HERE ONE MINUTE

Alex Lake

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Copyright © Alex Lake 2024

Cover design by Claire Ward/HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Cover photograph © Magdalena Russocka/Trevillion Images

Alex Lake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008532062

eBook Edition © October 2024 ISBN: 9780008532086

Version: 2024-08-20

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Part One

Another Goodbye

Flying Solo

Many a Slip

Four Months Earlier: Gone for Good

Lightning Never Strikes Twice

So Simple

This Is Impossible

Date Night

Not a Good Day

Four Months Earlier: Died by Drowning

Three Times?

Part Two

They Will Never Learn

Pandemonium

Smoke and Mirrors

A Sighting

DI Wynne, Again

Something About Oakley

Saturday Night’s Hardly Alright

At Last, a Lead

No Sign of Him

An Unwelcome Return

In the Dark

Stockton Heath, Again

My Home, My Castle

Mirror, Mirror

Three Blind Mice

Part Three

The Boy

Eighteen Months Earlier, in Norway: An Unwitting Courier

A Midnight Memory

Justice?

The Free Press

Eighteen Months Earlier, Oxford: All the Way from San Francisco

Time Together

One a Day

The Perfect Hiding Place

From the Heavens

Zeroing In

The Comfort of Friends

Rodents Are a Man’s Best Friend

Mis-stepping

Closing the Loop

Closer, Ever Closer

The Moment of Truth

Leafy Cheshire

Things Are Rarely What They Seem

Awakening

Hale

Part Four

News, Finally

The Search is On

Small Victories Are All There Is

Eighteen Months Earlier: Epistles

Wheelchair Access

Seventeen Months Earlier: Face the Facts

In Plain Sight

Seventeen Months Earlier: Not Many Memories, Yet

Waterways

Seventeen Months Earlier: Ill-Gotten Gains

Edna, Again and Always

Canal Cruising

Fourteen Months Earlier: A Grandmother’s Attention

A Mother’s Love

Eight Months Earlier: Morgan Silver Dollars

Believed Deceased

Four Months Earlier: Dying to Meet You

Canal Calls

Part Five

Next Steps

The Best News

Two Days Earlier: The Time Has Come

No Room for Error Now

The Cheshire Ring

A Rural Idyll

A Widening Circle

Final Moments

A Numbers Game

A Knife Fight

Greenie on the Beat

Look Into Your Soul and See Who You Are

The Power of None

Weakness Is Strength

On a Rural Beat

It’s Over

Back in the Pub

San Francisco

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Alex Lake

About the Publisher

Prologue

It was easier than you’d expected. No one paused to stare, no one sounded the alarm, no one said anything to the people in uniforms to bring their attention to what was taking place right in front of them. There were many people present, but there were no witnesses. It went off flawlessly.

And so now it has started.

Restarted, that is.

They thought it was all over.

They thought it was history. Gone forever. Fixed. Unchangeable.

They thought all was now safe, the bad things in the past.

But they were wrong. They were not even close. The enemy may have been vanquished, the battle may have been won, but the war: the war was far from over. The peace – their peace – was an illusion. A comforting story they told themselves so they could sleep at night.

And a necessary story, for if they did not believe it was over how could they get on with their lives? If they knew what they were really up against, if they understood the obsession and madness and ruthless determination they faced, they would not be able to find any peace. They would lie awake all night every night, wondering when the final blow would come.

But you do know. You know exactly what they are up against. You know this is not finished, and you know what it will take to emerge the victor, and you know they cannot compete. They do not have what it takes.

But you do. You have what it takes and – finally – you have a plan. A plan to end this once and for all. A plan which is now in motion.

And that feels good. It has been too long, the waiting has been gnawing at you, wearing you down. You are glad the time has come.

It will be awful for them when they learn their peace was never real. In a way you feel bad for them. In a way you pity them for what they are going to go through. Because it will be mind-bendingly awful. Shattering. Gut-wrenching. They will sink into a witch’s brew of worry and fear, consumed by agony and desperation, will lie awake at night, sleep and anything resembling contentment a distant memory and an even more distant prospect.

They will torture themselves with questions. How has this happened? Where is my daughter? Will this ever end?

Worst of all will be the self-loathing and self-blame: How did we let this happen again?

But you do not quite pity them. There is no space for that. This is for the best. This is for the good of everyone. It is necessary: it has to happen. If it does not, there will never be an end.

And all things come to an end, eventually.

PART ONE

Another Goodbye

i

‘You have your boarding pass?’

Julia Miller’s daughter, Anna, rolled her eyes. It was a familiar gesture; Julia was the recipient of it more and more these days, whenever she asked what, to her, were quite reasonable enquiries. Have you done your homework? Eye roll and a nod. Should you be wearing a skirt that length to school? Eye roll and a sigh. Would it be possible for you to help empty the dishwasher? Eye roll and a grunt.

‘So you have it?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ Anna said. ‘It’s on my phone.’

‘I prefer a paper copy.’

This new eye roll was accompanied by a theatrical sigh. ‘It’s fine. It’s in my wallet.’

‘Your phone wallet?’

‘Yes, my phone wallet.’ Her tone was that of an exasperated teacher explaining something simple to a particularly slow-witted pupil.

‘You could run out of battery.’

Anna held up her phone. ‘It’s at ninety-seven per cent, Mum. I don’t think it’s going to run out. And if for some strange reason it does, I can charge it. So stop worrying, OK?’

That was precisely the problem. She couldn’t stop worrying. Constant worry: it was the curse of parenthood. You were given this incredible gift of a child, a human being you had carried in your body for nine months and then brought into existence in the most painful, yet beautiful, way, an experience after which you finally understood what it was to truly love another person. From the first instant you saw the baby, inhaled that unmistakable new baby smell, heard the soft mewling, brushed your cheek against the velvet skin; from that moment you were in love. And then, almost immediately, the worry started.

And it went beyond worry. It was all-consuming. The arrival of her first – and to date, only – child had changed her entire worldview. It wasn’t only her – the women and men she met at playgroups and play dates felt the same. Until that first child you were, however much you cared for the other people in your life, essentially focused on yourself. Decisions were easy: what do I want to do? What will make me happy? Of course, others came into it, but only as a factor to be considered; ultimately it was about you.

Not when you held that helpless baby in your arms. Then it became all about them. If they were unhappy, you were, too, whatever the cause. Illness, a toxic friendship, a failed exam at school: it made no difference. What was the saying? You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child?

Well, she only had one, but she could fully understand the truth of that. And even when they were happy there was the worry something might go wrong. It had come as new to Julia; she had always been carefree, rarely bothering much about what might happen. Being miserable with worry was pointless; nothing had happened yet, and you couldn’t stop it anyway. Thinking through all the things that could happen and figuring out what you would do if they did was a waste of time: you couldn’t have a plan for everything.

The key, her dad had said once, isn’t having plans. It’s having skills. Make sure you have the tools and ability, and you’ll soon figure out how to handle whatever comes your way. He’d winked and ruffled her hair. And if that doesn’t work, just come and ask your old man and I’ll sort it out.

She had taken that on board, and if she did feel herself start to worry she remembered what he had said. Mostly, it worked. And then she became a parent.

At which point she had discovered that she was worried about everything. A small cough when Anna was an infant? Surely nothing to cause concern, but what if it was something serious?

Better take her to the doctor.

Water temperature in the bath a bit hot? There were no obvious signs of damage – no scalded or blistered skin, or even mild redness, but what about Anna’s internal temperature? Could she have damaged her in some way?

Better call a friend. Get reassurance.

An electronic boarding pass? What if the phone died, and there was no charging outlet? Or something else went wrong?

Well, what, exactly? Anna would miss her flight, call her mum, and Julia would have to come and pick her up from the airport.

Hardly the end of the world, but when worrying was ever-present it was hard to stop.

‘OK,’ Julia said. ‘I’ll try. But mums worry, you know.’

‘Yeah. I noticed.’

‘Especially when they’re putting their beloved daughter on a flight.’

‘It’s only to Manchester.’

‘You’re only fifteen. I preferred it when you were accompanied by someone from the airline.’

‘Mum. I can get on a plane on my own. And airports are the safest places anywhere. Think about it. There’s so much security.’

Julia raised her hands, palms up, and shrugged. ‘I know. But I can’t help it.’

‘Then maybe you shouldn’t be putting me on a plane. I could have taken a train.’

‘I’m not sure that’s safer than flying,’ Julia said.

‘It’s greener.’

‘Let’s not go through that again,’ Julia said. In the run-up to her flight, Anna had explained at great length why a train was the better option, the only responsible option in fact, given the climate emergency and relative carbon footprints of train and air travel.

Julia had no idea whether her daughter was correct, but she did know it was more convenient and cheaper to fly. They were going to be in London for the weekend and would be passing Heathrow on their way back to Oxford, and the plane tickets were – bizarrely – half the price of their rail equivalent.

‘I mean, I might as well go and shoot a polar bear. Flying is the same thing.’

‘It’s not quite the same thing,’ Julia said. ‘I get your point, but if we’re being accurate, you taking a short flight on a plane – which is in any case going to Manchester – instead of going by train, is not exactly the same as walking up to a polar bear and shooting it in cold blood.’

‘I didn’t say it was. I said I might as well shoot a polar bear.’

‘That was the point you were making, though, wasn’t it?’

‘God, you’re such a lawyer,’ Anna said, injecting the word lawyer with the kind of disgust you might associate with describing someone as a Nazi, or some other particularly murderous character. ‘Most normal people’ – Julia deduced that lawyers were not ‘normal’ in her daughter’s eyes – ‘just say things. You always have to say exactly what you mean.’

Julia was about to point out that was generally considered to be a virtue, but she held back. She did not want this to spiral – and it very well could – into a public shouting match.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m a pain.’ She stood up. ‘Do I still get a goodbye hug?’

Anna rolled her eyes again. If you could strain your eye-rolling muscles through overuse, Julia thought, there was a good chance she’d soon be suffering from that injury.

Anna stood up and held out her arms. Julia embraced her, and was glad – no, delighted – to feel her daughter squeeze her tight.

‘Love you, Mum,’ she said, all the exasperation gone from her voice, replaced by a quiet tenderness. It was how she had sounded as a little girl.

‘I love you too,’ Julia replied.

Anna let go, then picked up her bag – a shocking pink rucksack she had dyed herself – and walked towards the security line. As she reached it, she turned, caught Julia’s eye and gave her mum a wave goodbye.

ii

It was always disorientating to watch Anna leave to go and stay with her father. Julia said goodbye to her every day, in one way or another; as she left for school, or to walk to a friend’s house, or to take the bus from Jericho, the area of Oxford where they lived, into the town centre, but those felt normal, part of the routine. Part of their life.

Saying goodbye when she left to go to her dad’s was different. Julia felt dislocated, thrown out of their pattern. It was as though Anna was going to another world, a parallel life, that, if things hadn’t gone so spectacularly wrong, they both could have been living.

It was exacerbated by the fact that Brian, her dad, still lived in the house that he and Julia had shared, the house Julia had left for good when Anna was five. It might have been different if Brian had moved somewhere new, to Cornwall or Newcastle or Edinburgh. Then Julia would have felt like Anna was simply going to her dad’s place.

Instead, she felt like Anna was, in some way, going to her true home, and that brought back a lot of memories that Julia would have preferred to leave undisturbed. There were plenty of them, the relatively routine ones associated with a messy divorce and then all the others, the ones which were not at all routine, and by which the therapist had seemed almost as disturbed as Julia was. It had taken a long time, but eventually she had come to some kind of terms with the things that had happened, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t happened.

It meant she had ways of dealing with the scars they left her with, so being reminded of them was unsettling.

She watched Anna until she could no longer see her, then headed out of the terminal. The drop-off zone was a scrum, cars wedged into tight spots, people rushing to grab cases and bags while other cars sounded their horns. What did they think it achieved? Made other people aware they were there? Hurried them up? There was no point. Everyone was already hyper-aware that they needed to move as quickly as they could, even people for whom that was a challenge.

