No Way Out (2 page)

Tom’s smile spreads slowly. He stares at her, then me. ‘Spunky.’ He nods approvingly, looking her up and down. ‘But it’s not that easy, sweetheart.’

‘But it
is
,’ Ellie says undefeated. ‘He’ll give you anything. Probably even our house.’ Then she pulls a face, wondering if that is actually true.

I remember when you showed me the brochure for Drayton Heights, took me for a viewing. Well, it wasn’t really a viewing, was it? More of a presentation. You’d already bought it. Told us that’s where we’d be living from now on since I’d fallen pregnant after one of our lunchtime trysts. I remember waddling around the place, Ellie knuckling through my taut belly as I tested out the echo in each cavernous, empty room, comparing it to that of my wonky-floored flat in Hoxton. It was all my secretary’s salary could afford, especially when the pay-rise you’d promised me two years before never materialised. I’d squealed out high-pitched notes as I’d walked round the empty property, the tiled floors vibrating back the loneliness of the place. The dozens of rugs I later ordered helped dull the stark acoustics after we’d moved in. They didn’t dull my isolation.

‘This will make a perfect nursery.’ I’d gone into a little room off the master bedroom.

‘Nonsense,’ you’d said. ‘How do you expect me to sleep with a baby screaming right next door?’

We left shortly after, cruising down the long drive that kept Drayton Heights separate from the rest of the world, yet still within commuter distance for you. The mainline station wasn’t far and besides, you said, you’d be working from home a lot more. You never did.

The next time I went back to Drayton Heights was with Eleanor in my arms. You’d had us moved in while I was in hospital. It didn’t feel like home.

‘Your dad,’ Tom says, grinning at Ellie. He rubs his chin. ‘What’s his favourite thing?’

‘Stop it,’ I say sternly, trying to take control. It earns me a sharp look, but it’s not fair to pick on her. I’m sure I can talk us out of this.

‘His cars,’ Ellie says tentatively, as if confessing her father’s loves will get us home. ‘He loves them more than anything.’ She’s shaking and her neck is stringy and tense. ‘And he likes…’ Ellie hesitates, her eyes filling with tears. I could tell Tom a hobby or two of yours, but I don’t.

‘And would Daddy be upset to know his precious little girl was holed-up in a place like this?’ Tom sweeps an arm around the room, clattering a tin from the table. It rolls to my foot, dented.

Ellie nods. She draws close to me again, so I wrap my arm around her waist. Her shivers transfer through to me.

‘Speak up!’

‘He … he wouldn’t like it,’ she says.

‘He’d better do as he’s told then, eh?’ Tom pulls out a phone, moving to the window. He holds it in a certain position and nods, tapping out a text. ‘If he wants to see either of you again, that is.’

Ellie nods frantically. I close my eyes, drop my head, pressing myself against my daughter. Wishing I could take time back.

*

Marcus Barnard was annoyed that no one was home. Especially now that plans had changed, leaving him no other option but to spend time with his family. Larry had bailed on golf, and Molly, Larry’s wife, had said she was busy, even after Marcus told her he’d got their favourite room at The Manse, the new country hotel a couple of villages away. They wouldn’t be able to use it forever, of course, not once their faces got known. But for now, they held onto some anonymity, could spend an afternoon, maybe a night there together if Molly could get away.

As he went from room to room, calling out for Lisa, he wondered if she knew how frigid she’d become recently. How she turned him off, rather than on, these days with her dull blonde hair, her short nails and that crooked tooth she refused to get fixed.

‘Li
sa
!’ Marcus called out, slamming the utility room door back against the wall as he went through to the garage. Her car was gone. ‘Damn you,’ he said, going back into the thick warmth of the house.

Upstairs, he went straight into his daughter’s room without knocking. She’d had this room since she was a baby, and he loved coming in here. It was a sanctuary for him – time for father and daughter to catch up; their private time, he called it. He never needed to knock, and the lock on the outside of the door was from long ago. He rarely needed to use it now. In fact, since she’d hit her teens, the lock on the inside had proved far more useful.

