There was a pause as Becky listened. Tom didn’t have to look at Becky to feel every muscle in her body tighten.
‘What?’ she yelled into the phone. ‘Are you sure about this?’
She listened some more and hung up.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
Tom glanced at her white face, her eyes looking like black holes.
‘What?’
‘Sophie. She doesn’t know where Olivia is, but she can and will contact her. She’s going to text Olivia’s number to us as well.’
Tom waited.
‘She says Robert won’t hurt Olivia. It’s not Olivia he’s going for. It’s the children.’
51
Becky had known for some time that her level of fitness had dropped considerably since she’d started her disastrous affair with Peter Hunter. She’d stopped going to the gym just so she could be sure of being at home on the off-chance that he might try to call. Pathetic. But now it was catching up with her as they charged through terminal one of Manchester airport to catch their flight. It would have to be bloody terminal one.
Following as closely behind Tom as she could, Becky wove her way through the shoppers in duty free, nearly sending a woman holding a bottle of Chanel perfume flying. If they missed this flight, there was nothing for hours, and they still hadn’t worked out the timings at the other end to get from Guernsey to Alderney. But one thing at a time.
Since speaking to Sophie, Becky hadn’t really had time to think. All she was focused on was trying to get hold of Olivia. But the phone just kept going to voicemail. What if Robert had found her?
She had talked to the Alderney police again, and they were doing everything possible, including trying to contact Olivia on the number that Sophie had provided. None of their investigations had revealed whether Olivia was living on the island or not, but the sergeant did say he had a plan and he would explain what he was doing when they arrived.
As they reached the gate, Becky bent over to try to get her breath back. The monitor had said ‘Final Call’, and she was stunned to see that there were at least twenty people still waiting to board the plane. They could easily have walked and now she wouldn’t be feeling so sick. Even Tom was puffing and panting a bit. He grinned at her pain.
‘Made it,’ he gasped, leaning one hand on the back of a row of plastic chairs as if he needed holding upright.
As they made their way on to the plane, they both got their breathing under control, and the moment’s euphoria at having made the flight collapsed under the reality of what was about to happen.
Tom and Becky spent the flight going through every little detail they knew about Olivia’s home in Alderney, from the conversations with Robert about the view from the window to Sophie’s comments about the location. They were few and far between, but she had mentioned a bench nestled in a sand dune, with the house in the background. Surely that would help?
The flight took ninety minutes, and there was nothing they could do but discuss the case – or, in Becky’s mind, go round and round in circles and always end up back at the same conclusion.
After the first half hour had passed, Becky was desperate to find out from the cabin crew whether there would be a flight they could catch to Alderney. God, planes were frustrating places to be when you needed to be in contact with earth!
The flight attendant came back up the aisle and crouched down by Becky’s side.
‘The next flight to Alderney takes off fifteen minutes after we arrive. We’ll get you straight to the plane.’
The ground crew were as good as their word when they arrived in Guernsey, and Tom and Becky were invited to disembark first and then jump in an airport car which whisked them to the waiting plane.
Under any other circumstances, Becky would have enjoyed the flight. Flying over the sea at such low altitude was wonderful – especially when they saw Alderney in the distance with its white beaches and turquoise seas. But the closer they got, the more agitated Becky began to feel.
‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered, as the little plane made what seemed to be remarkably slow progress towards the short landing strip.
Once again, they were first off the plane and they rushed into the tiny arrivals hall where they were met by the local police.
‘Have you found her?’ Tom asked as he shook the sergeant’s hand.
‘Sorry, sir. Nothing yet. Have you any more idea of where she might be?’
‘We’ve been thinking about this on the plane,’ Becky said, ‘and the only thing we know for certain is that she’s near a beach.’
The sergeant gave her a look that said, ‘You have to be kidding me,’ but it wasn’t until they were in the car and speeding away from the airport that Becky understood why. Every corner they turned, there in front of them was the sea.
The sergeant relented slightly by commenting, ‘At least we can rule out the town,’ but it was obvious that it wasn’t much help.
Tom was sitting in the front passenger seat, and Becky leaned forwards to listen to the conversation.
‘How do you propose we go about it, Sergeant?’ Tom asked.
‘I’ve resorted to bush telegraph,’ the sergeant said. ‘My wife and my constable’s wife have been on the phone for the last two hours, talking to everybody they know – asking if anybody knows anything or has any idea where we should be looking. Trust me, this is our best plan. In the meantime, we’ll take the coast road. As far as I can find out, your man hasn’t hired a car. He could have hired a bike, but without using a credit card a car would be difficult. There’s always a chance he’s nicked one. Nobody locks their cars around here, and they all leave the keys in. That might help us, or it may be that the owner won’t realise it’s missing for a couple of days if your man’s been smart about it.’
Great, thought Becky. Bloody excellent.
52
Today has been another perfect day. The sun has been shining, and yet we were the only people on this bit of beach. We spent hours this morning exploring the crystal-clear rock pools, and we’ve just finished building Billy’s ‘best-ever sandcastle’.