Like the elderly woman being helped out of a taxi and into her wheelchair. She clearly needed significant assistance, and it was a slow process. Behind her the driver of a dark blue Range Rover beeped his horn. He banged it two, then three times, each time longer than the last. Julia was about to go and say something to him when the taxi driver succeeded in manoeuvring the woman into the wheelchair and onto the pavement. He climbed back into his taxi, and pulled out.

The woman did not head for the terminal. Instead, she turned her wheelchair so that it was facing the Range Rover, and, as it pulled into the space beside her she raised her hand, one bony middle finger lifted in a glorious and extremely rude salute.

Julia laughed, and walked to the parking garage, still cheered by the sight of the elderly woman giving the Range Rover driver the finger. There wasn’t much he could do – he could hardly get out and berate an old woman in a wheelchair. Good for her. The world needed more of that kind of attitude.

She put her parking ticket in the machine and did a double take. Her good mood evaporated. It was nearly thirteen pounds for the fifty minutes she’d been there. It was ridiculous. Yes, she could afford it – it wasn’t like she had a choice between parking or food, although some did face that kind of choice, these days – but why was it so much? Why not a pound? Or free, even? People needed to park for a few minutes, maybe have a coffee with a loved one before they went away for a few weeks – or a few years – and there was something unpleasant about exploiting that for a bit more profit. It was uncivilized, but sadly a sign of the times.

And, of course, people rebelled. They found ways not to park; instead they decided to forego their goodbye and drop their passengers off in a small and inadequate and over-crowded drop-off zone, beeping at old women in wheelchairs in the process, and creating a stressful and unwelcoming situation. Everyone left upset, but then who cared if people left with a sour taste in their mouths because they’d been unnecessarily screwed out of a loving goodbye? Who cared if a tender family moment was rushed and ruined? Those things didn’t show up on the spreadsheets tallying up the parking fees.

Somewhere, someone was really proud of the year-on-year growth in parking revenue at Heathrow. In the meantime, millions of people were that little bit less happy and fulfilled.

Julia took a deep breath. There was no point getting upset. Just pay the fee and forget about it. But that was exactly what they counted on you doing. The whole idea was that you’d let them extract some money from you, and then you’d move on. It was only a small thing, but the small things added up and left you increasingly disillusioned with the world you lived in.

The good news, she told herself, was that she had a date tonight. Too often when Anna left for the weekend she was alone. No work, friends consumed by their own families, empty hours stretching out ahead of her. When Anna was younger, she would have done almost anything for a weekend alone, but now – now she had nothing to do. Visiting a museum or working out or reading that book on your list all sounded great. But none of them filled the silence of an empty house.

This evening there would be none of that. She had a date. Zach. A few years younger than her, a professor – although he had explained on their first date in the Covered Market that he was actually a junior professor or a lecturer or a tutor or something. She hadn’t really understood, so she decided to think of him as a professor – at the university.

Oxford University, so that meant he was intelligent, at least on paper. He was probably the kind of person who got stuck in a revolving door, but no matter. Moreover, his subject was French, so that meant what? He was romantic? Could cook? Liked poetry? Whatever it meant, it didn’t mean he was very forward. They had been out four times now and on the last two they had ended up back at her house, Anna safely with her dad, and, next to each other on the couch, they had fallen into what her mum had called, when Julia was Anna’s age and starting to become interested in boys, a ‘passionate embrace’.

Julia had intended, on the first occasion, to let things progress reasonably far before demurely ending things.

They had kissed for a long time, until Zach had run his hands down her sides and left them resting on her hips. He tugged her gently towards him, but she pulled back.

Not this time, she said.

On the second date, she gave him more encouragement. Hip-to-hip contact. A suggestive moan, head tilted back, bare neck exposed. She felt him respond, felt the urgency build between them.

Then he stopped and looked at his watch.

Getting late.

Not that late. She raised an eyebrow. It’s only nine-thirty.

I’ve got an early start.

On a Sunday?

Train. I’m going to France.

On the Eurostar?

No. The ferry. To Caen. Well, Ouistreham, actually.

She felt a flare of annoyance. Which is it? You must know.

They’re kind of the same. Ouistreham is the port near Caen, but it’s small, so everyone says they’re going to Caen.

Oh, she said. Right. When are you back?

In a week.

Doing anything nice?

I’m going to see a friend, then we’re taking a trip to Étretat. It’s the birthplace of Guy de Maupassant. He paused. He’s a hero of mine.

Do you want to get together when you’re back?

Saturday?

Yes, she said.

How about the Gardeners Arms? Seven?

She nodded, then kissed him, letting her lips linger on his, then ran her hand up his thigh. It felt a bit weird, like when she was a teenager.

Sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?

He hesitated, then half-turned his hip towards her. For a moment, she thought he was about to stay, but then he shook his head.

Sorry. It’s a really early start.

A few minutes later, she watched him walk down the street, into and out of the pools of lamplight. So that was Saturday night. Already over. She closed the door and sat on the couch, reaching for the remote control, her anticipation replaced by disappointment.

She couldn’t have said exactly what she’d been anticipating, but she’d been anticipating more than this. More than sitting alone on her couch, slightly tipsy, with nothing other than an hour of TV and a long, empty Sunday ahead of her. She’d pretty much thrown herself at him, and it had felt like it – something – was going to happen.

But he had stopped. She was impressed, in a way. It took a lot of self-control to do that. No wonder he was a professor at Oxford; he clearly had the discipline and focus something like that required.

It did raise the question why he was even there, though? Was he religious? Did he not believe in sex before marriage? If he was, he could at least have told her. She’d respect that. It was his choice. Or maybe he lacked confidence, needed her to be even more forthright.

Or maybe – she hated thinking this way – maybe it was her. Maybe she wasn’t very attractive to him. To anyone. Not any more.

No. She pushed that thought away. He was getting up early, and he was the kind of person who went to bed on time when he needed to. Sensible. A good man. And this evening she would find out once and for all whether he was interested in her.

Because she had decided she was going to ask him, tonight. She was going to come right out and ask him whether there was any point in them continuing to see each other, or whether they were wasting their time. She knew that kind of question could come across as needy, so she’d preface it by saying she liked him, and she was OK either way, and they could take it as fast or as slow as necessary, but she felt it was only fair to ask whether this thing was going anywhere.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the window of the car. It had been a long weekend and her face was tired, her eyes puffy. She and Anna had been to stay with her oldest friend, Gill, and things had got out of hand. Gill had two younger daughters and Anna had babysat them while she and Gill caught up on each other’s lives, a conversation that ended around 2 a.m., with quite a few empty bottles on the living room table and a heartfelt declaration of their undying love for each other.

If only Zach was so passionate.

Anyway, she needed to get home, have a nap, and get ready for her date.

Flying Solo

Anna settled into her seat. She stared through the thick, oval glass of the plane window and watched the baggage handlers toss the bags onto the moving belt. She was glad she only had hand luggage; she wouldn’t need much more for the weekend. She was hungry; she’d been planning to get something to eat but then security had taken for ever and she had ended up rushing to board. It was always sad to say goodbye to her mum, but she enjoyed the feeling of freedom and independence. It was also good for her mum to have some time to live her own life. She was seeing Zach for dinner; Anna had overheard her and Gill talking about him. Gill had asked how it was going and her mum had replied with a half-hearted OK, I suppose.

Is something wrong? Gill asked. Hardly a ringing endorsement. I thought it was going well?

It is. I mean, he’s great, her mum had said. Charming, funny, smart. Handsome, too.

I know. You sent me a photo. He’s really cute.

And we click. We’re relaxed around each other, we laugh, a bit.

Gill had raised an eyebrow. So what’s the problem? These days merely meeting someone who wears clean clothes and doesn’t show up drunk is a win.

It’s what happens after.

Oh?

Or what doesn’t happen. We – her mum paused, obviously embarrassed – we just kiss. Endlessly. I try to give him hints that we could take it a bit further—

Like, go to second base, Gill said, in an American accent.

Right. Or third or fourth even.

I think there are only three bases, Gill said. Fourth is home base. Or home plate?

Oh, her mum said. So which activity happens where?

I think first base is kissing. Second must be roaming hands. Third could be the Full Monty. Or a blow job? Honestly, I’m not sure.

Well, whatever it is, we’re wasting our time on first base.

Have you mentioned it to him?

I’m going to. Tomorrow, when he gets back from France. God. I feel so stupid. Like a teenager.

Anna had stopped listening. It was, frankly, disgusting to think of her mum kissing Zach, never mind having sex with him. She couldn’t imagine her mum doing that; well, she could, but she didn’t want to.

And especially with Zach. She’d met him once and she hadn’t been impressed. He hadn’t known what to say to her. They’d ended up talking about whether or not she’d ever been to France, and when she’d said no, he’d gone on and on about what a great country it was and how she should go there.

It put her off ever visiting. Or ever talking to Zach again. And now her mum was going to beg him for sex. OK, not beg exactly, but not far off. Hopefully it would scare him off and that would be the end of their relationship.

The seat next to her was still empty, but the plane was filling up. There had been a lot of people at the gate, all hanging around, edging closer to get on as early as possible and snag some overhead bin space, but maybe she’d get lucky and no one would sit next to her. She watched as passengers shuffled along the aisle, assessing them for their merits as a neighbour. A woman with a baby; she’d be fine. The baby might cry, but Anna could play with it. It’d pass the time. Behind her was a girl a few years older than Anna, headphones on. She’d keep herself to herself. A curt nod hello then Anna would be left alone. Behind her was a man in a suit, mid-forties, thinning hair, a paunch. Probably get out his laptop, or read a book.

But she’d prefer one of the other two.

The mother and baby took a seat a few rows ahead. The girl walked past her.

The man checked his boarding pass, looked at the seat numbers, then caught her eye.

‘That’s me,’ he said, and pointed to the seat next to her.

Anna gave a brief nod, then looked down at her phone. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was available for conversation.

The man slid his bag along the floor. It banged into Anna’s calf and she moved her feet.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bit of a tight squeeze.’

He sat down, shuffling his back against the seat to get comfortable, an action which caused his shoulder to brush against hers. Was it her, or did he let it rest there for a moment longer than it should have? Not that he should have been touching her at all.

He reached between his legs to get something from his bag and his thigh pressed against hers. It was shockingly warm and she moved hers away. She leaned against the wall, as far from him as possible.

He took out a book – she glanced at the cover, it was some kind of military thriller, unsurprisingly – and he opened it and began to read.

She kept her gaze on her phone, but from the corner of her eye she noticed his head move in her direction. She could feel him looking at her, his eyes travelling up and down her body, then resting on her upper thighs.

Her heart sped up. He was what? Forty? Fifty? What the fuck was he doing looking at a fifteen-year-old girl? Was he doing it just because he could? Because she couldn’t get away? And why? Couldn’t he stick to reading his stupid wish-fulfilment military book and dreaming of being a tough, taciturn war hero?

She felt violated and threatened, but mainly she was angry.

Very angry.

She pulled her coat tighter and tugged it down so it hid her thighs. She did it slowly and deliberately, making sure he knew why, and then tilted away from him, to face the window.

She could see his reflection in the window. She could see him turn his head to look at her.

Her skin crawled.

She folded her arms and turned to meet his gaze. He had a half-smile on his lips, a smile that was partly sinister and partly triumphal, which said clear as day I’m going to enjoy this flight and there’s not a lot you can do to stop me.

The sly half-smile suggested he thought she was trapped and vulnerable and scared, and that he enjoyed it.

He was right.

She was trapped.

She was vulnerable.

But she was not scared. And he was about to stop enjoying it.

She held his gaze. His triumphal leer faltered at the indignant glare in her eyes.

‘You know,’ she said, making her voice a little louder than would have been expected, loud enough to draw attention. ‘I’m a little uncomfortable.’

‘Oh,’ he said, his eyes flicking left and right. ‘A nervous flyer?’

