Before It's Too Late

by Jane Isaac

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jackman stared at the magnolia walls around him and sighed inwardly. The high ceiling, wrought-iron fireplace, large sash window and polished floorboards were akin to his front room. But that’s where the similarities ended. The bookcase in the corner was filled with modern classics, the sort you bought in bound collections out of Sunday newspaper supplements and never read; the circular coffee table in the centre gave off a permanently unused sheen, the single painting on the wall of pink roses in a vase was flat and lifeless. Everything in this room had been meticulously arranged to afford basic comfort whilst discouraging distraction.

  He cast a fleeting glance at Doctor ‘call me Richard’ Stephens who sat opposite him, hands folded on top of an A4 pad resting on his lap, a biro poking between his fingers. They were amidst one of those long silences where Richard would stare at him, angle his head if he made eye contact. It was tedious.

  Jackman used the ‘silence technique’ and ‘open questions’ to incite conversation during interviews. In fact, when he thought about it, this part of their jobs was quite similar. Jackman worked hard to make his witnesses and suspects feel at ease, create an atmosphere whereby they were comfortable, encourage them to talk. He too broke down the barriers to find the truth. But that’s where the similarities ended. Once he had gleaned the facts, the justice system took care of the victim, witness, suspect. Richard picked away, peeling back each layer and rummaging through the emotions beneath until, eventually, there was nothing left.

  Jackman’s eyes rested on the box of tissues on the sideboard in the corner, just within reach of Richard’s chair, and wondered how many times he’d stretched across and passed them over, or even whether he’d counted. Richard adjusted position. The pen rolled off his lap and rattled as it hit the floor. Jackman watched him reach down and retrieve it, sit back and cross one leg over the other, making him appear at a strange angle. His mind switched back to the investigation. He wondered how they were getting on at the new drop site. Whether they’d heard from the Embassy, or got a new lead on Min’s uncle.

  Richard sniffed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’d like to talk about the night of the accident,” he said.

  “Why?” Jackman asked.

  “Because we’ve never gone into it in any detail. I think it might help.”

  You or me? Jackman thought. But Janus’ words were still at the very forefront of his mind. ‘Just go along and keep the appointments. At least it’ll keep welfare off our backs.’ He bit back his frustration. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why don’t you talk me through it?”

  Jackman paused and shifted in his seat as if he was trying to recover some distant memory from the filing cabinets buried deep inside his mind. Problem was they weren’t buried deep. These were the memories that suffocated the suggestion of sleep and haunted his every waking hour.

  Jackman cleared his throat. “I’d been to a retirement party in Leamington. My old boss. I didn’t intend to drink, but I got pulled into the joviality of the evening. In the end, I couldn’t drive, so I called Alice to come pick me up.”

  “What was Alice doing?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When you called her?”

  Jackman struggled to see the relevance. “She was in bed reading.”

  “And how did she react?”

  Jackman shrugged. “Wasn’t best pleased. She asked if anyone else could bring me, but there wasn’t anyone, so finally she agreed to come out.”

  “And what time was this?”

  Jackman thought for a moment. “The accident happened at 12.49. I remember looking at the clock on the dash. She must have left around midnight and arrived with me half an hour later.”

  “And how did she seem?”

  “A bit snappy, but that was quite understandable.”

  “The alcohol didn’t impair your memory?”

  “I said I’d been drinking, not that I was drunk. I knew exactly what was happening.”

  “What do you mean by snappy?”

  “She was tired. Grumpy at being pulled out of bed. We bickered a little. I’d promised to be home early, said I wouldn’t drink.”

  “Can you recall the conversation?”

  Jackman shook his head to hide the lie. He could remember it, the exact words, as if it was yesterday, but he wasn’t about to share that with Richard.

  “What happened next?”

  “Not much. We drove in silence for a while. Then a car crossed the carriageway. It came from nowhere, hit us head-on.”

