by T. M. Logan
I type a one-word message.
Max?
‘Who’s Max?’ Tara says.
‘Kathryn’s boyfriend. I met him yesterday, wrote my number on a business card but he wouldn’t give me his. He was very suspicious, definitely knew more than he was letting on.’
Good guess
I’m about to type a reply when two more messages arrive.
Meet me, Rectory Park. Kids play area. 11 a.m.
Just you, no one else
I check my watch: just after 10 a.m. I’ll need to get back to my house, pick up my car. It’ll be tight, but I can make it if I don’t hang around.
‘Wait,’ Tara says with a frown. ‘You’re not actually going to go, are you?’
‘Yes. I have to.’
‘You don’t have to do anything. This could be anyone. Someone who knows they can use Mia to push your buttons. This is like . . . I don’t know, like psycho Tinder, only without names or photographs – for all you know it could be the guy who was waiting for you in your house yesterday. Maybe he wants to hurt you again.’
‘He had the chance to do that yesterday.’
‘Yes, and he did, he hit you with 50,000 bloody volts,’ she says, her voice rising in exasperation. ‘Men like that get a kick out of this stuff, controlling, manipulating, leading you up the garden path. What if it isn’t Max?’
‘What if it is?’
‘He didn’t volunteer that name, you offered it to him.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘You’re right, it could be anyone. But what if something does happen to Mia? And I could have helped her, but I didn’t? If I just sat here in your conservatory, drinking coffee? He says time’s running out for her.’
A memory pulses through me, like a half-remembered nightmare. The stink of burning diesel, burning tents, acrid black smoke billowing up into the bright blue African sky.
I type a two-letter response.
OK
Tara leans over and studies the chain of messages again.
‘We should at least tell your police guy, Gilbourne,’ she says. ‘Better still, let the police handle it full stop.’
‘If he wanted the police, he’d have called them already. I can fill Stuart in later.’
I stand up, putting the name of the park into Google Maps. It’s a couple of miles west, nearer the M25 and the Buckinghamshire border. In the direction of where Max lives with Kathryn.
Tara finishes her coffee and stands up too. ‘Come on then, let’s get to it.’
‘Where are you going?’ I say.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘He said I had to go alone.’
‘Well of course he wants to get you on his own, Ellen. But he won’t see me, I’ll hang back at a distance. I can be discreet when I need to be.’
‘You are many things, Tara, but discreet is not one of them. I’ll be fine.’
‘Like you were fine on Tuesday? Like you were fine yesterday?’ She indicates the marks left by the stun gun on the side of my neck. ‘I don’t trust you not to do something silly. It could be a trap, it could be anything. I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.’
‘It’s in the middle of a park – it’ll be full of people. Nothing’s going to happen. And anyway, you need to pick up the boys.’
She checks her watch. ‘Not for ages yet. Loads of time until then.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ I touch her arm, give it a reassuring squeeze. ‘I need to do this.’
She holds my gaze for a moment, then gives me a slow nod. An admission of defeat. ‘Have you got an attack alarm?’
‘Somewhere at home.’
‘Take mine.’ She goes into the kitchen and returns moments later with a small metal cylinder, the size of a small aerosol. ‘Unlock tab’s here, press the button here to deafen yourself and everyone else in a fifty-foot radius. Best held at arm’s length, next to his ear.’
‘Thanks, Tara.’
She drives me to my house on Claverton Gardens, pulling up in front of my Citroën. We both get out and she comes around to my side, gives me a hug.
‘Can I persuade you out of this?’
‘No.’
‘Then look after yourself. Stay in that park, don’t go off anywhere with him. Call me if you need anything.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I give her a smile.
‘Silly mare,’ she says. ‘You know what I mean.’
I pull away from the embrace.
‘I’ll text when I have news.’
It’s 10.35, so I still have a few minutes to play with. I go through the side gate and do a quick check on the back door that was repaired with sheets of plywood yesterday. Through the kitchen window I can see the mess of my house – waiting for a visit from police to dust for fingerprints – but the back door at least seems to be holding. By the time I come back around to the front of the house, Tara’s big Nissan people carrier is gone.
The mid-morning traffic is not too bad but I push it anyway, blowing through a couple of amber lights on the way to Rectory Park. At each junction stop I check my phone for more messages from the unrecognised number. But Max – or whoever it is – has gone quiet for now. I pull into the car park with a couple of minutes to spare, slamming my door shut and scanning the surroundings. The small car park is two-thirds empty. The park itself is a well-kept playing field the size of three or four football pitches. Beech trees lining two sides, a scattering of people, young parents out with pushchairs, older couples walking slow circuits. There is a chilly autumn wind in the air and I belt my raincoat and thrust my hands into the pockets, feeling the comforting smooth shape of Tara’s attack alarm in my right hand, mobile phone in my left.
I walk quickly towards the play area on the far side, a fenced in oval with slides, swings, roundabouts and sandpits, plus benches for weary adults. I feel exposed on the open ground. I suddenly wish I hadn’t persuaded Tara out of coming. But the message had been quite specific.