‘No. It’s not that. I’m flying alone, but I’m not bothered by that.’ She leaned forward. ‘I’ve flown alone before, even though I’m only fifteen. That’s pretty young, but it’s old enough to fly on your own.’ She stared at him. ‘But still young. You know?’

‘Right,’ he said, his smile now a fixed, nervous grin. His eyes darted from side to side. ‘Well, have a good flight.’

‘Not yet at the age of consent,’ she said. ‘That’s sixteen, for your information.’

The passenger directly in front of her, a woman about her mum’s age, had half-turned to listen. When Anna had finished speaking, she leaned to the man next to her and muttered something in his ear. He shrugged, and nodded, and the woman turned to her, letting her gaze linger on the man next to Anna.

‘Are you OK?’ she said. ‘Would you like to switch seats with my husband? He’s fine if you do.’

The man next to her must suddenly have come across a particularly riveting part of his book. His eyes did not move from the page.

‘That’s fine,’ Anna said. ‘I think I’m alright now.’

The woman smiled. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘That was very impressive.’

Many a Slip

i

The car – an Audi estate – was leaving. The reversing light came on, and Willow Crowne tensed. Parking spaces were at a premium at the airport, and she needed this one. She was running late.

It was irritating, but it was the only way to pick someone up at Manchester airport. You couldn’t simply pull up outside the terminal and load your passenger and their bags up. That would have been far too simple. Instead you had to park, walk into the terminal, and bring them back to where your car was parked.

No doubt someone with a giant brain had decided it was necessary, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t an equally giant pain in the arse.

Mainly because there were never enough spaces. You had to drive around and around until you found one. It was hardly the worst thing in the world, but it was so unnecessary. Why did they do this? Why did Mr or Mrs or Ms Giant Brain have to make it so difficult?

And at that moment she needed to park. The flight had landed nine minutes ago. Her stepdaughter, Anna, was only with them for two nights – which was plenty as far as Willow was concerned – and, as she only had hand luggage, she’d be out of the airport in the next few minutes.

Which all added up to one thing: Willow was going into the space the Audi was leaving. It could be half an hour before another opened up. The problem was that someone else wanted it as well, and technically it was theirs.

Willow had been following a Golf around the car park when it had stopped. It was clear why: a woman in a dark red suit, accompanied by an elderly man, was approaching her car – the Audi – keys in hand. The driver ahead of the Golf – a woman in her thirties with two kids in the back seat – pointed to the spot, and the Audi driver nodded. Yes, she was leaving.

But it wouldn’t help the Golf driver. Willow had her own plans.

She reversed away from the Golf and drove down the adjacent row of cars, doubling back so that she was approaching the Audi from the other side. That meant she was going against the arrows which indicated which way cars should move around the car park – clearly with the intention of stealing the space from the Golf – but she didn’t care.

There was one spot, and she needed it.

In any case, who said the Golf driver should have it, simply because she happened to have arrived a few seconds before Willow? There was no rule that said anything about that posted on a wall. It was merely a convention. The spot belonged to whoever got it first.

She pulled up close on the opposite side of the Audi and waited. The woman in the red suit opened the passenger side door and helped the elderly man into the seat. Willow looked up: the driver of the Golf was staring at her, mouth ajar. Willow ignored her. Anna would be out any moment, and she had to be there for her. Apart from that, she couldn’t be late leaving the airport as her son, Oakley, was at football practice and she wanted to watch the end, even though that now looked unlikely.

Which was bloody irritating. Oakley was a super talented football player – he had some things to work on – but he was very good, one of the best in the team without any doubt. Stacey, the mother of a small, skilful, blond boy called Max, had agreed with her only last weekend when she suggested that Oakley was, if not quite at Max’s level, pretty close. And since Max was the best player on the team – Stacey had nodded at that – that meant Oakley was number two. Willow had sensed that Stacey was reluctant to say too much, which was understandable – you didn’t want to talk about other people’s kids – but it had not taken much prompting before she had leaned over to Willow and, with a smile, said that Oakley was really good and one of the better players on the team.

You think so? Willow said.

I do.

You think he should play more?

Stacey had nodded, sort of. Maybe.

That was the problem. The coach, Mike – father of Tim, a quiet boy who, in Willow’s view, owed his place on the team to the fact his dad was the coach – had something against Oakley. She didn’t know what it was, but Willow had noticed that in the most important moments of the games he didn’t play her son. Of course, no one cared, it was only kids playing football, but still – it should at least be fair. And she didn’t think it was. If Oakley – as confirmed by Stacey – was one of the better players, then he should play. Mike didn’t let him, and there was only one reason why that would be the case.

He had favourites. Which he shouldn’t. Which made him, in her eyes, a shit coach. Yes, that was harsh, but Willow called it as she saw it, and if he had favourites he was shit. She had suggested to Brian that he talk to Mike, but he didn’t want to – of course he didn’t want to, he could barely stand up for himself, never mind his son – and so she had taken matters into her own hands. There was another team nearby who were supposed to be a higher standard, and she had called the coach, a woman in her late twenties who had played for some big team before getting injured, to discuss moving Oakley to them.

She had explained how good he was and how the coach had favourites – including his son – which meant he wasn’t developing as well as he could have – should have, really – and that as a result she thought this team would be a better fit.

The coach had been really positive – I’ve heard about you – about Oakley, I mean, she had said – but unfortunately they had no open spots for the year. She promised to keep Oakley in mind for the next season, though, so Willow was sure things would be better then.

In the meantime, she would have to make the best of it she could, which meant being at training so the coach knew Oakley’s mum was watching what he did. She looked at her phone. If she parked now, and Anna was there, she’d have a chance to watch the last half of the practice, and she owed it to Oakley, she really did.

So she was going to get this space.

The driver of the Audi started the engine. She had reversed into the space so Willow could see her clearly behind the wheel. She looked at the two cars waiting for her to leave, paused, then put on the indicator on Willow’s side. That meant she would pull out in Willow’s direction – the correct direction if you were following the flow of traffic laid out by the arrows – and leave the space open for the Golf.

No fucking way. Willow had not come this far to lose at the last second.

She edged forward so that the Audi could not turn in her direction. The woman looked at Willow and pointed ahead, indicating she wanted to leave that way.

Willow shook her head and folded her arms.

This was the moment. The Audi driver faced a choice. Wait until the Golf also moved forward and she was trapped? Or get out while she could?

Of course she knew that rightly the space belonged to the Golf. Maybe it did. But she also knew that the cost of taking a stance was – possibly – being trapped in a prolonged stand-off in an airport car park between two drivers, one of whom was in the right, so could stand her ground without any fear of unfavourable judgement, and one of whom was potentially a little deranged.

That could take a while, and airport parking was expensive.

She did what Willow would have done, and, before the Golf driver could react, pulled out and left in the only direction she could.

She drove past the Golf, which was blocked from the parking space long enough for Willow to swing into it and turn off her engine.

The driver of the Golf threw up her arms, shaking her head in disapproval and disbelief, and leaned on her horn.

Willow ignored the noise and got out of her car. The horn stopped and the Golf’s front window wound down.

‘What are you doing?’ the woman said. ‘That’s my spot!’

‘I don’t think so,’ Willow said, looking meaningfully at her car. ‘My car’s there, and if it was yours wouldn’t your car be there?’

‘I see. You’re just going to take it, are you?’

‘I’m in a hurry,’ Willow said.

‘So am I,’ the woman replied.

Willow shrugged. ‘We can’t both park there. Sorry.’ She walked towards the terminal.

‘I rarely speak to anyone like this,’ the woman said, her voice rising to a shout. ‘But you are a fucking disgrace!’

Willow stopped to look at her.

‘Mind your language,’ she said, while slowly raising her middle finger. ‘You have children on board.’

ii

Willow waited for Anna to emerge through the white doors that led from the baggage claim area to the arrivals hall. The plane had landed fourteen minutes back, so she had half expected Anna to be waiting when she arrived. Either way, she should be there any moment. Willow added up the steps: a few minutes to taxi to the gate, a few minutes to disembark, a few more minutes – it was a domestic flight so there was no passport control – to walk to the arrivals hall.

She watched the stream of people walking past. An elderly man in a tweed suit and flat cap paused in front of her, looking around for a familiar face; a woman in her fifties with bottle-blond hair and too-tight jeans was greeted by a chorus of cheers and hugs from a woman who was the spitting image of her, but half her age – her daughter, presumably – and four grandchildren; a woman in a dark suit marched past, her head bowed over her phone.

But no Anna, not yet.

It was fucking typical of her. When she was nine or ten, Willow and Brian had taken her to swimming lessons. They finished at 6 p.m., which was, in the first place, not a great time for the mother of an infant to be out of the house, and, every single time, she took ages to get changed. The other kids were out in three, four, five minutes, but Anna took fifteen or twenty or twenty-five.

After a few times Willow had asked her, gently, what took her so long.

I had a shower. I like it.

Well, maybe you could be a little quicker? I need to get Oakley home.

The next time she took even longer. Willow was sure she was doing it deliberately, either to upset her or Oakley. Or both.

But there was little she could do about it. She asked Brian if he would say something to her and he agreed, but nothing changed.

In the end she told him he needed to pick her up. The fact that she had a mother-baby yoga class in the same building that finished fifteen minutes before Anna’s lesson – which was why she was doing it in the first place – no longer mattered. She wasn’t going to wait around for forty-five minutes while Anna luxuriated in the shower.

So Brian came to collect his daughter. And she walked out after barely two minutes in the changing room, with what looked to Willow like a sly grin on her face.

Was she doing it to spite her stepmum? Or please her dad? Or was it random? Willow couldn’t be sure, but whatever it was, she had the feeling that if it had been Brian picking her up, she’d probably have sprinted off the plane to meet him. But it was Willow, so Anna was taking her time, and if she wasn’t here soon, Willow was going to miss Oakley’s football training.

The man in the tweed suit broke into a smile and set off at a brisk pace to her left. He held out his arms and two kids ran to embrace him. Willow frowned – they looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place them, until she saw their mother and realized who they were.

They were the kids from the Golf, and the woman behind them, who was now hugging the man in the tweed suit, was the driver.

The woman caught her eye. She gave a long, slow, shake of the head, a sarcastic smile playing on her lips.

Willow felt the anger rise in her chest.

That stupid bitch. Who did she think she was, to judge other people? To shake her fat fucking head at them, like she was somehow better?

Well, she was going to get a lesson in what fucking happened when you treated people that way. She was going to learn the hard way. Willow had no problem whatsoever with that.

She was about to step towards her and ask her what the fuck she was looking at, when her phone rang.

For a second she was going to ignore it, but then she realized she couldn’t. It was probably Anna looking for her. She looked at the screen.

It was Brian. Maybe Anna had called him. It would be like her to know it was Willow who was picking her up but call her dad instead. Sometimes Willow wondered whether Anna did this kind of thing deliberately to wind her up. From time to time she’d seen Anna look at her with what seemed to be almost a mocking, taunting expression.

She answered the phone. ‘Hello.’

‘Hi. It’s me.’

‘I know. I can see your name on the screen.’

‘Oh. Of course. Is she there?’

‘Anna?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not yet,’ Willow said.

‘Are you at the airport?’

‘Of course I’m at the airport.’

‘But no sign of Anna?’

‘The plane landed, but she’s not through yet.’

He paused. ‘How long ago?’

‘About fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.’

‘She should have come through by now.’

The Golf driver was walking away. She had had a narrow escape, not that she knew. Willow felt like running after her to let her know.

‘I’ll call her,’ Willow said. ‘She’s probably gone to get a coffee.’

She hung up then scrolled to Anna’s name in Contacts. Anna Miller. Not Crowne. She had rejected her father’s name. Willow would never have allowed Oakley to do that.

She called her and lifted the phone to her ear.

It went straight to voicemail. She tried again. Sometimes it took more than one try to get through.

Voicemail again.

Willow looked up at the screen. She wasn’t mistaken. The plane had landed – what, twenty-two minutes ago now? At the very least she should have her phone switched on.