  It was a moment before Richard spoke. “Can you remember what happened next?”

  “I remember a pain in my head like my skull splitting in two. The car lay on its side. Alice was unconscious. I couldn’t get her to wake up. I just kept thinking: get her out of the car.”

  The sound of a siren passing outside broke the stillness that saturated the room. Jackman suddenly realised that he’d become lost in his memories. He took a deep breath, regained his composure.

  Richard sat back in his chair. “Will, who do you think is responsible for the accident that caused your wife’s condition?”

  Jackman looked back at him. “The idiot that was driving too fast and lost control of his car, of course.” But his words were tainted with a soft sadness. The idiot was a young lad in his new car showing off to his mates. He had lost his life that night before he’d even reached his nineteenth birthday. It was a cruel injustice, an accident, just like Alice.

  Richard surveyed him for some time. “Is there anyone else you feel was responsible?”

  Jackman’s voice came out in barely a whisper. “If I hadn’t been drinking she’d never have been on the road that night.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I felt Lonny’s eyes on me.

  “Do you know what I’d really like to eat now?” he asked.

  My eyes rested on the bread and biscuits in the corner. All that was left were the remnants of those nibbled by the baby rat. I shook my head.

  “McDonald’s fries. Large.”

  A weak laugh escaped me. I was expecting him to come out with something deep and meaningful, or a Chinese dish he treasured. Not McDonald’s. I could feel him laughing next to me and giggled quietly. Suddenly, I realised I hadn’t laughed for so long. Even before the pit, all the problems with Tom and the baby. A dark cloud had prevailed over my life for what seemed like ages. I indulged in the loose feeling now and the release of those happy pips of endorphins shooting around my veins felt like a medicine.

  “What about you?” he eventually asked.

  I rested my head back on the concrete. A week ago I’d have probably said chocolate. Cadbury Dairy Milk. Many a dark evening I’d sat in my apartment, poring over my laptop, craving its velvety texture and rich sweetness. But now, oddly, I craved the crisp freshness of pear, papaya, lychee, banana.

  “Fruit salad.”

  He laughed. “You’re so boring.”

  “What about you, fries? Must be the British side of you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think it’s great. You get the best of both cultures.”

  “Or you never quite fit in either.”

  Just as I twisted to face him, he grinned. “You’re so gullible.”

  I nudged his shoulder. A luke warm heat filled me. It was nice to have Lonny. He was good company. For a short moment, I forgot where I was.

  I stretched out my legs and felt a sudden stab of pain that made me gasp and grab my stomach. The baby.

  Lonny’s face dropped a little. “You okay?”

  I didn’t answer. Another stab, harder this time, I drew my knees in. I wrapped my arms around my stomach and stared at the pockmarked concrete in front of me, trying to regulate my breathing.

  “Min, what’s wrong?”

  The pain eased a little, but I still couldn’t answer. Instead I concentrated on my breathing, slowly in and out.

  “What is it? Are you sick?”

  I huddled
into myself. What was happening? And in that moment I knew. I couldn’t let my baby die, it was too much a part of me to let go. It wouldn’t be easy, but I’d have to find a way.

  “Min, please? Talk to me?”

  I turned to face Lonny. I’d almost forgotten he was sat next to me. I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again like a fish out of water.

  “You’re scaring me now.”

  I cleared my throat. The pain had lessened to a simmer, just beneath the surface. “I… I think it’s nothing really. Just a little indigestion. I need to sit quietly for a bit.

  He stared directly at me. The look in his eyes told me he didn’t believe a word I’d said. And why not? It wasn’t true. Something had stopped me from telling him the truth, but I had no idea why. He’d confided in me about his mother. Yet a little voice inside my head told me this secret was better kept. For now.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Back home later, Jackman took a deep breath and eased back into the sofa.

