The Family Lie

by Jake Cross

  She was dying to ask him about their daughter, but was terrified he wouldn’t know anything, or wouldn’t remember because of his cloudy brain. Until she got that terrible news, she could believe she was moments from discovering where Josie was.

  So she stayed silent and he went first. As soon as he saw her, he moaned, ‘Oh… Josie… where…’ But his head seemed to spin and he looked ready to throw up. That word pinned her soul: where. He didn’t know where Josie was. She slammed the lid on a wail and put her hand on his hot forehead. Strangely, everything else got swept aside for a second as she realised it was their first intentional flesh-on-flesh touch in over a week.

  But only a second: ‘Do you know where she is?’ she pleaded. ‘What happened, Nick? Where is Josie? Please.’

  He looked at the police officers standing nearby and shook his head. She knew then that she’d only been allowed access to Nick because their own efforts to get him to talk had failed. She was their next hope, now gone.

  His eyes closed and he lay back. But they snapped open a moment later when the door flew open. It was Bennet, who must have slipped out while she was distracted.

  ‘Mrs Carter, with me, quick.’ He mouthed something at Miller.

  Anna turned back to Nick, whose eyes looked clear, but scared. ‘What’s… Anna, what’s going on?’

  Before she could react, Miller had her arm. ‘Quickly.’

  Anna was marched out of the room and down a corridor on legs that wanted to fail. She knew something bad was afoot but couldn’t find the voice to ask what. But when she saw a uniformed officer standing in a doorway ahead, clearly awaiting her, she knew, just knew.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

  She was jerked into the room, hands on her back, and pushed into a seat before a desk loaded with paperwork and two computers. And a phone that was ringing. Her mind was spinning.

  ‘We’ve asked for the call to be lobbed up here from reception,’ Miller said, her grip on Anna’s arm now soft, like a friend’s.

  A call for her. Her fears had been correct. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

  Miller slapped her hand on to the ringing phone, but didn’t pick it up.

  ‘The call will be on speakerphone. You can do this, dear. You’re strong. Ask to speak to Josie this time. Use silences so we can determine background noises.’ There was more, the usual stuff she’d been told before. Now it was undeniable.

  Somehow, the kidnapper knew she was here and had called the hospital, not the mobile in her pocket, to speak to her.

  ‘Right now, in rooms close to you, are people with renal failure. It’s £17,000 for a kidney transplant and £5,000 a year for immune-suppression treatment.’

  The faces in the room mirrored her own puzzlement. ‘Where is my daughter? Please. Her name is—’

  ‘Transplant survival is about ten years. That’s £67,000 for ten years of life. You can buy your kid a much longer and happier life for just £50,000. That’s what we want. Good old-fashioned cash. All in £20 notes. And you’ll get it by ten this morning, won’t you?’

  So, it was about money after all. Just as everyone had claimed. ‘I’ll try my best,’ she said, just as coached. A line that avoided rejection but promised nothing. Her teeth were gritted. ‘I want to speak with my little lady.’

  The clenched jaw wasn’t a symptom of fear. There was no fear, surprisingly. Worry for Josie’s safety had momentarily been subdued by anger. This man had taken her everything, and just for money. How she wanted to burn him alive.

  ‘Been watching too many films, have we? That’s not how this is going to happen.’

  ‘I want to talk to my daughter. I want proof she’s alive and unhurt.’

  ‘Alive and unhurt? You could have just said unhurt, since that would also mean she’s alive? We’re going to call your house at ten and tell you where to take the cash. Have it sealed in a freezer bag and inside a typical shoebox. Not Nike, I hate Nike. You better get your arse right out the door when the call comes, okay? On the dot. With the cash. Freezer bag and shoebox. I know you got the cops listening. Tell them to try nothing—’

  ‘I want proof of life, you…’ She stopped herself just in time. But it didn’t matter:

  ‘Arse-licking tosspot freak bastard, is that what you were about to call me?’