‘Eleanor?’ he called, pushing through into her bathroom, half expecting to see her in the shower. She wasn’t there.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a large glass of red wine. Bertie thumped his tail against the wall, letting out one begging bark. ‘Hasn’t she bloody well fed you?’ Marcus chucked handfuls of dog biscuits into a bowl, but the Lab just stood there looking at him. His tail stopped wagging.

‘What are you staring at?’ Marcus said, suddenly feeling self-conscious in his own house. He pulled back his foot to give the dog a nudge, but the animal ran off. Lisa hadn’t trained him well.

Sitting in his favourite chair in the library, Marcus took out his phone. He speed-dialled Lisa’s number, but it went to voicemail. Then he tried Eleanor’s, but the same thing happened. It wasn’t like them not to be at home, and Lisa knew how he occasionally liked to spend Saturday night in their company. What was she playing at? If they’d had a last minute invite, she should have run it by him first. He was too tired to go out. He wondered if it was a family gathering, not that there were many of those these days, or perhaps some other event he’d forgotten about. Either way, he was annoyed she hadn’t told him.

Sighing, he logged into the tracking app he’d put on each of their phones. Location not found was the message for both.

Marcus reached for the remote control and jabbed a button. The wooden panel above the mahogany partners’ desk drew up, retreating cleverly into a slot below the ceiling. A large television screen was exposed, and he flicked it on to the sports’ channel. His phone beeped on the table beside him.

‘About time,’ he said, hating that she’d texted instead of calling, despite him telling her a thousand times he preferred to speak. She clearly had something to hide. But the text was from a number he didn’t recognise.

I have your wife and daughter
.

Marcus sat upright in the reclining leather chair.

‘What the …?’ He stared at the handset, standing up, thinking that would somehow help. ‘What the fuck? Who
is
this?’

Immediately, he rang the number. No one answered.

Who are you? What do you mean?
he texted back. He didn’t have time for this. He’d been planning on relaxing tonight, enjoying the meal that Lisa should have prepared. If she were here.

Nothing came back from the number for half an hour. He’d polished off half a bottle of wine by then, and it had grown dark outside. Rain sheeted against the kitchen window. Several times he’d looked at the text, but it didn’t make any sense. People were idiots, not leaving a name. How was he supposed to know who it was? No doubt Lisa’s and Eleanor’s phones had run out of power, and whoever they were with had done a bad job of passing on a message. It was unhelpful to say the least.

Bertie lay on the cold tiles, letting out several empty-bellied growls. Marcus ushered him through to the utility room and shut the door. He had a bed and water, and besides, he smelt bad today. Lisa obviously hadn’t taken him to the grooming parlour this week.

Back in the library, with a new bottle of wine on the table beside him, he swiped open his phone.

Do as I say if you ever want to see them again
.

Shit.

Marcus sat up, went rigid as if the act of being concerned would help. He stared at the words, bringing the glass to his mouth and drawing in a long slug of Cabernet. It left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.

Was this serious? He had no idea. And he had no idea what he was supposed to do, either. He thought about calling the police, but decided against it for now.

Marcus strode over to the window. He stared down the long drive of Drayton Heights. He loved this view, and it was partly this that had sold him the place. That and its remoteness. He half expected the lights of Lisa’s Range Rover to appear between the electric gates a quarter of a mile away. Right now the blue glare of the xenons creeping up the track would be a welcome sight. If she appeared now, he’d still just be able to forgive her this disruption of his Saturday night.

What was wrong with bloody women today? Molly cancelling on him at the last minute, and now Lisa disappearing without a thought. He was tempted to fuck them all and take the room at The Manse anyway. He’d find someone to join him.

His phone vibrated on the table beside his armchair again. Marcus lunged for it.

Smash your car windscreens
.

‘What the hell …?’

He grabbed another remote control from his desk and rammed his face up close to the glass, squinting down the drive. A couple of jabs on the controller and the entire front of Drayton Heights lit up like New York at Christmas. The long length of the drive was illuminated with tall lamps ten feet apart, each one flicking on in turn like runway lights. It cast strange, unfamiliar shadows around the library, making him jump. For a second, he thought there was someone else there.

‘Smash my sodding windscreens?’ he said incredulously. It must be kids having a laugh.