  Alice’s presence oozed from every room in the house. Not the mute, glassy-eyed shell that lay in Broom Hills. The real Alice. The vibrant Dane with the quirky nature, wicked sense of humour and smile that could light up a room. If he concentrated hard enough he could still feel her presence here – curled up with Erik on the sofa, feet tucked beneath her, chuckling at her beloved American sitcoms; in the kitchen, hair pulled back into a messy half-ponytail as she lifted a flapjack out of the oven; laid flat on the floor of her study, eyes clamped together, Bach playing in the background. Alice loved Bach. Whenever she had a research problem, she laid in the dark with her music, allowing the rhythms to concentrate her mind.

  Jackman had never been keen on classical music himself. She laughed when he hiked up the volume on the radio to listen to the Foo Fighters, the Red Hot Chili Peppers or Kings of Leon. But right now, he felt a yearning to listen to Bach. He pulled the long curtains together shutting out the evening sunshine, laid prostrate on the hearth rug and pressed play on the iPod. Erik wandered over and slumped next to him as the soft ripples of music began to play. The case gently filtered into his mind.

  He could see Min Li leaving the Old Thatch Tavern, her heels tapping the pavement as she moved in the direction of the police station. The black BMW appeared, the car whose occupants had spoken to her. Were they the words that encouraged her to move back to the pub? What would have happened if she hadn’t turned there, if she’d have continued down the road? Was she heading in any particular direction or just walking off a rage?

  Jackman sighed. The music became louder, the tension growing. He imagined her reaching the pub. Did she hesitate, consider going back inside? He knew she’d continued, the camera footage showed she turned the corner into Greenhill Street. Yet she never reached the end of the street. She was taken somewhere along that stretch.

  The music continued to work up to its crescendo as more thoughts crashed through his mind. Her kidnapper had picked her out, researched her family background, organised a location to store her, watched and trailed her for some time. Ready and waiting. What he didn’t understand was why she hadn’t been released. A business transaction. The ransom had been paid. So, where was she now?

  The white Volkswagen with false plates, cloned from a similar van in nearby Coventry, passed through Greenhill Street just before her. It must have picked her up as she walked along that stretch. Where did it go next?

  Track after track played as his mind kept going over and over the facts that were laid before him. Extra protection had been placed at the college, yet amidst all that activity, Lonny Cheung had also been taken. The ransom note indicated he was taken by the same abductors. What was the link?

  Eventually the room became silent. The music had played out. All he could hear were Erik’s soft breaths next to him. He reached out and stroked his neck. The dog’s tail beat the floor, but he didn’t move.

  Jackman jumped up and pressed repeat play before he resumed his position on the floor. Dusk crept in and slowly enveloped them in darkness. Alice used to tease him that he ‘lived’ his cases and she was right. He could already feel this one seeping through the pores in his skin until it sat beneath the surface. He’d joined the police force to make a difference, to help people in their darkest hour of need. But to live a case meant working it: interviewing witnesses, pounding the streets, visiting scenes, not sitting in an office, reading statements and setting strategy while delegating investigative actions to your team.

  Jackman couldn’t believe the cruel twist of fate that befell him when Reilly landed the position as his boss. Yes, he might be adept at managing the press, convincing the politicians, his superiors even, but he had no interest in, and certainly no flair for, investigation. In the short time they’d worked together, he’d made it quite clear he was there to serve his time and move upwards.

  A tense anger hardened inside Jackman. He sat up. Erik raised a sleepy head as he rose and headed out to the kitchen. There was only one kind of solace that he sought this evening, only one antidote to the leaky tap that dripped icy drops of loneliness into his chest. Whisky.

  He rummaged through the cupboard under the stairs, his hands moving urgently, pushing aside a mop bucket, shopping bags, a sack of dog food. Finally he found it, sitting proudly against the wall at the back. Half a bottle of Glenfiddich. A crusted line of dust had gathered around its rim. He pulled it forward, gave a short blow, which did nothing to remove the sticky dust, reached for a glass and poured.

