LITMIR.BIZ

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piece of the puzzle. It’ll answer a few of his questions, inform him about the situation he’s in, clear some things up.

       But it won’t help. Soon he will realize that for every question answered, more have been asked.

       But first, the phone needs to be thrown away. The Bridgewater canal – oldest in the country, apparently – will be a fine place for it. No problem to pull over his dirty Land Rover Discovery and get out. The kids are unconscious. Hopefully the dose was correct. Not too strong. Not yet.

       Pull the phone battery out, then two splashes as the phone and battery drop into the dark, oily water.

       A new phone, booted up.

       Type in his number – memorized, of course – and send the message.

       Four words.

       Four shocking words.

       Watch sixty seconds tick by. One turn of the dial for the second hand. Analogue. No Apple Watch or Fitbit. Those things are a pain. Constantly buzzing and beeping. Measuring where you are and reporting it to some server. No, I don’t want that.

       Then the rest of the messages, followed by two more splashes.

       Better safe than sorry.

       Words Matt Westbrook should have paid more attention to.

       Matt

      Matt looked down at his phone and read the text message.

      It was just four words.

      Four shocking words.

      This is a kidnapping.

      He stared at the screen and read them again.

      This is a kidnapping.

      He slumped on the bench. His legs were shaking. Norman, Keith and Molly, the three people at the centre of his life, the three people he and Annabelle had built everything around, had been kidnapped.

      He was sure, in that moment, that he’d never see them again. Something would go wrong and they would be gone forever.

      He started to shake with sobs. They were his life now, for sure, but they were also his future. They were supposed to go to high school then university, to fall in love and get married, to have children. Or do something else. Become astronauts. Cure cancer. Form a rock band. Whatever. It didn’t matter.

      As long as they were there, in his and Annabelle’s lives.

      His phone buzzed again, and he turned to look at it. There was another message.

      The ransom demand will follow.

      Ransom? They were being held for ransom?

      What did he have that anybody could possibly want? Money? He and Annabelle were comfortable but they were hardly in a position to pay millions, which was presumably what this person wanted. They wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble unless they thought there was a large payoff at the end of it all.

      If so, they were mistaken. He earned a reasonable salary from his law firm, and Annabelle made a steady income as a writer. She had published four novels, but none of them had earned anything like the kind of money that would make this worthwhile.

      So he and Annabelle would not be able to pay. The kidnapper was going to ask for millions, in the mistaken belief their victims had it, and when he said he didn’t have the money they would think he was lying, and hurt his children.

      ‘Oh God,’ he said, clutching his forehead. ‘Oh God, please.’

      ‘Are you OK?’

      An elderly woman with a wheeled shopping bag, like the one his mum had had when he was a child, stood in the bus shelter.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean, yes, I’m fine.’

      ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let me know if—’

      Another buzz, another message:

      Remember. Do not contact the police under any circumstances. I will know immediately if you do and you will never see your children again.

      He let out a wail of terror. The elderly woman studied him.

      ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asked. ‘Can I help? I could call someone?’

      He stood up. His house was on the other side of the village, about half a mile away.

      ‘I have to get home,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’

      And then he started running.

       Annabelle

      1

      Annabelle Westbrook sat on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, and sipped her tea. It was lemon and ginger, and even though she knew it made no difference she felt like it helped with her cold. If it was a cold. There was some new virus going about and she had been lethargic and achy and running a fever, so there was every chance it was that. Either way, it had been a rough few days, but she was feeling better.

      And she was starting to feel hungry. When Matt got back she would make something to eat. Maybe cheese on toast, with a splash of Worcestershire sauce on the top. When she and her brother, Mike, were kids that had been their dad’s Sunday speciality; she associated it with memories of sitting around the kitchen table on Sunday evenings, their dad drinking a big mug of tea as they ate his cheese on toast. He was a creative and adventurous cook – after their mum had died he had had to learn, and he had turned out to be pretty good – and during the week he made tagines and curries and a fantastic lasagne and moussaka and whatever else he dreamed up when he came back from the school where he taught physics. It meant they ate late – at around 7 p.m. – but that was fine by her. She loved ending the day around the table with her dad and brother.

      You have to eat together, her dad said. Every day if you can.

      Sundays, though, were not for cooking. They were for spending together, as a family of three, small and tight and independent. They went for hikes and to football matches and on canoe trips and swimming in lakes and rivers and whatever else they felt like.

      And then on Sunday evenings, all time for cooking consumed, it was cheese on toast, and it was her favourite meal of the week.

      She felt ready for some this evening, thank God. It might perk her up enough to try for the baby Matt had persuaded her was a good idea.

      She smiled at the thought. It was so sweet how much he loved being a father. It was clear he would have as many as she would allow, but four – if it happened – would be the limit.

      Her phone started to ring. She had left it in the kitchen; it could wait. She cradled her tea and sank into the sofa.

      A few seconds later it rang again. She closed her eyes and let it ring out.

      It rang again. Whoever it was, was really trying. It could be her dad; there might be a problem. She put her mug on the carpet and walked into the kitchen.

      She felt a jolt of concern when she looked at the screen. It was Matt.

      ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You need me?’

      ‘Annabelle,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you answer?’

      He sounded alarmed and her concern grew.

      ‘I was in the living room. My phone was in the kitchen.’

      ‘Good.’ He was panting, his breath short. ‘Is everything OK?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

      There was more heavy breathing. ‘I’m on my way home.’

      She

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