Unless the battery was dead. But there were outlets on the plane, and Anna would have a charger. Teenagers kept well on top of their phone charge.

Anna should be here, and if she wasn’t, she should be answering her phone. Willow felt the first fluttering of panic, felt the beginning of the sensation that something might be wrong.

No. This was all OK. There was nothing to worry about. It was only twenty minutes and there would be an explanation. Kids didn’t disappear from airports. It was what had happened in the past that was making her panic, that was responsible for the creeping dread that something was wrong.

She took a deep breath. That was then, and it had no bearing on this.

Anna was in the airport. She had boarded a plane. And there was only one way off, which was this way.

Unless she had come through earlier.

Fuck. What if she had made it through in five minutes, and Willow hadn’t been there? So she’d taken a taxi or train or someone had offered her a lift, someone with bad intentions, someone who had taken her phone from her …

No. No. No. Anna was fifteen and she knew Willow was coming. She would have called and Willow would have told her I’ll be there in five and she would have waited for her.

Which meant she was still airside. And all Willow had to do was wait.

Four Months Earlier

Gone for Good

i

Brian Crowne, like most people, didn’t answer his phone unless he knew who was calling. If it wasn’t a contact he assumed it was spam; and 99 per cent of the time it was, and on the odd occasion it wasn’t, the caller could leave a message and he would call them back.

This time, though, there was something unusual about the number on his screen. It took him a few moments to register that the reason was that it was coming from another country.

He waited for it to ring out, then checked the code and googled it.

It was from France. He felt a sense of creeping unease. Who was calling him from France? Was it spam? Unlikely. It had to be expensive to call from another country, so why would anyone set up their spamming operations abroad?

Which meant it was for him, specifically. But who would be calling him from France?

The phone rang again, the same number flashing. His finger hovered over the screen – it was four o’clock on a Friday and he was certain this was going to ruin his weekend – but then he answered the call.

‘Brian Crowne.’

‘Monsieur Crowne?’ It was a woman’s voice, high-pitched and heavily accented. ‘Do you ’ave a moment?’

‘Yes. I mean, oui.’

‘Thank you, but it is not necessary. We can speak English.’

‘That will help.’

‘My name is Annelise Charbonnier. I am an officer in the police. The gendarmerie, to be exact.’

Brian paused, even more confused than before. What could the gendarmerie possibly need from him?

‘Mr Crowne?’

‘Yes, sorry. I was wondering why you would be calling me?’

‘I can imagine. Let me get to the point. Your mother. She is Edna Crowne, correct?’

He had not heard his mother’s name for years, and now a French cop was asking him about her. He felt like he was falling, as though an abyss had opened up beneath him without warning and sent him spinning downwards, out of control and unable to get a handle on what direction he was going, up or down or left or right.

‘Monsieur Crowne?’

He forced himself to concentrate.

‘Yes. Yes, she is.’

‘I have something I need to tell you,’ she said. ‘I am sorry. It is not good news.’

‘What is it?’

‘Your mother.’ Annelise Charbonnier paused. ‘She’s dead.’

ii

Brian had come to terms with the loss of his mother long ago. Not her death – it was only now that he knew she had died – but her disappearance, both physically and emotionally, from his life.

It wasn’t her absence that had been hard to come to terms with, though. It was what she had done: to him, to his daughter, to his then-wife, and, worst of all, to his dad.

By the time he had come to terms with all that, the fact she wasn’t there was hardly worth a mention. In fact it was almost a blessing. As to where she was, he had no idea. He had not heard from her for nearly a decade, and he had long ago stopped thinking about her. On the occasions he had, he had assumed she was dead. If she wasn’t she would have let him know – not out of love, not his mother – but because she would have been incapable of staying out of his, and his daughter’s, life. She had unfinished business with them, and his mother did not leave business unfinished.

So her absence meant she was gone for good, and now he had the proof. It was still, however, an enormous shock, especially coming from a French police officer.

‘Mr Crowne?’ Annelise Charbonnier said. ‘Are you still there?’

He looked at the photos on his office wall. Him and Anna on her twelfth birthday when they had rented out a cinema; him and Willow with an infant Oakley in a soft-focus baby shot; Willow and her bridesmaids on the day of their wedding; him and his brother and their dad fishing in the Lake District when he was a teenager.

None at all of his mother.

‘She’s dead?’ he said, unsure of what else to say.

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘I thought she’d died a long time ago.’

‘Non.’ She paused. ‘It was yesterday.’

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’

‘I understand. Take your time.’

‘How—’ he began. ‘What happened?’

‘It was a car crash. She was driving, alone, in the rain, at night. The car went over a bridge into a river. She was trapped.’

‘She drowned?’

‘Yes. I am afraid so.’

It was a terrible way to die. He pictured the skid, the loss of control, the fall into the water, the slow realization she was going to drown.

Even his mum didn’t deserve that.

It wasn’t altogether surprising she had died in a car accident. She’d always been an aggressive driver. Positive, she’d called it; you had to be positive. Although it seemed positive meant pushing your way out of junctions and skipping through lights as they turned red and overtaking in dubious circumstances.

And at her age, being positive, it turned out, could have lethal consequences.

But still, she’d been alive all this time. He hadn’t heard from her, obviously. She couldn’t get in touch, not after what she had done. But she’d been alive, living a life somewhere, driving around aggressively – positively – all while her son and grandchildren, one of whom she didn’t even know existed, went about their business.

Unless she did know Oakley existed. It would have been easy enough to find out.

The thought chilled him.

‘Where was she?’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Normandy. I am in Caen.’

‘I didn’t know she was there.’

‘She was here for seven years. We found her carte d’identité on the body.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘Yes?’ Brian said.

‘It was in the name Edith Crowther. It was at her house we found a passport in the name of Edna Crowne. We – we entered this into the system and – well, you can imagine.’

‘I can.’

‘And so – I have contacted you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There is one other thing,’ Charbonnier said. ‘A formality. The car was in the river overnight and the body was quite disfigured. Even though there was ID linking Edith Crowther to Edna Crowne, we would like a positive identification of the body.’

‘You want me to go to France?’

‘That won’t be necessary. We can send photos.’ She paused. ‘But they are not pleasant.’

Brian smiled. ‘That’s fine. Nothing can shock me about her any more.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Crowne. This must be a difficult moment. I will send them to your email, if you could share it?’

Brian gave her his email and hung up. He put his phone on his desk and stared out of the window.

So that was it. Edna – his mother – was gone for good.

Lightning Never Strikes Twice

i

Willow opened the Find Your Phone app and looked at the screen. Brian was at his office in Manchester, twenty minutes away but working late, her mum was in Liverpool, her dad was at work.

Anna wasn’t listed. She didn’t allow her stepmum that privilege, so why was Willow bothering to check?

Just in case. Just in case somehow it had changed and Anna had added her to whatever list controlled these things and her phone would be shown on the map and it would be nearby and then she would come walking through the doors into the arrivals hall.

She was not in any of the shops or cafes. Willow had run through them all, looking back at the arrivals door every few seconds to make sure she did not miss Anna. She was not in any of them.

This was what panic did to you, and Willow was starting to really panic. Where was Anna? She had seen people coming through with suitcases from her flight – she had checked the baggage tags – so Anna, who had only hand luggage, should be here by now, without question.

But she wasn’t and her phone wasn’t working and this was all going to shit.

No. She told herself there was no need to panic. Anna wasn’t gone; it hadn’t happened again. It was simply the fact that it had happened in the past that was making her jump to the conclusion – not even the conclusion, but the fear – that history was repeating.

Well history didn’t repeat, not like this, and if it wasn’t for that she wouldn’t even be thinking this, she wouldn’t be worrying at all.

Lightning didn’t strike twice.

She calmed herself with a belly breath. She’d learned how to do it in a wellness seminar at the office.

She told herself that nothing was wrong, that she was only reacting this way because of the past and she needed to act as though that had never happened and that meant acting calmly.

It meant taking control by doing what you could. Calling Anna again. Maybe this time she would answer. Or walk through the door.

She called again.

Anna did not answer. Her phone did not even ring

Voicemail. Again.

Maybe she was still making her way through to the arrivals hall. That was the only explanation, really.

She looked at the screen. Three flights had landed since Anna’s. The most recent was from Amsterdam.

A man and woman walked out of the doors; they looked Dutch, both blond, both tall. As they passed she heard them talking in a guttural, unfamiliar language.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, surprising herself. ‘What flight were you on?’

The man smiled. ‘The one from Amsterdam,’ he said, in a Dutch accent.

Willow nodded. ‘Thank you.’

The one from Amsterdam had landed well after her stepdaughter’s.

Willow picked up her phone.

ii

‘She’s still not here.’

Brian didn’t say anything for a few moments.

‘Anna’s not there,’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. She isn’t in the terminal, her phone is off, and she hasn’t walked through since I’ve been here.’

‘She should be there by now.’

‘I fucking know that, Brian. That’s why I’m calling. Can you do Find My Phone?’

‘Give me a minute.’

She waited, her eyes fixed on the doors, scanning each person who walked through them.

‘Last time it registered was at Heathrow,’ Brian said. ‘Her phone is off. Are you sure she’s not in some cafe? Or outside, waiting for you?’

‘She’s not. I checked.’

‘Are you sure?’

Willow was quite certain she wasn’t, but in this situation quite wasn’t good enough.

‘I’ll check again. And you call her.’

She hung up, then repeated her circuit of the newsagent, chemist and the stand selling coffee and snacks.

‘Anna!’ she called. ‘Anna!’

Heads turned. A grey-haired woman in her seventies caught her eye.

‘Is everything alright?’ she said.

‘It’s my stepdaughter. She’s fifteen. She should be here by now.’

The woman frowned. ‘There aren’t many places she could go,’ she said. ‘It can take a while to get through, you know.’

‘It was a domestic flight. And she has no bags. It’s been more than half an hour.’

There was a flicker of uncertainty in the woman’s eyes. ‘Would you like me to wait while you have a look around?’

It made sense. If Anna came out while she wasn’t watching she could miss her, although she had a pretty good view. Until she went outside. So she needed help.

But she didn’t know this woman.

She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know where Anna was or what was going on or what the hell she should do. Her mind was scrambled; her thoughts a mess.

And she had to leave, now, to get to Oakley’s practice.

‘I can watch,’ the woman said. ‘What does she look like?’

The woman was not a threat. She looked like a former headmistress, or a doctor, and an extra set of eyes would help.

‘Brown hair in a ponytail. She’s probably wearing leggings and a blue coat.’ Willow paused. ‘Oh and she might have a pink rucksack.’

‘That should be easy to spot,’ the woman said. ‘Good luck.’

Willow had covered this ground not long before. There were not many people in the shops and Anna wasn’t among them. There was a queue of three at the coffee stand, two women and a man, his arms around the woman in front of him.

No Anna.

The people outside were, for the most part, walking purposefully: either heading into the terminal to pick people up or heading back to their cars, trailing luggage in their wake. That made anyone who was hanging around waiting easy to spot.

Two men by a parking bollard, holding hands.

A woman in a suit, on her phone.

A young man in a hoodie lighting a cigarette.

And then she saw her.

A girl with a ponytail walking quickly towards the parking garage. No pink rucksack – no bag at all – but it was Anna. Blue coat, leggings, ponytail.

‘Anna!’ she shouted. ‘Anna, I’m here!’

The girl didn’t hear. Willow started running after her.

‘Anna! It’s me!’

She opened the glass door to the parking garage and disappeared inside. Willow sped up, her boots thudding on the tarmac. She shoved the doors open; they opened on to the room with the pay stations. There were four; three were not in use. In front of one, an elderly couple were peering at the screen.

Willow glanced around. No Anna. She must have gone through to the parking area. But which way? Which floor? She could be anywhere.

The man turned to look at her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Do you happen to know how this—’

‘I’m sorry,’ Willow said. ‘I’m in a hurry. I need— my stepdaughter— did you see anyone come past? A teenage girl? In the last few minutes?’