  The first gulp made him cough, the rich liquor caught in his throat, searing his chest as it rippled down into his gut. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and took another. It was stronger than he remembered and it burnt like a ball of fire. Good. That was just what he needed right now.

  He lifted the bottle and glass, moved back into the lounge and sunk into the sofa. Erik climbed up and thumped his body down beside him. The cushions juddered causing the drink to slosh out of the side of the glass onto his trousers. In normal circumstances he’d jump up, curse the dog and reach for a cloth. But frankly these weren’t normal circumstances and right now he really didn’t give a damn.

  He looked down at the dog who’d nestled his head into Jackman’s lap. He was oblivious to the glass, the bottle now resting on the coffee table beside him, the strong aroma of Scotch filling the air. Jackman filled the glass again and drank. Then another. They were starting to slip down easier now. Heat rose through his stomach into his chest, up his neck and into his face. Slowly the thoughts in his mind blurred along with the room around him.

  A spasm in his calf wrenched Jackman from his deep sleep. He jerked forward and clutched the cramped muscle, then jumped up sharply, hopping around the room on his good leg. Short spikes of pain set off an array of fireworks in his head, forcing him to ease up. The cramp started to melt away, but simultaneously the pain in his head reached new heights. He sat on the edge of the sofa in the darkness and tried to focus. Suddenly the room began to move like a paddle boat riding a wave. The sweats followed, then the nausea, and finally the rush of bile to his throat. He raced up the stairs, his head pounding, and only just reached the bathroom in time.

  The stench of vomit filled the air as he hung his head and retched. Sweat coursed down his back. Finally, when he was well and truly spent, he laid back on the cold tiles. His stamina ate away at him. What a lightweight. He’d only polished off half a bottle of whisky and he couldn’t even do that right.

  His mouth felt dry. The aroma of sick caught his nostrils. He should have jumped up, taken a shower, drunk a pint of water, but his body was laden with self-loathing. If Alice could see me now.

  A wave of fatigue washed over him and he invited it until it swaddled him like a baby and gave him a brief respite from his thoughts.

  His eyes pierced the darkness that flooded the room. The wind had dropped to a whisper, as if the trees outside were sharing a million secrets just out of earshot.

  He sat up. The air inside smelt th
ick and pungent now that the heat of the day had passed. Stage two of his plan had proved more difficult to execute than he could possibly have imagined. His back was sore and his shoulders ached. And very soon it would be time to change things again. But there was a part of him that was enjoying the raw thrill of the chase. A wry smile curled the corner of his mouth as he pictured the detective and his team scrabbling through bins in Birmingham, searching for clues. Now it was only a matter of time.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The sound of crows cawing in the distance pulled me out of a deep sleep. My eyelids were stuck together, my body glued to the bed. I hadn’t slept so well in ages and I wanted more. Tom’s body was curled around mine, his paunch pressing into my back. It felt warm, comforting. His arms encased me, swaddling my body like a blanket. I tried to return to my slumber, but the crows were insistent this morning – their calls echoing around the walls. I slowly opened my eyes. And started.

  I was still in the pit. The damp smell of the puddle, which sat barely inches from my feet, filled my nose. I’d done it again, in spite of all my efforts – I’d slept. And it wasn’t Tom’s arms wrapped around me. It was Lonny’s.

  Instinct screamed at me to jump forward, release myself from his grip. But that was instinct in the real world. And nothing felt the same down here. This wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was purely for the warmth. The rationale made me feel better. I tried to wriggle forward, but his embrace was vice-like, holding me rigid.

  A wave of compassion hit me. He’d been so kind to me over the past couple of days. Listened to my stories, shared food with real generosity, covered his eyes and ears when I’d had to use the makeshift toilet in the corner. I didn’t want to wake him. But I needed to find a way out. Suddenly, I felt a deep inhalation, and the exhalation of a sigh trickle down my neckline. He nuzzled into my hair. Then a hard lump pressed into the back of my thigh.