week ago and my head throbbed with rage. “Why do u deny what you stole? Confess and repay or I promis u I will hurt your family, your sexy wife, your young inosent daughter and prized son.”

  Another message said, “I know where u live. I will visit. It might be when you’re out, when your wife is alone with your kids. I will come.”

  The more messages I read, the more terrified I felt. I realised how angry and bitter he was, how he intended getting his money back, by whatever means he could. He relished the control and intimidation, the threats, the possibility that he could wreak irrevocable havoc on our family in order to repay Max in full for his wrongdoing.

  I realised too that the deep love and intimacy Max and I had always shared, had in a single moment been rendered false and our relationship was nothing more than a synthetic imitation of something real.

  I had neither the time nor desire to fix a marriage on the brink of collapse, and the way I felt at the moment, I never would.

  When two officers arrived at the door, I stood aside and let Max leave. He knew better than to offer me reassurance. I knew with absolute certainty that there would be no going back for us from this, whether Lyssa was found alive or not.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Sins of the Father

  The onset of sleep freed Lyssa from her nightmare. In her dream she was home – her loving mother watching over her and talking together about her friends and school. Sometime later, when she awoke she sensed a dazzling light, and for a moment thought it was the sunrise stealing through the blinds of her bedroom window. But then she saw him, the way he slowly beamed the torch around the room, and her fear returned, and jabbed at her throat like a shard of glass. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to blank out reality.

  In her confusion, Lyssa wondered if the chair had been in the room before, or had he only just brought it in? It was strange how it looked like one they had at home, old and with long, curved armrests, the one her mum liked to sit on. Her mum said it was a chair with memories. Lyssa remembered her Dad offered to varnish or paint it. He said it would make it look even better, but her mum had refused.

  Her mum was often like that, always knew what she liked, even if it was something no one else would want.

  “Do you want a drink?” His black eyes narrowed, and his forehead creased together like corrugated iron.

  Lyssa didn’t want to speak, but she was desperately thirsty and could hardly move her tongue. Her mum had always nagged her to keep hydrated, and she knew that if she got ill it would be difficult to run away.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He pulled a can from his coat pocket and held it in front of her. He sniggered. “Where are your hands?” Then he tugged roughly at the baling string. Lyssa looked at the angry welts that circled her wrists, and rubbed them to regain some feeling. She felt his heavy hands pressed against her back, and she held her breath until slowly he moved them away again. When she pulled the can’s ring, the drink spurted and splashed onto her legs.

  “Ha-ha-ha.” He laughed loudly as though he’d invented the prank.

  The drink fizzed and seeped through her skirt and in-between her legs. Lyssa shuddered. As she drank and swilled the cold fluid around, her mouth tingled. She swallowed, and continued taking long gulps until a burp rose up her throat. She let it out, long and loud. Normally, she would apologise or laugh, depending on who she was with, but she did neither of these things.

  He nodded his approval and snorted. “Dirty bitch.” He unravelled the string, pulled her arms back again and bound her wrists tighter than ever. “Do you know why you’re here . . . Lyssa?”

  She shook her head and lowered her gaze to the filthy mattress, with its pockets of thick black dust over the buttons. She thought the stripes had been green once upon a time.

  “It’s your Dad’s fault. B
ut I’ll thank your mum for making it easy to snatch you. What was she doing?” He paused, and his brows rose, expectant. “Made my job easy.” He sneered, his anger and frustration suddenly on the tip of a knife. “It’s ‘cus your dad… and I hate thinking about it.”

  Lyssa stole a glance.

  He shook his head, and his eyes darted about. “He killed my dad, and stole his hard-earned cash. That’s why you live in a massive fuck-off house. I saw it on TV. And your dad, what a fuckin smug bastard he is, telling the presenter how he built it. As if he’d rolled up his sleeves, got his spade out, instead of swanning around and barking out orders to his lackeys. Must’ve been tough for him working with his half a mil’ budget, huh?”

  Lyssa trembled and her stomach juddered in pain. She groaned and turned away.

  “Your dad spent my dad’s cash. Money that my Dad wanted to spend on us. He was going to buy us a house so we could move out of the filthy, stinking flat.” His every word was spiked with bitterness and anger. “Your mum could have helped kill him too. But this is where my memory gets mixed up. I remember that copper saying it was your dad that stayed with my Dad. And I’ve thought about it. I don’t reckon your mum’s the sort to kill. But your dad is, without a doubt.” His mouth had set in a knotted snarl. His fists clenched, knuckles white, and they readied to react to the slightest provocation.

  Lyssa knew it was lies, every rotten word. Her parents were wonderful people. Always kind and loving. And she knew her dad could never hurt anyone. He never smacked her, or even shouted and Eve said her parents were always smacking her. No, he was wrong about her dad. But she wouldn’t tell him that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A Stab in the Dark

  As I watched Max leave, I felt detached from him in mind as well as body. My husband, whom I thought I would love until the day death separated us was not the man I’d believed him to be for all of these years. How could he have misled me all of this time? How could I have allowed myself to be so fooled by him? I knew our relationship had always been intensely physical and perhaps that had masked my judgement; had stopped me from seeing his faults or at least from properly acknowledging them.