Every Breath You Take, page 16
‘Will they be safe with you?’ I try to laden my voice with suspicion. Let Eva be fearful as to whether her children will be at risk in their own home.
‘God, I hope so. Otherwise Riley will have to stay with Mum for a couple of days.’
Here we go again; even as an adult, Eva is still running to Mummy.
‘That might be a good idea,’ I suggest. ‘After all, you’re not in the best of head spaces, are you? And didn’t you say the kidnapper ordered you not to have the children at home? Look, I’ll have the kids again later in the week if you want, it’s just tonight I need to go out.’
‘Thank you, Stephen,’ Eva says. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
I suppress a chuckle. I know exactly what I’d do without Eva.
When I bought my semi-detached, it never crossed my mind that a basement might be useful for anything other than wine, suitcases and general detritus that I can’t be bothered to take to the tip or the second-hand shops. But how relieved I am to have it today.
Ian is comatose on the sofa, his jaw open and drool trickling down his chin. Somehow, I have to drag him across the living room, into the narrow hall and shove him down to the basement. I start by locking and bolting all the external doors and pulling the curtains downstairs. I can’t have any peeping toms peer in during this exercise. Then I pull him via his feet, tugging and wrenching him until he flops off the sofa, his head bouncing against the wooden floor with a sharp crack. He’s like a dead weight and it’s just as well that I’m fit, thanks in part to my cleaning job and also because I know how much Samuel likes a six-pack. I don’t have to drag Ian far, but honestly it feels like a marathon. I catch the side of his head on the doorframe as I tug him around the corner into the hall, leaving a smudge of blood on the skirting board. I’ll wipe it down with bleach later. Eventually, I position him at the top of the stone steps, and with all my might, push him. He tumbles down the stairs like a rag doll, landing in a heap of limbs at the bottom. If I’m lucky, the fall will have killed him. For now, he’s sufficiently drugged up to be out of it for hours. I switch the light off, close the door, lock it and shove the key into my jeans pocket.
At best, he’s dead. At worst, Ian is drugged and concussed, but either way I can’t have the children staying here any longer. The risk is too great that they might smell his rotting corpse or go snooping around the house, somehow finding the key and going down to the basement. Besides, having them here is limiting the time I can spend with Samuel, and he is the most important thing in my life. He is the reason for all of this.
And then I get nervous. What if the drugs haven’t done their thing, or if the fall actually woke Ian rather than hurt him? I stride back to the basement door, take the key out of my pocket and turn the handle. After turning the light on, I run down the stone steps. Ian is lying at the bottom, his limbs contorted at strange angles, his eyes shut. I lean over him, but I don’t touch him. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. And if he comes to, then I’ll kill him. A bash over the head with a hammer is all it’ll take.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE WIFE
It’s wonderful having Riley and Alfie back at home. They’ve only been gone for three nights but it’s seemed interminable. It’s not just Riley who appears different, they both seem as if they’ve been forced to grow up in the space of a few days.
We’re eating supper together when Alfie asks, ‘Is Dad dead?’
‘What!’ I exclaim. ‘Where have you got that idea from?’
He shrugs and drops his fork. ‘It’s just he’s never not contacted us. Why hasn’t he written or sent an email if he can’t get to the phone?’
I sigh loudly. ‘I’m not sure, darling. But no, Dad isn’t dead.’ I pray I’m right. ‘He’s gone away for a few weeks for a complete change of scene. Sometimes if grownups are completely exhausted, they need to do that, to step away from their lives. But he still loves you very, very much.’
Riley looks dubious and I don’t blame her. The only reassurances she has are from me and even to my ears, they sound pretty pathetic. And Autumn’s gossip has clearly increased her suspicion.
‘Why did we have to go and stay with Uncle Stephen?’ Alfie asks. ‘Is it because you don’t love us anymore?’