  ‘No.’ The fear hurtled back, exploding inside her like a bomb blast. One of Miller’s cards had covered ‘Barbs’ – aggravating points of discussion. Boiled down: never refer to the Hostage Taker’s moral make-up. Never say that his actions were cowardly or insane or unfair. Never insult him. ‘Look, please, I’m sorry. I don’t want my daughter to be hurt. She’s only five. She has breathing problems. Please don’t hurt—’

  But he interrupted her with laughter. It was a sound that cut, but it was also good to hear. Laughter meant he wasn’t offended.

  ‘You mess this up and I’ll send you proof of death instead, how about that? Your kid’s head wrapped in a copy of today’s newspaper. You want that?’

  ‘No. Please. I just want her unhurt. You can have what you want. I just want her back. She’ll be hungry. But she needs soy milk, because she can’t—’

  Again, laughter.

  ‘You know, this humanising your kid bit only works against people who aren’t raving psychopaths. So stop it. Get my money. Mess this up, I’ll charge you 25p for the newspaper I buy.’

  Click.

  Angry, but unsure why, she ran out of the room, ordering those who wanted to restrain her to give her a minute. She headed around the nearby corner, where there was a bench in a windowed alcove. She knelt on it and stared out at a small illuminated garden enclosed by four walls. The mobile was in her hands, already ringing Father’s number. He answered quickly, clear hope in his voice, and she cut it down immediately.

  ‘They want money. £50,000. I’m sorry.’

  She hung up and turned off the phone, loath to take a return call. She had promised to contact him if they got word about Josie, and obviously he’d assumed her call was good news. But it so wasn’t. She tried not to think about Father refusing to pay.

  She stared at the window, but no longer saw the garden beyond. Instead, playing there as if upon a screen: images of Josie tied up in a dark room and crying.

  The movie ended when she heard footsteps closing, and a voice say, ‘Answer, you dick.’ It was the foul male detective constable, Nabi. He stopped a few feet away, just around the corner, and she listened to him moaning about the person he was calling not picking up the phone. Another voice, even his, made it easier to dispel those vile images from her skull.

  She was beginning to calm down, but then she overheard Nabi say, ‘Ah, hello. I called a few minutes ago. Someone said you’d have an ETA on a cadaver dog. Detective Constable Zesh Nabi, down here in—’

  ‘Cadaver dogs?’ Anna hissed.

  He jumped and turned to see her standing just feet from him, as if having appeared out of thin air.

  ‘Dogs trained to find dead people, is that right? You people think my daughter is dead?’

  Phone to his ear, Nabi just stared at her, clearly unsure of what to say next. She wanted to hit him but knew he didn’t deserve to be the object she vented her anger on. Instead, she punched the wall, once, twice, and would have landed a third blow, but Nabi grabbed her arms, calling out for assistance. She sank to her knees.

  Five

  2.45 a.m.

  He’s awake before the alarm dings, probably because he spent the previous evening terrified that it would also wake his wife. Fifteen minutes to go. He dresses, and takes his mobile phone from the bedside table, and exits the bedroom. He’s nervous as hell about the phone call. He will do it in the living room, because this is not a call his wife can overhear. If she wakes and wonders why he’s up, he’ll jokingly blame the Devil’s Hour, the infiltration of something paranormal into his mind. She might doubt his sanity, but that’s better than her knowing the truth…

  ‘And who did you call?’

 
Upon waking, the panic had instantly closed around him like a fog. A small woman had tried to hold him down, but he’d fought like any caged animal fearing pain, desperate to rip away the tubes filling his blood with poison, and it had taken the additional input of a large man to finally subdue him. He had been aware of his voice, somewhat disconnected from his brain, screaming, Who the hell are you?

  ‘A friend called Fitch Angeles. For a job.’

  ‘A job? Explain, please,’ the woman called Detective Chief Inspector Lucy Miller said.

  The small woman had been trying to soothe him with soft words, long sentences, but nothing had worked until the large man had yelled one little word right into his ear from an inch away: ‘HOSPITAL’.

  ‘I lost my job a couple of weeks ago.’ He indicated Anna. ‘We had an argument and I was stomping about at work. I nearly dropped heavy piping on to a guy’s head. I got let go. I was calling a mate who owns a limo company for a job.’