The woman looked at her husband. ‘I think so. Blue jacket?’

‘Yes. Which way did she go?’

The woman paused then pointed to her left. ‘I think that way.’

‘Thank you,’ Willow said. She ran past the couple and into the main garage. She scanned the rows of cars.

And saw her. Two rows to her right, halfway along, walking away from Willow.

Anna stopped. Not far ahead of the girl a car beeped.

She set off towards it.

‘Anna!’ Willow shouted. She started to sprint in her direction. ‘Hey!’

Her shout echoed around the garage. Anna was no more than twenty yards from her now. She shouted again.

Anna paused, then turned to look at her.

It took Willow a few moments to understand what she was seeing.

It was not Anna. It was a young woman in her early twenties.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘You’re not Anna.’

She shook her head. A car door opened, and a man of the same age stood up.

‘Everything OK?’ he said.

The woman looked at Willow. ‘Is it?’

Willow nodded. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said, and turned to go back to the terminal.

iii

Willow ran back to the terminal building. As she entered, her phone rang.

Brian.

‘Did you find her?’ she said.

He paused. ‘No. Her phone isn’t on.’

‘I haven’t seen her. She’s not here.’

‘OK,’ Brian said. ‘It’s time to talk to someone.’

‘Give me one second.’

It was possible – maybe – that Anna would be standing in the arrivals area looking around for her stepmum, a dead phone useless in her hand.

But Willow didn’t really believe that. There was something wrong here, and it was not going to be over that easily.

But still. There was a chance.

She ran past the coffee stand and studied the arrivals hall. It was the same scene; people waiting, eyes on their phones, or greeting loved ones, or studying the flight information screens.

But no Anna.

There was one last thing she could do. The elderly lady, the headmistress. Maybe she had found Anna and taken her to sit on a bench where they could wait in safety.

She looked around again.

There was no old lady. Whoever she had been expecting must have showed up and so she had left, without waiting for Willow to return. She felt a flare of disgust. It was pretty poor behaviour, especially since she had offered to help.

Well, maybe she had assumed Willow had found Anna. Whatever; it didn’t matter now.

She lifted the phone to her ear.

‘She’s not here.’

‘You need to talk to someone,’ Brian said. ‘If it’s a false alarm and she shows up, fine. But if not …’ His voice tailed off.

‘OK,’ Willow said. ‘Who?’

‘Anyone. Do it now. I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.’

He hung up and Willow looked around for someone to tell. Two police officers, both armed with large guns, were ambling towards an escalator. They were moving slowly, as though out for a gentle stroll, but their studied casualness was belied by the alertness in their gaze.

An alertness which shaded into alarm as Willow marched towards them.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need some help.’

One of them, a man with tight red curls, nodded at her.

‘What’s the problem, ma’am?’

‘It’s my stepdaughter. She’s missing.’

So Simple

It could have gone wrong in so many ways. An overly watchful gate agent, a passenger in the wrong place at the wrong time, a re-routed flight.

And then what? This would have been over before it started, this careful, winding journey, this plan deft and beautiful in design and bold in execution: all would be nothing but dust.

But that was not what had happened. Instead it had run like clockwork. Too smooth, almost. Too easy.

If something seemed too good to be true, it was. You had paid heed to this, guarded against over-confidence. You had wondered whether you had missed something and at any moment an official hand would be raised and you would be stopped.

But none had. Each step of the way it had gone to perfection.

You were together now, finally. Together again. It had been a long time. Too long. But it was inevitable. It always had been. It was the only way it could be.

But it was not over yet.

There was more to come, more parts to the plan.

Harder, more risky parts.

Because this was only the beginning.

However brilliant this was, however breathtaking, however intricate and finely planned, what came next was harder still.

But you were confident. You had done your planning, weighed the variables, accounted for all possible outcomes. And so, when the time came – and it would, very shortly – you were sure it too would go exactly to plan.

This Is Impossible

i

There was, he was sure, some mistake, some innocent explanation, and this would all be sorted out soon, probably by the time he reached the airport. This was an overreaction, and in reality he could have left it to Willow and gone home from work as planned. Willow would have picked up Anna, brought her home – a little late – and gone to pick up Oakley.

She’d have been upset as she wanted to watch his training session – she had a bee in her bonnet about his coach – and she’d have missed it. He’d pay the price for that later, but it wouldn’t matter. What would have mattered – all that would have mattered – was that Anna was safe.

And he most likely would have left it to Willow, except he had been through this before.

He had convinced himself there was an innocent explanation, but the explanation, when it came, had been far from innocent. He was not taking the chance again; he’d rather the airport authorities thought he was a foolish, over-protective father than take any risks.

He sped up. He was already breaking the speed limit, which on the M56 required weaving in and out of the busy lanes. He pictured himself explaining to a traffic cop that he was sorry but it was an emergency, and the cop putting on the siren and leading him at breakneck speed to the airport terminal.

His phone rang. It was Willow. His pulse sped up even more.

Maybe she had Anna.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Did you find her?’

Willow sniffed. ‘No.’ She paused. ‘Not yet.’

‘You told someone?’

‘Two policemen.’

‘And?’

‘They said people can take a while to get through.’

‘You said she was fifteen?’

‘Of course I did! And they announced it on the Tannoy, asked Anna to come to the security desk or make herself known to an airport employee if she heard it.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No.’

‘Fuck! She landed’ – he looked at the time, nearly ten past six – ‘forty minutes ago.’

‘I know.’

‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’m waiting by the exit. For some official.’ She paused. ‘Hang on. Someone’s coming over.’

He could make out a woman’s voice, then Willow saying her husband was on the line.

Willow came back on the line. ‘I’ll put you on speaker,’ she said. ‘The woman I mentioned’s here.’

‘Hi. I’m Jo Tyler.’ The woman had a cheery, upbeat voice. ‘I’m in charge of customer service.’

‘I’m Brian Crowne. My daughter was supposed to be there.’

‘Yes,’ Tyler said. ‘Your wife explained. I talked to the airline, to check that your daughter – Anna Miller, correct?’ – he heard Willow confirm the name – ‘boarded the plane at Heathrow.’

‘And did she?’

‘Yes, she was definitely on the flight.’

‘So where is she now?’ Brian said.

‘We haven’t found her yet. That’s what I came to tell your wife. Now we know she was on the plane, we know she must have landed here in Manchester. I’ve talked to the security team and they’re looking for her. I’m sure we’ll have some news soon.’

‘Thank you,’ Brian said. ‘I hope so.’

ii

Willow was standing underneath the flight information screen. She was pale, her eyes wider than usual.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Any news?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

‘What did they tell you to do?’

‘Wait here for you.’ She glanced over his shoulder. ‘Here they come.’

A woman – Jo Tyler – presumably, was walking towards them, accompanied by a man in dark trousers and a blue commando sweater. She gave a half-smile when she reached them.

‘I’m Jo Tyler,’ she said. ‘This is Andy Walton. He’s part of our security team.’

‘Brian Crowne.’

Walton was holding an iPad. He looked at the screen. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Anna Miller – that’s your daughter, correct? Not Crowne?’

Brian shook his head. ‘She has her mother’s maiden name. We’re divorced.’

‘Right. So Anna boarded a flight scheduled to leave London Heathrow at seventeen hundred hours. That is confirmed. The flight was on time and landed here just after seventeen-forty.’ He turned to Willow. ‘You came into the terminal about six minutes later, since which time there is no sign of Anna?’

‘Right,’ Willow said.

‘Could she have come through before Mrs Crowne arrived?’ Tyler asked.

‘It’s possible,’ Walton replied. ‘But that would be quick. She only landed six minutes earlier. And if she had she would have been waiting here for Mrs Crowne.’

‘Unless she went somewhere else,’ Brian said.

‘Where would she go?’ Walton said. ‘Does she have friends nearby?’

‘Not really,’ Brian said. His head was starting to spin, his stomach felt loose, his legs weak. It was a fight not to panic; he felt as though he had been transported back a decade. ‘We live in Stockton Heath. Well, she lives in Oxford. But my – our – house is in Stockton Heath.’

‘Could she have tried to take public transport?’ Walton asked.

‘I doubt it,’ Brian replied. ‘She knew Willow was coming to pick her up.’

‘So you think she would have waited?’ Tyler said.

‘It’s not like I was late,’ Willow said. ‘Maybe if she’d been waiting an hour, but it was only a few minutes. And she could have called. Even if her phone was dead, she could have found a way to charge it.’ She folded her arms. ‘I don’t think she came through. She’d be here if she had done.’

‘Unless’ – Brian’s throat tightened – ‘unless she did come through and someone picked her up.’

‘Who?’ Willow said. ‘It would have to be someone she knew, and they would have called her.’

‘Or someone else,’ Brian said. ‘Someone could have’ – he hesitated – ‘taken her.’

‘That would be quite difficult in a crowded concourse,’ Walton said.

‘But not impossible,’ Brian said.

‘Nothing’s impossible,’ Walton replied. ‘But if something like that happened we can find out. It’ll be on camera.’ He pointed to the arrivals door. ‘Everybody who walks out of there is on CCTV.’

iii

Walton held his iPad to his chest.

‘This is the plan,’ he said. ‘We’re going to review the CCTV footage of people coming into the arrivals area. If she came through we’ll see her. I have the description Mrs Crowne provided, but I’d also like a recent photo.’

‘Can we watch the footage?’ Brian said. ‘We’ll see her immediately.’

Walton glanced at Tyler, who shrugged.

‘I think that’ll be fine,’ she said.

‘Good.’ Walton continued: ‘We’ll also have my team search airside. I think it’s more likely she’s still there. Maybe got lost, or fell and suffered an injury, or fell sick.’

‘She could be in a bathroom,’ Willow said. ‘Maybe she ate something bad.’

‘Exactly,’ Walton said. ‘Or she somehow made her way to departures and is wandering around there. We’ll search the entire area.’

He pointed to a door behind him.

‘In the meantime, the CCTV is through there.’

Brian started towards the door, but Willow grabbed his forearm.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Oakley,’ she replied. ‘He’s at football. I missed practice, but if I leave now I can get there on time.’

‘Right. Of course.’

‘Do you need me here?’ she said. ‘I can stay. I want to help. And be here for you. I can ask someone to pick him up.’

‘It’s OK,’ he said. He could watch the CCTV footage. He’d see Anna, and someone needed to get their son. ‘You should go,’ he said. ‘That would be better.’

Willow nodded. ‘Call me as soon as you have news.’

‘I will. We’ll find her, and I’ll call you.’

Willow kissed him. Her lips were dry and cold. ‘Good luck,’ she said.

iv

He sat in front of the computer, eyes fixed on the stream of people walking past the camera lens. The footage was sped up, two or three times, but it was easily clear enough that he would know her if he saw her. He’d know her from her silhouette, from the way she moved, held her phone, turned her head.

And if he didn’t, Walton was watching too, with Willow’s description and a printed photo that Brian had emailed to him.

They’d started at the exact time the plane landed.

Five minutes in – five minutes of footage so less than that in real time – there was no sign of Anna.

He continued to watch. Another five minutes passed. In the background he saw Willow. She was looking at her phone.

His pulse sped up. She wasn’t exactly paying full attention. Anna could easily have walked past her.

Although Anna would have seen her. Unless she too was staring at her phone.

Was that what had happened? They had simply missed each other, and Anna had got home some other way, her phone dead, unaware what panic this was causing?

He hoped so. He really, really hoped so.

Walton reached out and pressed a key. The images paused.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’

For a second – not even that, for a brief, fleeting instant – Brian thought It’s her and he was overcome with the most blissful sensation of relief and joy and gladness and then he looked again and he saw that it was not Anna. Yes, she had the ponytail and coat and leggings, but it wasn’t Anna. Even though her back was to the camera and he couldn’t see her face, he knew it was not his daughter.

Taller, thinner, more awkward.

Unless Anna had changed since he last saw her. It was possible.