‘What!’ I exclaim. ‘Absolutely not. I love you with all my heart. You both are the most important people in my life, in Dad and my lives. Where did you get that crazy idea from?’
‘Harry said that people get sent away if their parents don’t love them any longer. It’s why kids get sent to boarding school,’ Alfie pronounces. Harry is a friend of his from school.
‘Well, Harry is speaking a complete load of nonsense,’ I exclaim. ‘My cousins went to boarding school because they lived far away from a decent local school. Their parents thought it would be good for them, having new experiences and a great education.’
‘I don’t want to go to boarding school,’ Alfie says.
‘I wouldn’t mind. If it’s like Harry Potter, I think it’d be cool.’ Riley toys with her lasagne.
‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, but you’re both going to Farlands. If, when you reach the sixth form, you want to go somewhere else, then we can discuss that when you’re older.’ Farlands is our local secondary school and it has an excellent reputation, with students getting outstanding results.
‘Autumn says you’re not well,’ Alfie mutters. ‘That’s why Riley hit her, isn’t it, Riley?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Riley mutters. She’s scraping her fork on the plate, and under normal circumstances I’d tell her off for making an unpleasant scratching sound. But today, I hold my tongue, desperate not to alienate the children or scare them in any way.
‘That’s not true. I’m perfectly well.’
‘I had a tummy ache at Uncle Stephen’s,’ Alfie says.
‘Not that sort of ill,’ Riley steamrollers over her brother, and all the while I’m feeling terrible for not knowing that Alfie had been under the weather. ‘Ill in the head. Autumn said you’re on the edge of a nervous breakdown.’
‘What’s a nervous breakdown?’ Alfie asks.
I lay my cutlery down on my plate. ‘First of all, there is absolutely nothing wrong with me. My head is perfectly okay.’
‘Except your haircut,’ Alfie says, tugging at the side of his lip.
I chuckle. ‘I agree that the haircut perhaps wasn’t such a good idea. But what Riley is suggesting is that my feelings are out of control, that I’m feeling sad all the time, or I’m really anxious and crying a lot.’
‘Have you been crying?’ Alfie peers at me with concern.
‘No, because I’m not sad. Well, I was when you weren’t here, because I missed you so much, and of course I miss Dad, but that’s just normal sadness. I’m not ill, in the head or body.’ What I am feeling is intense frustration. No, it’s more than that – anger – towards Kalah. How dare she discuss my situation in front of Autumn. Or, to give Kalah the benefit of the doubt, perhaps Autumn overheard her parents talking, but if so what the hell was Kalah really saying? I genuinely thought she was one of my closest friends but now I’m not sure that I can trust her. She and I are going to have to have a very difficult conversation.
We finish our meal, and rather than sending them up to their rooms to complete homework, I suggest that we find a film on Netflix to watch together. I know I’m overcompensating, that I shouldn’t be rewarding Riley for what happened with Autumn, but I can’t have the children worrying about me.
After the film, Alfie doesn’t want to go to sleep. ‘Can I sleep in your bed?’ he asks, for the first time in years.
‘Why, darling?’
‘I’m scared the burglar is going to come back.’
‘There was no burglar. Some naughty teenagers threw a stone up against the window.’ Yet another lie trips off my tongue. ‘No one has been back.’ At least that is the truth.
‘How do you know they won’t climb up a ladder and try to break into my bedroom window?’
‘Because what burglar would be stupid enough to do that when there are much easier windows to access? Besides, I’m putting the alarm on at night so if anyone breaks in, they’ll be scared off by the loud noise. I promise you, you don’t need to worry.’
‘Will you check on me in the night?’
I hug Alfie and stroke his back reassuringly. ‘Of course I will.’
I hate how much this situation is affecting the children.
I may not be having a breakdown, but all the lies and the uncertainty are both physically and emotionally demanding, so by 9.30 p.m. I switch on the burglar alarm and go to bed. I’m reading The Times on my iPad when my phone vibrates with an incoming message. My heart sinks as I reach for it. As I feared, it’s another Snapchat message.