  As if the man’s breath had pulsed through his brain like wind and swept away the fog, clarity descended in an instant. Not some madman’s laboratory, and not tubing pumping poison. A hospital. His jigsaw memory pieces knit together fast, and as the whole solidified, his body relaxed.

  ‘And you didn’t know he’d lost his job?’ the male, Detective Sergeant Liam Bennet, asked Anna.

  She shook her head, looking horrified.

  ‘You were scared of telling me?’ she asked Nick.

  He gave a childlike slow nod with his eyes looking anywhere but at her. ‘I wanted to get another job before I told you. So you wouldn’t worry.’

  ‘You should have told me. It would have been fine. I wouldn’t have been angry. So you were going out every day, pretending to work?’

  ‘In America?’ the detective cut in. ‘You wanted a job in America?’

  ‘The job isn’t in America. It’s in Nottingham. A bit of a drive, but it would have been a stopgap.’

  ‘That’s why your van isn’t there,’ Anna said, somewhat gleeful about this. She gave the detectives an accusing stare, which confused Nick.

  ‘Yeah, they took it back,’ he said. ‘Since I always parked it around on the back street, I figured you wouldn’t know it wasn’t there.’

  Bendall Lane lock-up garages, Sheffield Custody Suite, Northern General Hospital – they told it all, filling in the gaps in his memories while he hugged his wife and the hospital staff made sure he was okay. The fog of confusion had been replaced by a storm of anger and depression and regret, but also embarrassment. He wanted to sleep, and he wanted to talk alone with his wife. He wanted to be back home, and he wanted to be out there hunting for Josie. He wanted to curl into an inert ball, and he wanted to pound the world into splinters. But those surrounding him wanted black spots in their own knowledge erased, starting with events seemingly aeons ago, way back in the dead hours…

  ‘Please, Nick, let’s go back to the part about America,’ Miller said.

  ‘That’s where Fitch is at the minute. A business meeting. He was my old pal from school, part of our crew—’

  ‘A biker gang, right?’ the DS said.

  Nick wasn’t sure how they already knew that, but didn’t enquire. ‘Yeah. I hadn’t seen Fitch for years, but I knew he ran a company. Found him on Facebook and messaged him. Said I was after a job. He messaged back and said we should have a chat about it. I didn’t want to wait until he got back, and I said I’d call him in America the next day about nine in the evening, when his meetings were over. But 9 p.m. in Washington is about three in the morning over here.’

  Anna touched his hand and smiled at him. Right then he understood why she seemed so happy. His addled brain hadn’t clicked on, but now he knew: the police had had a theory that he was involved. They weren’t just seeking his help here, they were trying to find anomalies that would prove his guilt. But Anna had refused to believe it and his story upheld her claims. She had defended him, despite their rocky times over the last half-year. He squeezed her hand right back and returned her smile.

  The detectives were unimpressed by the magical moment between husband and wife. The DS said, ‘We confirmed the job loss with your landscaping boss. But we’ll be chatting to Fitch Angeles soon to get his story. So, after your phone call, then what happened?’

  * * *

  2.58 a.m.

  He opens the patio door, lights a cigarette, and steps out, and spots movement. Shifting black shapes that paranoia paints as intruders in his garden and then logic tells him that cannot be, surely. In the next millisecond his brain picks a side and he’s shouting, ‘Who the hell are you?’ before he really even realises it.

  Except he doesn’t. No words come, locked in by shock. But he manages to toss the cigarette at a figure as it rushes towards him. It bounces off the attacker in a mini firework display. He sees the clear shapes of three men in black, one holding what he thinks is a crowbar. The one standing by Josie’s bedroom window.

  Nick’s phone is still in his hand, fresh from his good news call to a pal, and he lifts it, ready to call the police. But the approaching shape hasn’t ceased moving.

  He doesn’t remember the blow, but a strike certainly occurred because in the next moment he’s on the wet ground and his head is throbbing. He’s staring up at the patio door, at rain pelting towards him. At a black figure standing over him, towering high, seemingly deep into the black sky.

  Josie.

  The figure bends, something in its hand, aiming at his face. He turns his head away, wanting to save his eyes, and feels the sharp jab in his neck. A knife for sure. The black of the world deepens, but just before it becomes absolute his eyes see another figure. At Josie’s window, seemingly just waiting there.