The playground is busy with people pushing preschool age children on swings, standing next to climbing frames, dusting off toddlers in the sandpit. I study each of them to see if anyone stands out, if any are flying solo without a child in tow. Maybe Mia is here too? But of course she’d be too young for this playground. I quicken my pace anyway, summoning a picture of Max from memory: mid-twenties, tall, muscular, short dark hair and a left arm full of tattoos.
My phone buzzes with a text. Tara.
You OK? What’s happening?
I type a quick reply as I walk, looking up every so often, keeping my eyes peeled for anyone who looks like Max.
Yes. Lots of people here. Can’t see him yet
I open a low gate to get into the playground, find an unoccupied bench and sit down. It’s one minute past eleven. I study each of the adults in turn again. Lots of mums, a few dads, some grandparents too, overseeing a couple of dozen small children. Maybe a hundred and fifty metres to the car park entrance, two smaller entrances off side roads to the left and right. A stand of trees to the left, next to a circuit of outdoor gym equipment: parallel bars, balance beams, monkey bars, all empty. I should be able to see Max coming from a long way off, but there’s no sign of him yet. At least this is a public place and there are witnesses here.
Time slows to a crawl. One of the young mums catches my eye and gives me a strange sideways look, as if to say what are you doing here, childless woman? I flash her a smile and pretend to be looking at my phone, checking the time again: 11.06 a.m.
Another text from the unrecognised number drops in.
Stand up so I can get a better look at you
I stand quickly, scanning the car park, the other entrances, the row of trees behind me. Studying the adults in the playground again. No sign of Max: he’s playing with me, observing me from a distance. Checking that I’m alone.
I text back.
I’m here. Where are you?
Three messages, seconds apart.
Hillingdon Road car park. 11.30
&nbs
p; Level 9
If you’re late, I’m gone
38
Patience is the hunter’s friend.
Because the true predator is set apart not by brutality or size, nor by stealth or agility or speed. Not even by cunning or appetite. It is patience that separates true-born hunters from all the rest. Not the killing blow but the stalking that precedes it, a willingness to wait for the perfect moment, to let the prey come closer. To do the work for him. It comes from confidence, from experience, from a supreme certainty in his own abilities. From the ability to predict how prey will behave, how a target will move and react in the field.
This is why he holds off, always keeping the prey in sight, always within reach. Savouring the anticipation.
He stalks. He follows. He watches and he waits. But not for much longer.
She is almost ready.
It is almost time.
39
Level nine of Hillingdon Road car park is the top floor, the roof, open to the sky. I speed all the way there, jumping a red light and overtaking against traffic, and by the time I swing the car past the white-painted LEVEL 9 on the concrete pillar I’m sweating. The dashboard clock says 11.32 a.m. Shit. Two minutes late.
The roof level is bright after the low-ceilinged concrete gloom of the lower floors and I squint as I drive out into the daylight. Like the floors below it, level nine is split into two halves, one lower and one higher, connected by a sloping ramp that leads to the highest point. In the centre of the level, there is a low circular brick structure, a door with signs to a stairwell and lift. There’s a low concrete barrier all the way around but it’s barely four feet tall, not enough to stop someone going over if they are determined to.
Or if they are pushed.
I drive slowly along the rows of vehicles, looking for a driver behind the wheel of one of them. Nothing. I follow the long curving ramp up to the higher level and go all the way to the end, checking cars left and right. But I seem to be alone up here. Ahead of me, the top level of the car park finishes in a dead end, a blank wall that marks the building’s highest point. I spin the steering wheel in a quick three-point turn and head back down the ramp to the nearest space, reversing in so I’m looking down the two rows of cars towards the exit.
Is he a no-show? Something must have spooked him, put him off. Or maybe he’s already left because I’m a couple of minutes late. But surely I would have seen his car on the way down? If he was even in a car. If he was even here at all.
Tara texts me again asking for a progress update but I ignore her message. I need to keep alert.
I decide to stay in my car until I know what’s going on. I hit the central locking, hearing the reassuring chunk of all the locks engaging. Leave the engine running in case I need to get out of here in a hurry. The dashboard clock clicks over to 11.34 and I type another text, holding the phone against the steering wheel.
I am here, Max. Where are you?
A full minute goes by without any response. I keep my eyes up in case he drives in.
Get out of your car and walk up the ramp to the highest level
Everything about this situation is bad. Absolutely everything: the height, the isolation from the street and the fact there’s only one way in and out for vehicles. The attack alarm, with its 120-decibel scream, is next to useless up here; its noise will simply be carried away on the wind and dispersed before it can reach anyone on the ground – even if they could get up here fast enough to do anything about it, which seems unlikely as we’re at least a hundred feet above street level. I’m fully aware of all these facts. And yet here I am. Mia is still in danger. I think of her in the café three days ago, eyes closing into a contented sleep in my arms, a tiny bubble of milk on her lips.
Move.