I’ve heard about your broken engagement. Poor you. It must be so hard for you to be unable to keep a relationship going. Are you heartbroken? Have you really got anything left to live for? Perhaps it would be best if you kill yourself. Final item on the bucket list. Give your life for Samuel’s, and Riley and Alfie will be safe and happy for the rest of their lives.
I let the phone slip onto the duvet. Did I just read that correctly? The words, ‘kill yourself’ flicker and then disappear. My stomach roils and I have to breathe hard to halt the nausea. So this is what all the threats have been leading to. The kidnapper wants me to die in order to save Samuel. With trembling fingers, I type out a message.
Are you threatening my children?
I don’t get an answer.
I think back through the message. ‘I’ve heard about your broken engagement.’ But how? I haven’t posted anything on social media about Ian walking away. In fact I haven’t told anyone: not my friends, my family, literally no one. The only people who know about it are Ian and me. Unless of course Ian has told someone, perhaps inadvertently notifying the kidnapper? And then I wonder, is Ian the kidnapper? He knows a great deal about me, professionally and personally, and all those years ago, he intimated he loved me. But that was a lifetime ago. If he was holding Samuel, why go through the farce of the engagement? Why was he willing to let me tell people about it? He seemed so genuinely eager to help me. Or could the person who hacked into my social media a couple of weeks ago still have access to my email? But I changed my passwords, except I did give Ian access to everything. He has a clone of my phone, so if someone has access to his laptop, they would have my details too. On the other hand, Ian is a cyber security expert, so it’s very unlikely someone would hack him. I groan. I’m going around and around in circles, my mind a complete mess. And then, as I lean back against my pillow and squeeze my eyes shut, it hits me. Is Ian in danger? By involving him, have I inadvertently dragged him into my nightmare, putting him in as much risk as my family?
Despite the exhaustion, the night is long and torturous. I can’t settle, desperate to know who is threatening me. Who wants me to die? It’s beyond crazy to think I’m going to harm myself just because of a message. Yet, if it really came down to it, of course I would give up my life for my children’s. Even if he doesn’t want to talk to me, I need to talk to Ian.
The next morning, I call Ian’s mobile. It goes straight to voicemail. I call his work and I’m told he’s not available. I don’t know any of his colleagues, so I ask to speak to the head of human resources. The phone is answered by a brusque woman called Nicola Parsons.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. However, I’m calling about Ian Oakley. I’m an old friend and I’m concerned that something might have happened to him.’
‘Right,’ she says, hesitation in her voice.
‘He sent me an email which was very out of character and I haven’t been able to get hold of him. I was wondering whether anyone at work had seen him in the past couple of days?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss any of our employees.’
I sigh. ‘I realise that, and I’m not asking you to divulge anything to me. However, if he has gone AWOL from work, I urge you to contact the police. I’m worried for his safety.’
‘Could I take your details, please.’
‘Um, sure.’ And then I realise giving my name probably isn’t a very good idea. I hang up.
Now I’m terrified I’ve put everyone in danger. What about Stephen? Will they threaten him too? Does the kidnapper know that the kids are back at home with me? And what will they do next? I can hardly fake my own death. I realise that the time has come where I have no choice. I have to go to the police. But first I have to deal with the children.
I call Mum. ‘I have a bit of an emergency and was wondering if you could have Riley for the day?’
‘Riley? Isn’t she at school?’
I realise I’m going to have to tell her a version of the truth.
‘She got into trouble at school and has been suspended today, although I think she’s being made a scapegoat when it really wasn’t her fault. I have some important work meetings to attend.’
Mum harrumphs. ‘She takes after her uncle Stephen then.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I say, forever coming to Stephen’s defence. ‘Don’t you remember, it was me who got into trouble at school, not Stephen?’