I’m taking a moment to be lazy, and I lie back in the soft sand, gazing up at the blue sky overhead, listening to the children squabbling amicably about how to construct a drawbridge.
I only half hear them, though, because my thoughts turn to Sophie. It’s hard for me to accept that Robert has been to see her, and I’m certain that she didn’t tell me everything. Robert wouldn’t have calmly asked her where I was, and then politely left when she refused to tell him. I feel so guilty that I dragged her into this, although to be fair she was the one who persuaded me that I had to get out of this marriage, as she slowly but surely pulled me out of the pit of despair in which I was mired.
‘Listen, Liv,’ she had said on the third or fourth time that we met. ‘You might think the children are safe as long as you stay with Robert, but he’s clearly unhinged. What if he moves the goalposts and you’re not prepared? What if he becomes so obsessed with knowing your every move that he keeps you locked in the house? A total prisoner? You’ve got to get out.’
We had already explored the legal route to escape, but it appeared there was none. I had no proof of Robert’s threats, but on the other hand he had plenty of proof that I wasn’t quite stable. I was told that I could be classified as a hostile partner, and at the very least Robert was sure to be awarded contact time with the children – which is all he would need to carry out his plan.
In spite of all my anxiety, I feel seduced by the peace of this island. It seems that nothing bad can happen to me here and I think it’s the simplicity of the place that gives me that sensation of safety. People smile all the time, and go out of their way to be helpful. The roads are calm with little traffic and not even a roundabout to be found. But it’s the sea that brings the serenity to me. It’s rarely out of sight, and whether it’s calm and turquoise blue or dark grey with white breakers thrashing against the churning water, I can
’t take my eyes off it.
Even though the Dan situation isn’t completely resolved yet, I know it will be. And then, finally, I will be able to move forwards with my life. At the moment it feels like I’m living in a bubble, floating safely amidst turbulent air. I can almost picture myself and the children within this bubble. The air around us looks dark and grim, with black clouds and grey, stormy seas. But inside our bubble it is a day like today – sunny, bright and filled with laughter. I have to stop the darkness from seeping in and destroying our happiness.
I turn my head to watch my beautiful children playing in the sand, Jaz – no, Ginny – in her favourite ice-blue T-shirt and the boys with their chubby little legs covered in white sand as they stand in the shallow sea and shovel water into orange plastic buckets to try to fill the moat of their sandcastle. How long will it be before they realise what a fruitless task that is? But they need to discover this for themselves.
I sit up and look behind me at the house we rented. It couldn’t be more perfect. It’s secluded, but yet doesn’t feel lonely. At night I can sleep with my window open and hear the waves lapping gently on to the shore. I can’t wait for the first big storm, which should be spectacular here.
The house is painted a pale cream colour, and has a small lawn leading down to a gate through to the beach. I didn’t choose it specifically for its seclusion, even though it is a bonus. I chose it because along the back of the house is a veranda with doors from all the bedrooms, and from that veranda there’s a spiral staircase down to the terrace behind the kitchen and living room. I couldn’t believe my luck at finding such a perfect spot, because as I visualise my bubble, I am reminded of one thing. The outer casing of a bubble is fragile and can pop at any moment.
That’s why we have a plan, and it’s time we had another practice.
I’ve made it into a game for the children. It’s our war game. The children are evacuees who have missed the last boat. When the enemy soldiers arrive, the children have to hide. I want them to take the ‘game’ seriously, but I don’t want them to have nightmares, so I’ve tried to make it fun.
The first thing we did when we came at Easter was to find a convenient bunker. This island is not short of them, that’s for sure. Not the closest bunker to the house, though, but one that they could safely get inside, and hide. So we had a great couple of days exploring those that wouldn’t be too far for a four-year-old’s little legs. We cleared out the rubbish that had accumulated in there, and then I bought a plastic cool box and filled it with biscuits and the children’s favourite drinks, plus a couple of battery-operated lights and a fully charged mobile phone. The plastic box, I reasoned, would protect the food from any four-legged predators. We covered it with a few dark grey blankets so that if anybody glanced in they wouldn’t see the bright red plastic. We check it every couple of days – I have spares of everything in case somebody finds the cool box and takes it.
There is one thing about this island, though. I don’t think anybody would ever dream of taking anything that wasn’t theirs. The lady who rented me the house was surprised that I wanted a key, saying she hadn’t locked her door for twenty years. Nobody seems to steal what doesn’t belong to them, and there’s nowhere for a burglar to run anyway. Or a kidnapper for that matter.
But I will be keeping all my doors permanently locked. I may think I’m safe here, but I have to be careful for the sake of the children. I can’t become complacent.
Once we had established our hiding place for the enemy invasion, we practised the escape from the house – out through the bedroom doors, on to the veranda, and down the spiral staircase. Across the grass, through the gate and along the coastal path. Past the first two bunkers, slide down the hill, and into the little bunker that’s hidden in the side of the cliff. It’s a bit of a drop from the door, but I piled some stones up so the little ones can clamber in and out easily.