‘Move it forward,’ he said, and Walton pressed a key.

The girl started to move. As she walked past Willow she looked behind her, and he saw her face.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not her.’

The girl had clearly caught Willow’s eye, as she looked up from her phone and started, then set off in the direction the girl had taken.

So this was another spell when Anna could have appeared. He felt a rising anger. She shouldn’t have left, or if she had she should have told him.

‘Willow followed her,’ he said. ‘Anna could have come out now.’

Walton nodded and leaned forward, his eyes fixed to the screen.

The people streamed past, their sped-up gaits awkward and waddling. Among them was Willow, returning from having followed the girl, her face a rictus of worry.

Not among them was Anna.

After a while, Walton stopped the video.

‘That takes us up to forty minutes after the plane landed,’ he said. ‘We’ve had eyes on since then.’

‘No Anna,’ Brian said.

‘No Anna.’ Walton looked up with a thoughtful expression. ‘Which may be good news.’

‘Tell me,’ Brian said. ‘I could do with some good news.’

‘Well,’ Walton said. ‘If she’s not left, we know one thing at least.’ He pointed to his right. ‘She’s still airside. She’s in there somewhere.’

Date Night

i

Julia was sitting at a corner table, her back against the soft upholstery. It was a snug, romantic spot; at least, as romantic as the Gardeners Arms got. Zach’s seat was at a right angle to her, on the other edge of the corner, so they would be side by side.

It would set the right tone for the conversation she was planning to have. She sipped her drink, a gin and slimline tonic. The food was good, but she would have to choose carefully. Stuffing herself with a burger wasn’t the best preparation for seducing someone.

Not that she was planning to seduce him. That wasn’t the right word at all. It conjured up images of her acting like some kind of Hollywood vamp from the fifties.

I’ll go and slip into something more … comfortable.

No, she was going to have a grown-up conversation with her boyfriend – was he her boyfriend? Not really – about what was happening between them. That was fine. Hardly seductive.

But still, she’d steer clear of the burgers. Just in case.

Although Zach would have to show up first. She’d arrived a few minutes late, expecting him to be there, but he was even later. It was the first time he’d not been on time, which wasn’t a good sign. She checked her phone.

Seven minutes since he’d been supposed to arrive. She’d give him another three then call him.

The three minutes went by slowly. The door opened four times; each time she turned to see who it was – sure everyone in the pub was watching her and wondering whether she’d been stood up – and four times someone other than Zach had entered.

One of the non-Zachs, a man in his late forties with the blotched face and straining paunch of a serious drinker, had caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. She quickly looked away.

She picked up her phone. She didn’t really want to call him. If he was nearly there it would come over as a bit desperate.

Hi, it’s me, I’m here. Checking we’re still on?

Yeah, sorry, I got caught up in traffic, be there in two minutes.

But it was something to do. Something better than sitting here feeling the eyes of the other punter on her.

She pressed the green button and lifted it to her ear.

It went to voicemail.

She cut the call, then tried again, with the same result.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘It’s me. I’m at the Gardeners. Six thirty, right? Or did I get the time wrong?’

She set the phone on the table, then scooped it up again. She was sure she hadn’t messed up and showed up an hour early or on the wrong day, but she could check.

There it was, from the day before.

How’s the trip going?

Great! Normandy is its

usual amazing self.

Still back tomorrow?

Yep. Tell you about it

over dinner? Still on for

tomorrow? I think you

said Anna was with her

dad this weekend?

Sounds great. I’ll be

coming back from London,

ETA around 5.30.

Gardeners Arms? Six

thirty? Or is that too

quick a turnaround?

No – that’s perfect.

I’ll be hungry!

So there was no mistaking it. Six thirty, today, Saturday, at the Gardeners Arms. So now it was six forty-five, where was he?

ii

She finished her drink as the clock ticked over to seven pm. She contemplated getting another – Zach had not answered his phone – it hadn’t even rung, still going straight to voicemail – but she decided to call it a night.

She wasn’t going to sit in the pub on her own any longer. Maybe he’d send a message with an excuse later, but if he did it had better be a bloody good one.

He had stood her up.

And in the most brutal way possible. No late cancellation, no Sorry, something came up, I’ll call soon text message, just a non-arrival.

She stood up and put on her coat.

On the table her phone rang.

Here he was. Finally. She bit back her anger. They didn’t need to start with an argument. She’d hear him out, and if the excuse wasn’t very, very good, then they could have an argument.

She picked up her phone.

It was Brian. That was all she needed, her ex-husband calling to complain about something – Anna didn’t bring her toothbrush, we’ve talked about this, Julia, you need to stay on top of her toiletries when she travels – and her replying, her feelings a mixture of hatred and wonder that she’d ever managed to have a baby with this man – Brian, she’s fifteen, I don’t monitor her every move, and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.

And then him:

I know, but you have to understand it puts me and Willow – Willow, fucking Willow, she hated that woman with a passion and she was sure she would have whether she had married her ex-husband or not – in the position of having to go and buy her one. And it’s not the money, it really isn’t – although he had been an absolute fucker about money, he really had – it’s the fact that we have to clear up your messes and all you have to do is pay a little more attention.

And then her:

You really are a sanctimonious prick, aren’t, you, Brian? In place of a backbone you’ve got a whining streak. God alone knows – and He’s probably fucking confused – how you ever managed to procreate, never mind with me, and never mind resulting in a daughter like Anna.

That was what she would have wanted to say. But she wouldn’t, of course. She had to maintain some kind of civil relations with him.

But she’d have said all the sanctimonious prick part, that was for sure.

Still, she had better answer.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi. Do you have a minute?’

His voice was high, the strain obvious.

‘Yes. What is it?’

‘It’s Anna. She’s not here.’

She blinked, the words taking time to sink in.

‘What do you mean, not here?’

‘She didn’t come through into arrivals yet.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I left her at the airport.’

A thought occurred to her; what if Anna had scarpered with a friend and gone for a weekend in London? It was unlikely; if she had wanted to do that she knew she could have asked her mum and Julia would have supported her, but it was possible.

‘I assume she took her flight?’ Julia said.

‘She got on the plane. They confirmed that. And off, presumably, since she’s not on it. But after that – she’s not here.’

He sounded hopeless.

‘Brian,’ Julia said. ‘If she got off the plane there aren’t many places she could be.’

‘I know. And they’re looking for her. But she didn’t come through to arrivals, we’ve checked the CCTV—’

‘You’ve what?’ The mention of CCTV was like a slap to the face. If he was watching CCTV then he was with someone official and that meant this was serious.

‘Checked the CCTV. To see if she came through. And she didn’t.’

‘Oh, God,’ Julia said. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I don’t know. They’re searching the airport now. All of it. And they’re going to check the CCTV from the other side – airside – to look for her.’

‘Brian,’ Julia said. ‘This can’t be happening, not again.’

‘I know.’ He stifled a sob. ‘It’s not happening, Julia. It’s different. It’s an accident, or she’s sick or something else.’

‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Can you come? To Stockton Heath?’

She had nothing else to do, and she’d only had one drink.

‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

Not a Good Day

Brian sat in the small room, his phone on the table next to a half-empty bottle of water. Walton and Tyler sat opposite him. Tyler was tapping on the screen of her phone; Walton was making a note of something on a pad of paper.

There was a knock on the door. A man’s head appeared around the frame. He jerked his head back, summoning Walton, who followed him out of the room.

A few minutes later he was back.

‘Did they find her?’ Brian said, although he knew already from the expression on Walton’s face what the answer would be.

‘No. No trace of her at all. No pink backpack left anywhere. Nothing. I’m sorry.’

Brian was overcome by a sense of overwhelming fatigue. He had no idea what was going on or what to do. All he wanted was for it to stop. He wanted it to go away. If, at that moment, someone had offered him the option of never having existed – not suicide, there was Anna and Willow and Oakley to think about, and besides, he didn’t think he had the courage anyway, but not ever having existed; a different sperm had met the egg and Brian Crowne had never been born – he would have taken it without hesitation.

He didn’t want to have to deal with any of this.

‘How is that possible?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’

Walton held his hands out, palms up. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said, ‘and I’ve seen plenty come through this airport.’ He pointed at the computer screen. ‘We can be pretty sure she didn’t exit the arrivals hall, and we can be pretty sure she boarded the plane—’

‘Pretty sure,’ Tyler said. ‘But not certain.’

‘No,’ Walton said. ‘Not certain. Nothing ever is. But there’s a record of her boarding the plane, so unless she faked her boarding or sneaked out somehow, which would both be remarkable for a teenager, she’s in there’ – he jerked a thumb behind him – ‘somewhere.’

‘So why haven’t you found her?’ Brian said.

‘That’s the same question I’m asking,’ Walton said. He tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Let’s assume she got off the plane. The only place she could have done that is here, at Manchester airport. And if she didn’t come through to arrivals, then she’s still in there.’

‘Sounds great. But where is she?’ Tyler said.

‘We’ll have to keep looking. We’ll have to widen the search. They’ve been through every room in the terminal and she’s not in any of them. Maybe a different terminal.’

‘Could she have got out another way?’ Brian said.

‘Difficult,’ Walton replied. ‘But possible, I suppose. She could have got hold of a ground crew pass, got access to a restricted area …’ His voice tailed off. ‘Maybe gone onto the tarmac, headed around the external perimeter, found a gap in the fence.’ He closed his eyes. ‘But that leaves two questions. How the hell could she do that unseen – there are a lot of people who would have noticed a teenage girl in the restricted areas – but more to the point, why?’

He stared at Brian.

‘Why would she want to? What on earth could she be doing?’

Four Months Earlier

Died by Drowning

i

Like all children, Brian had imagined the death of his parents. When he was very young and first becoming aware that they – and others – were mortal, it was with awe at the idea that the world could exist without them. Then, as he grew older, it became fear at what the world would be like without parents. Then it became wonder and curiosity. There was a reason the protagonists of so many children’s books were orphans; the loss of one’s parents opened up the space for adventure.

At least in the safe space between the covers of a treasured book.

In Brian’s case, his father had not left his life by dying. He had disappeared; gone, their mother told them, to Italy, to start a new life away from his annoyance of a family. He and his brother had missed him – and mourned him, in a way – but their emotions had been too much of a toxic mix of anger and sadness and regret and self-blame for them to ever forgive him.

Especially as he had gone without sharing any details of where he was going or how to contact him. He had chosen to vanish from their lives completely.

At least, that was what they believed. He was, in fact, dead, his death having come in perhaps the most shocking way possible.

He had been murdered by his wife.

By Brian’s mum, who had died in her turn.

She had died by drowning. There was no doubt about that.

He studied the photos the French police officer had sent. They were close-ups of her face, her head lying on a steel table, presumably in the mortuary. Her face was grey, her skin a shade of dark blue. Her left cheek and temple were mottled by a livid bruise where she had hit her head in the accident. Her hair was close-cropped and completely grey.

There was no doubt it was her.

He typed a reply to Annelise Charbonnier.

Yes, he wrote, that is Edna Crowne.

ii

Two weeks later, he sat in a crematorium next to Anna, his arm around his daughter’s shoulder.

After confirming it was her body, he had agreed for her to be cremated in Normandy, with her ashes to be sent to a funeral parlour in Warrington; he felt he owed her at least a return to her country. The funeral director would dispose of her earthly remains – Brian wanted nothing to do with them – but he had agreed to a brief service. She was his mother, after all.

He and Anna were dressed in black, the sole occupants, other than the crematorium director, of the large empty room where Edna’s committal was taking place.

Normally it would have been full, or at least partially so.

But for Edna there were only two people there.

Her son and her granddaughter.

Brian had told Anna she was under no obligation to be there; he wasn’t either. He wasn’t even obliged to have a service at all. He could have ignored her death and let her be dealt with by whoever took care of such matters when there was no next of kin.

Then why are you doing it? Anna asked. Why have a service at all?

I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve kind of avoided thinking about it, if I’m honest.