  The window opens from the inside, a black-clad arm attached to the handle.

  ‘Did you recognise any of the men?’

  ‘Masked. They were masked. Balaclavas maybe.’ He put his face in his hands, made a moan as his tense fingers gouged into his stitched head wound, and then slapped the bed. ‘Early bloody Christmas for them. I opened the door. Let them just walk right in.’

  No sympathy in the faces watching him. From the DS: ‘The man at Josie’s window. Are you saying they passed Josie out through her window, even though the patio door was open?’

  Nick’s head still swam. He said nothing.

  The DCI said, ‘Nick, my friend, any chance one of those men was actually a woman?’

  Anna looked at her, puzzled.

  He wanted to ask why, but the line Who the hell are you? continued to bounce around in his brain. But neither was what found its way out of his mouth.

  ‘This is down to her dad.’

  The detectives glanced at Anna. She was at the back of the room and he looked at her and wanted to apologise for what he’d just said. But that didn’t come out of his mouth, either.

  ‘I checked up my arse earlier and I don’t have a stash of money up there.’

  He grabbed and squeezed his chin, as if punishing his errant mouth. The drug he’d been injected with, that was the cause, and they’d know that, right? Anna would know that. Despite the way she hung her head, clearly hurt by seeing him this way, or by the accusation he’d just laid down about her father, she’d know he wasn’t in control of what his brain wanted to say. Right?

  ‘What do you mean?’ the DS said. ‘How did you know this was about money? And why do you think this is about Anna’s father?’

  He saw that everyone was giving him a suspicious look, as if he’d done something wrong. But he couldn’t work out what. ‘What else would it be about? I’m not the prime minister, I can’t be blackmailed into starting a war.’

  That got puzzled looks. The consultant stepped in here, announcing that he didn’t think this interview should continue just yet. His patient was still suffering the effects of—

  ‘Of course it’s about him,’ Nick snapped, one hand raised to warn the doctor to keep away. And this time he wasn’t appalled by the words that slipped out unbidden. This time
what he’d said made sense. ‘He’s always promoting his businesses on Facebook. He put his page from a companies’ index website on there, didn’t he? With his account finances, just to show off how much he’s got. Trying to make people jealous. All he did was make people want some. Now they’re going to get it, aren’t they? And he’ll pay. He won’t buy us a new dryer, will he? But he’ll pay this for Josie, I tell you now. I tell you now.’

  He saw Anna scuttle towards the door and he called her name, loaded with a pleading tone. She stopped. But she didn’t look at him. And then she was eclipsed by the tall detective sergeant, Bennet, who stepped into Nick’s line of sight.

  ‘You’re right, Nick. These people do want money. Your wife called her dad to tell him. He’s just called me because her phone was off. He’s already agreed to pay the money. They’ve asked for fifty thousand. My question to you is, do you think Josie was taken in order to force Mr Middleton to pay up?’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  That got him disappointed looks and another plea by the consultant. But this time the DCI held up a hand to stop the guy.

  ‘Just a moment, please. Nick, what made you say that about Anna’s father? Has he received any threats? In recent days? Have you?’

  ‘Anna, can I see you? Can you come here?’

  ‘Just a moment, dear,’ she said to Anna. ‘Nick, please. Do you know of anyone who’s shown interest in your father-in-law’s finances?’

  ‘Anna!’

  But he saw the door open and beyond the big detective saw her slip out. The DS turned to watch, then put his attention right back on Nick.

  ‘Give her a moment. She’s got a lot to process tonight. So, from your garden to a lock-up garage in the city centre…’

  Black with them closed, and black when he opened his eyes again. The pain in his head told him he wasn’t dreaming. Cold all along his left side, which ceased when he rolled over. Now, he saw light in a thin strip and crawled towards it. A metal door, which rumbled when he hit it head first. His head was still swimming, and he failed to stand. But there was nothing wrong with the power in his muscles. His fingers scraped along the floor, dug into a gap between it and the sharp bottom of the door, and lifted. A roller shutter, which ground its way up slowly. Light crawled in and he crawled out.