No
he texted back, gripping the phone angrily.

But it crossed with another coming in.
Both cars. Now. Send pics
.

No!
he texted again.

Fifteen minutes. Or you get a pic of your daughter’s finger. Not on her hand
.

‘Jesus sodding Christ,’ Marcus said, enraged by the intrusion. He tugged at his thinning hair. Was this real? He had no idea.
Who are you?
he texted back.

No reply. He glanced at his watch, checked it against the time of the last text. If this was for real, he’d already wasted four minutes.

‘Shit, shit, shit…’

Perhaps he should call the police, after all. But no, best not to be hasty, he thought, although he would pretend to this idiot that he had. Besides, there was always Roy, an ex-detective he knew from the golf club. He’d know what to do.

Police on way. Let them go
.

No police. Nine minutes
.

Marcus growled and yelled, thumping his hand against the door as he headed for the utility room. There was a toolkit in there, wasn’t there? Bertie’s wagging tail lashed against his leg as he rummaged in the cupboard for a hammer. He kicked him in the ribs, and the dog yelped, scrabbling through to the kitchen with clicking claws. Marcus stopped, hammer in hand. He was about to go through to the garage.

Prove you have them
, he texted, and two minutes later a picture came back with the words
Five minutes
. Lisa and Eleanor were huddled together, their faces pale and terrified. Someone out of shot was gripping Eleanor’s hand, thrusting up her bulging red forefinger.

Marcus dropped his head, then threw it back. A deep wail came from inside his chest, burning up his throat.

‘You
bastard
!’ he shouted, taking the hammer through to the four-bay garage. This couldn’t be happening. What had he done to deserve this? If it turned out to be some joke, he’d kill whoever it was. But he couldn’t risk it, and didn’t stop to admire the sleek lines of the Mercedes; didn’t think twice about bringing the hammer down hard into the centre of the windscreen. It barely shattered. Just a small flower of crazed glass where the flat disc of metal had made contact. He hit it again, and again … over and over until the cracks spread and filled the entire screen.

Reluctantly, he photographed it before moving on to his other car. The Aston Martin. He reckoned he could claim on the insurance for one smashed screen, but two? He sighed, checking his watch and the messages on his phone again. He rang the number again, hoping whoever it was had the guts to pick up. They didn’t.

Marcus raised his hand holding the phone, red with rage, as if to hurl it across the garage. But he checked himself just in time.

Two and a half minutes
, came the text a few seconds later.

Marcus touched the wing of the Aston. He’d had it valeted earlier in the week, all ready to pick up Molly in that night. And what had been her excuse? Some fucking fundraising dinner with Larry. He raised the hammer above the DB9’s windscreen.

He couldn’t do it. Not the bloody Aston.

The police are coming
, he texted back, and slumped down on the brick step that led back through to the house. He cradled his head in his hands, knowing it was all likely to be a hoax.

*

Tom drops down into a wooden chair beside the fire, chucking on another log. Sparks rain upwards, and a puff of black smoke floods the room.

‘Are you left- or right-handed?’ Tom says, crouching down next to Ellie.

‘Right,’ she whispers, lying.

Tom takes hold of her right hand and brings it to his mouth. Plump, youthful lips press down on her forefinger, bringing it inside his mouth. I swipe him round the head.

‘Get
off
her!’

He shoves me back down onto the sofa.

Tom checks his phone before retreating to his chair beside the fire. He shakes his head. ‘Naughty Daddy,’ he says. ‘Not sending any pictures.’

‘What fucking pictures?’

‘Do you play the piano?’ he asks Ellie, ignoring me.

She nods nervously. You insisted she have both piano and drama lessons from the age of five, insisting they would come in useful. Just like you insisted on sending her to that private school. ‘She needs a well-rounded education,’ you’d said. ‘And to mix with the right people.’ I could tell you were disappointed that she wasn’t turning into a child prodigy, but I’d gone along with it like I always did. Anything to keep the peace.

‘Bet you hate practising, right?’ Tom suggests.

‘Yeah,’ Ellie says, with a barely-perceptible laugh. She looks down, her eyelashes curling almost up to her brows.