There must be a reason.

There wasn’t any reason, other than a feeling he should. Duty? Guilt? Still some remnant of love? He didn’t want to know.

Because she’s my mother? he said. Hardly a shining example of maternal devotion, but she’s my mum nonetheless.

Then I’ll come too, Anna said. She’s my grandma, I guess.

That’s different, Brian said. She gave birth to me. And however bad she was, whatever she did, I can’t let her leave this earth without at least recognizing that. She was a human being. Not a good one. Not even a bad one. An awful one. But a human being all the same. You don’t need to come.

Anna shrugged.

I want to. I want to be there for you.

So he had agreed, and asked Julia what she thought, and, in one of their rare civil conversations she had told him that if Anna wanted to be there she saw no problem. What had happened had happened, and Anna would have to deal with it all her life. If she thought this was a good idea, then who were they to say she was wrong?

The funeral director put his hands on the lectern. He coughed. To his right was a small urn containing Edna’s ashes, before a heavy, still red curtain. She had been cremated in Normandy, and after some paperwork with the authorities, which the funeral director had been at pains to explain, her remains had been shipped here.

‘You did not select any readings,’ he said. ‘Or music?’

Brian nodded. He did not want this to have any flavour of a celebration. It was strictly a dutiful goodbye.

‘Would you like to say anything?’

Brian glanced at Anna. He wanted to say many things, but there was little point. The questions he had for his mother would go unanswered.

‘Only this,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Mum. Thank you for what good you did do, and I’ – he took a deep breath – ‘I was going to say I forgive you for the rest. But I don’t, not really. So I’ll leave it at that.’

Anna squeezed his hand. She rested her head on his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

‘I love you, Dad. You’re the best.’

He squeezed her hand in return. What he had done to deserve a daughter like this, he had no idea.

‘That leaves us with only the final farewell,’ the director said. ‘Would you like to take the ashes?’

‘No,’ Brian said. The idea of having them in the house was unthinkable.

‘We will take care of them. And with that, we are done.’

Brian closed his eyes. He was glad she was finally gone. He had long ago given up on his mother, but it was still liberating to know that this phase of his life was over.

He opened his eyes and put his arm around Anna.

‘Ready?’ he said to his daughter. ‘Let’s go.’

iii

Brian paused outside the crematorium. Next to him, Anna was checking her phone. Her face was set. There was not a flicker of emotion.

‘Well,’ he said, searching for words fit for the occasion and failing to find any. ‘That’s that.’

Anna looked up at him. ‘I guess.’

‘Mr Crowne?’

A woman was walking along the pavement towards them. She had short, dark hair and wore a loose-fitting suit.

It had been a long time since he had last seen her, but he recognized her immediately.

‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘I thought I would come,’ she said, her voice flat and careful, immediately familiar. ‘Pass on my condolences.’

‘How did you know it was today?’ he said.

‘We received a notification from the French police that the case against your mother was closed, and that you had requested her ashes be brought home. I asked local crematoria to let me know if they handled your mother’s remains. I hope that’s OK?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’ He put a hand on Anna’s shoulder. Wynne had met her, years ago, but it seemed awkward not to introduce her. ‘This is my daughter, Anna.’

‘Hello, Anna,’ Wynne said. ‘I remember you. You probably don’t remember me.’

‘I don’t,’ Anna said. ‘But I know your name. You’re the detective, right?’

Wynne nodded. ‘Right.’

‘Nice to see you again,’ Anna said.

‘And you,’ Wynne said. ‘Have a nice day, Mr Crowne. And if you have any questions, please feel free to ask.’

‘Questions about what?’ Brian said.

Wynne smiled. ‘Anything.’

She turned and walked back the way she had come. Brian took a deep breath. ‘Shall we go for a coffee?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Anna said. She put her hand on his forearm. ‘Hug?’ she said.

He opened his arms and wrapped them around her. She pressed her cheek against his chest.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she said. ‘But at least it’s over.’

Three Times?

i

Willow turned off the main road that ran along the Bridgewater Canal – the Chester Road, it was called, although it didn’t go anywhere near Chester, which she’d always thought was a bit stupid – and drove over the humpback bridge that led over the water. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. The whole airport mess – which was crazy, she didn’t even like to think about it, and maybe she should have stayed with Brian, but she had her son to think about – meant she had less than five minutes until Oakley’s practice finished. She’d missed watching it, but that was fine. Some things were more important than a kid’s football practice, although when Anna showed up unharmed – because she would, she’d have gone off somewhere with a friend, Willow was sure of it, it was the kind of selfish teenage move her stepdaughter would make – Willow would be sure to let Brian know how pissed off she was.

The road narrowed quickly. The football field was about a mile ahead, a left turn onto a muddy track that led to a small car park. It was funny – once you left the main road you were pretty quickly into the countryside; it was easy to feel you had left the villages of Lymm and Grappenhall and Stockton Heath and the town of Warrington far behind.

Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Brian. She held it up to her face to unlock the screen, flicking her gaze up to check the road ahead.

No sign of Anna yet. Searching the airport.

Will call soon.

She’d been expecting a message saying they’d found her in a pub, but it looked like the search was still going on.

That was not a good thing. Yes, she could have missed Anna somehow, but the fact her phone was off? Anna’s phone was never off.

She felt a thin sliver of dread slide its way into her mind, an icy stiletto that said You need to be worried, Willow and she picked up her phone to check it again, in case Anna had sent a message.

There was nothing. She looked up and her eyes widened. There was a tractor and trailer inching along the road ahead of her, much closer than it should have been. She slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel to the left, but it was too late.

The front left of her car slammed into the rear of the trailer, sending her spinning in a wide, skidding arc. For a few seconds she was out of control, the hedges and sky and tractor flying past her windows in a dizzying kaleidoscope.

And then she was still.

Her seat belt had tightened around her, keeping her safely in place. She unclipped it and tilted her head slowly from side to side, her ears ringing, then moved her arms and legs.

She winced, her neck already stiff. She’d be wearing one of those collar things for a few weeks. She wiggled her fingers and waited for pain in some other part of her body.

Nothing. Apart from her neck, she was fine.

There was a tap on the window. A heavy-set man in his fifties with thick brown hair and dark, deep-set eyes was peering in at her.

He opened the door. ‘You good?’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I – I didn’t see you in time.’

He pointed at the trailer. ‘No damage to that. But it took a piece out of your bodywork. Main thing is you’re fine. We need to get you out of the road though. I can call someone, or do you think you can drive?’

‘If my car works.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It should, but you never know.’

‘I need a moment,’ Willow said.

He looked at her, assessing the state she was in. ‘You’re a bit pale. I’m thinking we might want a professional to take a look at you.’

‘I think so,’ she said.

‘You live nearby?’ he said.

‘Yes. I was going to pick up my son—’ She stopped. ‘Shit. I’m late!’

‘It’ll be OK,’ the tractor driver said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘No, it won’t. I have to be there!’

She held up a finger. She could call Stacey and ask her to stay with Oakley. If she’d already gone, Willow could call the coach. He’d have waited with Oakley.

Stacey picked up on the first ring.

‘Hi, Willow.’

‘Hi. Are you at the football?’

‘I left a few minutes ago. Max has to go to his dad’s for dinner so I turned up a bit early and we made a swift getaway. Is everything alright?’

‘Yes. I mean, no. I’m late. I got into an accident—’

‘Oh God. Are you—?’

‘Fine, yeah, but I’m late for Oakley.’

‘He’ll be with the coach. Mike will have him. He’ll be fine.’

‘But I don’t know how long I’ll be. The car might not start and—’

‘Don’t worry,’ Stacey said. ‘I’m only a couple of minutes away. I’ll head back right now. I’m on my way.’

‘Thank you, Stacey,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’

ii

The tractor driver smiled at her. ‘Everything working out?’

‘My friend’s going to get him.’

‘Excellent. I called the emergency services while you were on the phone. They’re on their way. I gave them your registration.’

‘Thank you,’ Willow said. ‘You’re so kind.’

‘Not at all.’ He pointed down the road. ‘I’m going to put hazard warnings up for anyone coming and then—’

‘OK,’ she said. She needed him to stop talking so she could call Mike. ‘That’s great.’

‘And then I’m going to move the tractor and trailer. Clear the road. There’s a gate into a field just up the way. If the emergency services arrive, you can tell them I’ll be right back. And if you need anything, beep your horn,’

‘Got it,’ she said. Her phone began to ring. It was Stacey.

‘Hello,’ Willow said. ‘Stace?’

‘Willow,’ Stacey said, her tone tense and serious. ‘Did you get here?’

‘No. I’m nearly there.’

‘So you don’t have Oakley?’

Willow’s throat tightened. ‘No. I told you. I got into an accident—’

‘Willow,’ Stacey said. ‘He’s not here. No one’s here.’

PART TWO

They Will Never Learn

The first part was hard enough. All kinds of things could have gone wrong.

But at least you had been able to plan it in detail. A lot of it was in your control. You have an uncommon ability to plan, as well as the nerve to execute, so the chances of success were much higher than they would have been for the average person.

You are a far above average person. You have known it all your life, although you have kept it hidden. You do not want to draw attention to yourself. You do not want to scare people.

It scares you, sometimes, what you are capable of. It would be better if you weren’t. But from time to time there is a benefit: when you need to, you can use it.

And you had to, for the second part of the plan. It was risky. Very risky. Little of it was in your control. This was when calmness and nerve came into it. The plan was loose; success depended on how you acted, how you responded, on avoiding errors and pitfalls.

You could have been spotted. Had that happened, this would all have been over. It could have gone no further.

All this planning, for nothing.

You would have been fine, personally. You would have got away. But your real target would have been missed.

The real target. No one else – not a single soul – knew what or who that was. They did not even suspect there was another target.

But they would find out soon enough.

Because for now everything was still on track. It had gone well. Very well.

A mess of cars, some in the car park, some on the narrow lane outside. Why people needed to all bring their ridiculous four-by-fours to pick up their kids was beyond her. Why not car pool? Or walk? Or bike? But no, they all came in their own car to a place that could not accommodate them all.

Result: chaos.

Parents everywhere; kids running from friend to friend, escaping the grasping hands of their mums and dads.

Mums and dads who were focused on getting their own child home and in front of the TV so they could open a bottle of wine and forget the misery of their existence.

Mums and dads who were not paying attention to where other kids went. Who didn’t care where they went. They had one job, one kid to stuff into their stupidly big car, and they were going to do it and no more.

Which made your job all the easier.

And now it was done.

And the boy was yours.

Pandemonium

i

Brian stared at the door. It was white, the paint cracked in places, a yellowing stain by the brushed steel handle. He noticed the smears and blemishes, but he did not take them in.

His mind was blank, everything forced out by one overpowering thought.

It had happened again.

Anna was gone.

It seemed impossible. Fifteen-year-olds didn’t get on planes and not get off. They did not vanish in airports. Airports were about as secure a location as there was. There were cameras everywhere.

It had seemed impossible back then, too. He remembered thinking it couldn’t be happening, that Anna would walk around the corner, or they’d find her sitting on a park bench or hiding in a bathroom or even at home, having walked back on her own from the school she had been supposed to be picked up from.

She hadn’t, though. It had happened. She had been kidnapped.

So maybe it seemed impossible, but that meant precisely nothing.

The door opened. Walton came in, accompanied by a man in a dark, baggy suit. The knees were shiny and the jacket had a pocket half torn off. His stomach stretched the material of his shirt, its skin visible where there was a missing button. His hair was unkempt and he had a flushed, round face.

He nodded at Brian, then leaned on a chair, his hands on the back. He looked around the room with a distracted air, as though he didn’t want to be anywhere near this case.

‘This is Detective Inspector Terry Spring,’ Walton said. ‘I called the police. To be on the safe side.’

DI Spring sniffed. ‘Mr Miller?’

Brian’s stomach contracted. He needed someone who could help find Anna and DI Spring was hardly cutting the most impressive figure.