I kill the ignition, get out of the car and go to the boot. Under the carpet is the spare tyre and tools that go with it. I pick up the wrench, a foot-long steel tool angled at one end, and slip it under my coat. Grip it with my left hand through the pocket. Slamming the boot shut, I scan my immediate surroundings. This level is mostly full, maybe a hundred cars and only a few empty spaces. No people that I can see, no cars that I recognise. I force my legs to start walking slowly, cautiously, up the ramp. The wind whips at my hair, blowing it across my face, flattening my trousers against my legs. It’s stronger up here, on this concrete platform, a cold whistling slap that makes my eyes water. The sky is a mass of iron-grey clouds rolling low overhead.
At the top of the ramp I pause for a moment, tucking strands of hair behind my ear again. There is a tingling in my stomach, something like nausea, but I swallow it down and will myself to keep moving forward.
There is an empty space at the very end of the row. No car parked there. I circle to the other side of it, as far from it as I can get. The wind flattens my raincoat against my body, the ridged steel of the wrench outlined against the fabric. My heart is thudding painfully in my chest now. I keep walking towards the blank wall, towards the drop into the street far below, even though all my senses are screaming at me. Run. Go. Get back in your car and drive away. Now.
Somehow, I reach the end, leaning around to check the empty parking space. But there is no one there, just an eddy of litter spiralling in the wind, blowing round and round, up and over the parapet into empty air. The offices and shops and streets of Hillingdon spread out below me, railway lines cutting through the sprawl. Maybe this is another test to make sure I’m alone, Max observing me through telescopic sights. Maybe he’s gone already and I’m alone up here.
There is a tingling at the back of my neck, the fine hairs standing up. Movement behind me. A shift in the light, a figure rising, slipping between two parked cars. Emerging from behind a big SUV, moving out into the centre of the pitted concrete lane.
But it isn’t Max, or Kathryn.
It’s Dominic Church.
40
I’m trapped.
Behind me is a dead end, a low blank wall. Beyond it, a hundred-foot drop. In front of me is Dominic, standing between me and my car. He looks even worse than he did three days ago. He’s wearing the same black bomber jacket and blue jeans but there is a large plaster on the cheekbone below his right eye, the skin around it puffy and bruised. Big fists at his sides, the fingernails crusted with dirt. In my head I hear Gilbourne’s voice: convictions for assault, robbery, drugs.
Dominic’s lured me up here to throw me off the roof.
‘You,’ I say finally, taking out the wrench from under my coat and gripping it in my right hand. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
‘You going to hit me again?’ He walks slowly towards me. ‘Because I’ve had just about enough of being hit for one week.’
The gap between us is only five or six metres or so, close enough for him to reach me in a few strides. All the terror of the last time I saw him is flooding back – but at the same time I’m furious with myself because I should have guessed, should have known it was him. The anonymous contact, checking I wasn’t followed to the park, the isolation of this spot. It all fits with the way he behaved on Tuesday, the way he tore Kathryn’s bag apart, looking for tracking devices. Next-level paranoid.
I heft the wrench. ‘I will if you come any closer.’
‘Look, I just want to talk.’ He slows his pace. ‘How about you put that thing down?’
‘How about you back off? Why didn’t you tell me who you were?’ The wind is icy on my cheeks and threatens to carry my words away. ‘Why did you let me think you were Max?’
‘Would you have come if you thought it was me?’ He shakes his head. ‘Of course you wouldn’t.’
No, because you’re a violent kidnapper who threatened to kill me. But I don’t want to aggravate him any further. Neither of us speak again for a moment but he’s clearly agitated, on edge, and the wrong words could set him off.
‘Why did you say Mia is in danger?’ I say. ‘That I am in danger?’
‘Because it’s the truth.’
‘But Mia’s s
afe now, she’s with—’
‘She’s not safe. She’s in more danger now than ever, and there’s only one thing that will change that.’
‘What?’
‘If I tell you, you’re going to have to trust me first.’
‘After what you put me through?’
He stares, bright green eyes studying me, as if seeing me for the very first time. A gust of wind almost pushes me sideways but he is as steady as a rock, feet planted shoulder-width apart, black jacket flattened against the slab-like muscles of his shoulders and chest.
‘Kathryn made a good choice,’ he says, ‘when she picked you. The right choice. I understand that now.’ He nods. ‘She trusted you and now you’re going to have to trust me.’
Gilbourne’s words come back to me. Do not engage. Do not approach. Whatever you do, don’t trust either of them.
‘I can’t think of one reason why I should.’ I indicate the healing cut above my eye. ‘You kidnapped me, attacked me. Fifty-fifty you’ve been in my house too.’
He frowns. ‘Someone broke into your house?’
‘Twice.’
He shakes his head emphatically. ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘That’s exactly what the other guy said.’
‘I have no reason to lie.’
‘You have every reason to lie.’
‘What did they take?’ He takes another step towards me. ‘When they broke in, what was stolen?’
‘Stay back!’ I move away, backing into the low concrete wall. ‘I told you to stay back.’
‘You’ve got this all wrong, Ellen, you’ve got me wrong. I could have killed you three days ago, could have killed you and Mia both. There were a dozen opportunities to do it, but I didn’t. Ask yourself: why not?’