I want to practise over and over again but the children would get bored, and I’m worried that if the time comes, they might refuse to go. Freddie cried the first time, but he seems okay about it now. Let’s hope we never have to try it out for real.
I push myself to my feet and wander up to the bench where I’ve left the beach bag. I want to take a picture of the children so I grab my phone from where it’s hiding under a pile of towels and I can see that I have missed several calls – starting two hours ago. Most are from Sophie, but there are a couple of numbers I don’t recognise too. The phone starts to vibrate with a new call. It’s Sophie, but it’s not a scheduled time, and that’s not like her.
For a moment, I feel a tremor of nerves, but dismiss them. I must learn to be more confident. I touch the screen to answer.
‘Hi, Soph. This is a nice surprise on a beautiful day,’ I say. ‘Have you been trying to call me?’ But my smile fades in a second. She tells me the last thing I want to hear.
‘Liv, it’s Robert. He knows where you are. He’s found you.’
My body freezes. I can’t speak.
He’s come to get my children, just as he said he would.
I hadn’t always understood what he was threatening me with, but when he took my children two years ago he waited until the police had gone and we were alone. Then he put his threat into words, each one spoken clearly and slowly so I could be in no doubt of what he was telling me. I tried not to listen, as if not hearing it would somehow make it not real. I tried not to look at him, as if not seeing him would make him disappear. He put his face close to mine, though, and breathed into my ear, so I could hear every word.
‘Olivia – you are my life. Nothing else matters, only you. If you leave me there will be no point in me breathing. Do you understand? I think about you every second of every day. I cling to the belief that one day, you will feel the same about me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But that’s not going to happen, Olivia, is it?’
I couldn’t speak.
‘You’re mine, Olivia. Even if you can’t love me the way I love you, you’re mine. And I can settle for that, as long as I can see your face every day, touch your body when I want – yes, Olivia, when I want – and know that you will always be here each evening when I get home. But if you leave me, one day I will take your children – just like I did tonight – and nobody will ever find me.’
He moved in even closer, so that his lips touched my ear.
‘If you leave me, you will never see any of us again. You will be left with nothing.’
53
Marjorie Beresford was feeling guilty. She was supposed to be looking after her father, but this morning she had been into town and instead of coming straight back from the butcher and fishmonger as she had promised, she had decided to stop off for a cappuccino. It was a lovely day, and the tables at the brasserie were set outside.
And after all it was only a cup of coffee – just an extra ten minutes.
The problem was that ten minutes had expanded to half an hour as she had chatted to people she hadn’t seen for weeks. She didn’t get out much because her father needed almost constant nursing now. But he wasn’t prepared to go into a home, and so what else could she do? It was good to talk, though, and she couldn’t help it if she got a little carried away and forgot the time. Just this once.
It was as she was paying the bill that the nice young man had come in, saying he was looking for his sister. She’d come to the island a while ago with her three children, and he thought she had said she was renting somewhere. He’d promised to visit, but he’d stupidly lost the address. He was asking Joe, the owner, but Marjorie couldn’t help overhearing. All the man knew was that his sister’s place was near a beach. Was it okay for him to ask around – to see if anybody knew where it might be?
Marjorie was certain it must be Lynn that he was talking about. And she had three children.
She wasn’t sure whether to say anything or not, but by the time she had paid and spoken to a few other acquaintances on her way out, she saw that the man was sitting disconsolately at one of the outdoor t
ables, and she felt sorry for him.
‘Excuse me,’ she’d said. ‘I didn’t quite catch your name?’
‘Jonathan,’ he replied, with a friendly smile that held more than a hint of sadness in her view.
‘I’m Marjorie. What’s your sister’s name?’ She was surprised when he gave a small laugh.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Excuse me?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s a long and complicated story. My sister got herself into a bit of trouble in England. She owed some people money. The usual thing – she’d over-stretched herself when her husband walked out, and she took out what seemed like a sensible loan. Only the interest was about a thousand per cent, and she just got in deeper and deeper. I gave her some cash to pay them off, but she used it instead to run away. She came here. I want to find her to tell her I’ve settled all her debts. She’s totally in the clear and can come home whenever she wants. My parents are missing her and the children – but I don’t know what name she has dreamed up for herself. Her real name is Olivia, and when she was younger she was called Liv by a lot of people. But I don’t know what name she will have adopted – or what she’ll be calling the children either.’
Marjorie looked at the sad face of the man opposite. What a good brother to have, she couldn’t help thinking. She had a brother herself, and he did absolutely sweet Fanny Adams to help with their father.
‘Your sister’s very lucky to have you,’ she said frankly. ‘Look, I don’t know if it helps or not, but I take care of a property for some people who used to live on the island but have gone to America for a few years. They let it privately, and there’s a lady living there at the moment with three children. They took it at the end of last October, though, so I don’t know if it’s the same woman. Her name’s Lynn. I can’t remember the children’s names, but there’s a girl and two little boys. Could that be them, do you think?’
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 106