My fear of water was so overwhelming after the accident, I point-blank refused to attend swimming lessons. When my teachers discovered I’d been forging sick notes, I got a detention. When I bunked off my lessons, hiding in a store cupboard, I was suspended. Eventually, someone – I’m not sure if it was Mum or an insightful teacher – realised I had developed a terror of the water, and I was sent to see a doctor. Although no one had the foresight to address my phobia, at least I was excused from swimming thereafter.
‘Is it okay if I drop her off after I’ve taken Alfie to school?’
‘Of course it is. I’ll bash some sense into her young head.’
That’s the last thing Riley or I need, and I debate telling Mum to back off, except I’m indebted to her for agreeing to look after my daughter at such short notice. And Mum is clever. If she gets wind that something is seriously wrong with my marriage, she’ll start digging. I shudder at the thought of Mum knowing what’s really going on. She’d likely hunt down our local chief inspector of police, march me into his office, and demand immediate action. No. It’s me who needs to take control of this situation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE WIFE
This time I drive straight to the police station, locking my car and striding across the road, not allowing myself any opportunity to doubt whether I’m doing the right thing. I walk in through the glass double doors and stride up to the counter, where two plain-clothed officers are seated behind plexiglass.
‘Good morning,’ the young male officer says.
I try – and fail – to smile. ‘Is it possible to speak to someone about my husband?’ I lower my voice and glance around me. ‘It’s about a kidnapping.’
The officer raises his eyebrows. ‘Please take a seat whilst I find someone to talk to you.’
The plastic chairs are uncomfortable, so I pace around the lobby, ignoring a woman who is clearly high on some drugs muttering to herself in the corner. Perhaps ten minutes later, a man appears from behind a door.
‘Mrs Simmons?’
I start at my name and stride towards him.
‘Good morning. I’m Detective Sergeant Will Nguyen. If you’d like to follow me.’ We walk along a wide corridor, our shoes vibrating on the vinyl floor, passing various closed doors on both sides, all with blue-painted door frames. There are cameras in the corners of the corridor and an institutional smell that makes my stomach curdle. He opens the door to a small room.
‘Please have a seat.’ He gestures to a blue plastic chair on the far side of a fake-wood-topped table. He sits on the other side, adjacent to a computer screen that is attached to the wall. There are no windows, and the bright florescent ceiling light makes me blink. He’s holding a large pad of paper which he places on the table, and removes a biro from his pocket.
‘How can I help you, Mrs Simmons?’
‘I reported my husband missing a couple of weeks ago, but then I received an email saying he’d gone off with another woman. Shortly thereafter, I was contacted by someone who demanded that I fulfil actions on a bucket list, otherwise my husband would be killed. This kidnapper forbade me from contacting the police, threatening to hurt my children and my husband. They’ve been clever and have sent me messages via Snapchat, which means I’ve got very little evidence as to what has been happening.’
‘Right. So are you saying your husband is being held against his will?’
‘I believe so. At first I thought he’d left me, but now I’m convinced that someone is taunting me, playing with me, and that Samuel is in serious danger. They sent me photos of him with a knife to his neck, blood on his face, and now they’ve said that I need to kill myself otherwise Samuel and our children might be harmed. I’m terrified they’ll know that I’ve come to you, especially as they said Samuel would be hurt if I tell the police, but this has got completely out of control and I don’t know what else to do.’
‘Can you show me details of these bucket list demands?’
I open Snapchat and navigate to the dialogue with user ISEEU975783. As all the messages have been deleted there’s nothing to see. ‘I managed to record the person talking using another phone, but I couldn’t take screenshots or record via Snapchat because the other person was notified when I was doing that.’ I play the only message that I managed to record:
‘Riley and Alfie need to go and live elsewhere. Organise that today. I don’t want to see you with them.’
Detective Sergeant Will Nguyen leans back in his chair. It squeaks. ‘This sounds rather like a disgruntled husband.’
‘This isn’t Samuel,’ I say. Samuel would never be that cruel.