‘Crowne,’ he said. ‘Brian Crowne.’

Spring held his gaze. ‘Crowne,’ he said. He turned to Walton. ‘You said the girl’s name is Anna Miller?’

Walton inclined his head in confirmation.

Spring turned back to Brian. ‘You’re Crowne? Let me guess – Miller is your ex-wife’s maiden name, which your daughter has decided to use. But by birth she’s Anna Crowne?’

The name hung between them, the silence expanding. Walton looked puzzled.

‘Exactly,’ Brian said.

‘And is she the Anna Crowne who went missing – what? A decade ago?’

‘Yes, she is.’

Spring took a deep breath. ‘I see.’

‘You think that means something?’ Brian said.

‘I don’t know,’ Spring replied. ‘But it’s interesting.’ He fixed Brian with a hard, penetrating gaze. Brian’s doubts about Spring’s effectiveness softened. ‘What do you think?’

Brian shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

ii

‘Let’s go through this again,’ DI Spring said. ‘In your words, please, Mr Crowne.’

‘My daughter, Anna, was supposed to arrive on the Heathrow flight,’ Brian said. ‘My wife – her stepmum – came to pick her up, but she didn’t come through.’ He paused. ‘And now … now I don’t know where she is.’

‘Obviously you’ve tried calling her?’

‘Voicemail,’ Brian said. ‘And nothing on Find My Phone. The last location was in the terminal at Heathrow.’

Spring turned to Walton. ‘And you’ve checked CCTV?’

‘The footage of the arrivals hall, yes,’ Walton said.

‘What about airside?’ Spring asked.

‘They’re looking at it now,’ Walton replied.

‘What’s the coverage?’ Spring said. ‘Everywhere?’

‘Yeah, more or less,’ Walton said. ‘If she got off the plane, we’ll see her.’

‘Can we join them?’ Spring said. ‘See for ourselves?’

Walton nodded. ‘I don’t see why not.’

He stood up and opened the door. Brian followed him into the corridor, Spring behind him. Walton walked to his right until he reached a pair of swing doors. Walton pushed through them and Brian followed him in. There was an open space with a series of monitors showing various parts of the airport. On a desk to the side a woman and a man in security uniforms were watching a screen. Walton nodded to them.

‘This is Mr Crowne and Detective Inspector Spring,’ he said. ‘They’re going to study the tapes with you.’

The woman nodded.

‘Anything yet?’ Spring said.

‘We’re just getting started,’ the woman replied. She pointed at the screen. ‘This is the gate area right after the plane landed. People are starting to disembark.’

Brian leaned forward. Passengers were emerging from a passage that led to the plane. He studied them as they left, a series of men and women and families all heading to whatever destination they had in mind, unaware that not long later they would be part of an unfolding drama.

And then, there she was.

There was no doubt. Hair, clothes, pink rucksack.

It was Anna.

He pointed at the screen.

‘That’s her,’ he said. ‘That’s my daughter.’

Smoke and Mirrors

i

Willow had tasted the panic of losing your child before. Every parent had. That moment when you were distracted in the supermarket, reaching for the pasta you always bought but then noticing that there was a cheaper option and pausing before changing your mind and choosing the cheaper one, why not? It was all the same. And then you put it in your trolley and realized your toddler had walked off and was nowhere in sight.

But they’d be safe enough. They’d be in the next aisle, pulling tins off the shelf. You’d see them any second. Which way, though? The aisle to the right, or the left? Suddenly that felt like a vital decision.

Because although you knew they’d be there – or somewhere – a voice in your brain was saying, What if they aren’t there? What if someone noticed them walking away from you, saw that you were distracted, and scooped them up then hurried out of the store?

And then the panic would begin to rise, pushing its way from the edge to the centre of your mind until all you could feel was a dreadful, hollow sensation that they were gone forever and your life would never be the same.

And then you saw them, toddling along in front of the baked beans, and you grabbed them and hugged them and kissed them and muttered in their ear Don’t ever do that again! I was scared!

So Willow recognized the feeling, but this was a different level of intensity. The fluttering beginnings of panic she had felt in the past was a mild, tame cousin of this.

This was all-consuming. She felt it in every muscle and bone in her body. Her mind was empty apart from a long, loud scream.

Anna was missing, and now Oakley was, too.

The tractor driver had turned back and was walking towards her. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘You shouted. I wondered—’

‘I have to go.’

‘What? There’s an ambulance on the way. And the cops. I think it’s better if you wait here, love.’

‘No. My son – he’s not – he should be with—’ She turned the key and the engine started. ‘I have to go.’

‘Careful,’ he said. ‘The car may be damaged.’

Maybe it was but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that it had started when she turned the key.

She pulled forward, twigs and branches snapping as she came out of the hedge, and swung in an arc so she was facing the right way, and then she put her foot flat to the floor and set off along the narrow lane in the direction of the football field.

It took maybe two minutes to get there, but it felt like an eternity to her. If Oakley wasn’t there, then every minute that passed he was getting further away. What had it been? Five, ten minutes already? Depending on the direction, he could be on the outskirts of Warrington or close to Lymm or up at Appleton Thorn.

Or on the M6. He could be on a motorway, heading away from her at more than a mile a minute.

She swung into the car park, hoping she would see a car or two, a few stragglers waiting while their kids played a few minutes more of football. Maybe Oakley would be among them. Maybe this would be over.

There was nobody on the field, and there was only one car in the car park.

The door opened, and Stacey climbed out. She was white, her face drained of colour.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

ii

‘What happened?’ Willow said. ‘Did you see him?’

Stacey shook her head. ‘It was like normal. Like any practice. I arrived and there were a bunch of parents here. I called to Max and he came to the car. He knew he had to be quick because his dad was waiting for him.’

‘And Oakley?’

‘I didn’t notice him. It was only when you called that …’ Her voice tailed off.

Willow stared at the football field. Fifteen minutes ago Oakley had been running around out there, mud on his boots, laughing with his friends.

And now, he was gone.

‘Call the coach,’ Stacey said. ‘Call Mike. He might know something.’

Willow nodded and picked up her phone. When Mike answered, his tone was guarded; he was used to calls from Willow, and they were rarely to congratulate him on his coaching.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Do you— is Oakley with you?’

There was a long pause. ‘Oakley? No. Why would he be?’

‘He’s not here. I was late. There was an accident. I asked Stacey to come for him, but he’d already gone.’

‘Jesus,’ Mike said. ‘I didn’t see him after practice. And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t there when I left. I tend to wait until all the kids have gone before I leave, so I know they’re all safe.’

Safe. The word had a heavier, more concrete meaning now.

‘So someone took him,’ Willow said. ‘He went with someone.’

‘Maybe your husband?’ Mike said. ‘Would he have come, thought it was his turn?’

‘No,’ Willow said. ‘He’s – he’s elsewhere.’

He was at the airport searching for his daughter. Her head spun, dizzy with panic.

‘Or another parent? Someone could have seen him alone and given him a lift. I’ll send out a message to the group thread.’

‘OK,’ Willow said. She turned to Stacey. ‘Maybe another parent has him.’

‘Maybe,’ Stacey said. ‘But, they would have called you, wouldn’t they?’

‘I could have missed it. In the accident.’

Both their phones buzzed. Willow read the message.

Hi all. Willow is looking for Oakley. Did anyone happen to give him a ride? Let me know if you did.

It was a matter of moments before the replies started to come in.

Not me.

Hope you find him!

I didn’t see him.

Good luck.

Behind them gravel crunched. Willow turned around, expecting – hoping – to see a parent pulling in, Oakley in the back seat.

It was a police car.

iii

Willow had not talked much to Brian about what had happened when Anna was five – her kidnap and subsequent return, the revelation that it was his mother, Edna, trying to use it to destroy his marriage to Julia, a goal which she had, ironically, achieved, albeit at the cost of ever seeing Brian or Anna again. A couple of months after they first met, when it was clear they were getting into a more serious relationship, Brian had come to her house with a bottle of red wine – unusually for him, as he hardly ever drank – and placed it on the table with two glasses.

There’s something I need to discuss with you, he’d said.

It was clear from his expression it was something weighty and important, and not something good. The options ran through her mind: he had cancer, a criminal record, was still married, had a secret gambling addiction.

She had never expected it to be what it was.

Did you ever hear about Anna Crowne? he said.

Vaguely, she said. The name rings a bell.

She was kidnapped, by her grandmother. Two years ago. It was a big story at the time.

Of course, she said. I remember that. I was living in Darlington, but it was a national story.

She paused and stared at him, slowly understanding what he was about to say.

Anna Crowne. Brian Crowne.

It must have been obvious from her expression that she had made the connection, because he nodded.

She’s my daughter, he said.

He had explained the entire story. When the story – and the wine – was finished, he sat back in his chair.

I thought I should tell you, he said. It’s kind of an important part of my past. I understand if it puts you off.

It had put her off, at least initially, and she had told him she needed time to think it through. She had talked to her parents and friends, but in the end it was Mandy, her oldest friend, who had convinced her to give him a chance.

We all have our pasts, she said. And it’s hardly his fault. And anyway, it’s unlikely he’ll be so unlucky again!

So Willow had put aside her misgivings.

Which she had worried about at the time. She should have taken heed of that worry, because now she was staring at a darkened sky, picturing her son blindfolded and gagged in in the back of some stranger’s car. Or outside, alone, terrified as night came.

Or dead in a canal.

And who was it this time? It couldn’t be Edna. She was long gone, dead and buried.

But then who? There was no one else. She had some ex-boyfriends, but they were harmless enough. There was no animosity there.

So maybe it was random, which didn’t help at all. Because how did you know where to even start looking?

A Sighting

i

The image on the screen was quite clear. Anna walked towards the arrivals area, part of a general procession in that direction. Brian leaned forward to watch more closely. As she approached the camera he could make out her face; she had a blank, expressionless look. He studied it, searching for any hint that she was upset or perturbed or anxious, but there was nothing.

He looked around her for anything unusual in the other passengers. They were all either talking to a companion or walking briskly and with purpose or staring at their phones.

Although one was not.

A man about Brian’s age was walking behind her. He was overweight and, even on film, seemed shambolic, almost desperate. He was staring at her, his eyes travelling up and down her body.

Brian wanted to reach into the screen and grab him by the throat and scream in his face She’s fifteen, you fucking pervert. Fifteen!

DI Spring tapped one of the security guards on the shoulder. ‘Can you pause it?’ he said.

She nodded and pressed a button. The image froze.

‘Notice anything?’ Spring said.

‘Seems normal,’ Walton replied. ‘What do you see?’

‘The guy,’ Brian said. ‘Behind her. He’s staring at her.’

Spring inclined his head slightly forward. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep an eye on him. See where he goes. See if he came out into the arrivals area. But that wasn’t it.’

‘Then what?’ Brian said.

‘Your daughter has a phone. You mentioned it was going straight to voicemail.’

‘She does. So?’

‘So she’s not got it in her hand. She’s not staring at it.’

‘Maybe it’s in her bag,’ Brian said. ‘Or coat pocket. I don’t see the big deal.’

Spring pursed his lips. ‘I’m not saying it’s a big deal. I’m just pointing it out. Think about it – a teenaged girl on a flight for an hour. She’d be desperate to see what her friends were up to as soon as she could.’

‘There’d be Wi-Fi on the plane these days,’ Walton said. ‘Maybe she was done with her phone.’

‘Last location was Heathrow,’ Spring said. ‘And look at everyone else. There are plenty of people glued to their phone. She isn’t.’

‘Battery?’ Walton said. ‘That would explain why she’s not answering now.’

‘It’s possible,’ Spring said. ‘It’s all possible. But it’s a question. An unanswered question. And I don’t like those.’

ii

The images started moving again and Anna moved out of view.

‘Where next?’ Brian said.

‘They go into the baggage claim area,’ the security guard replied. She smiled at him. ‘I can bring up the recording. We know the time stamp.’ She tapped on her keyboard, and the view on the screen changed. Some passengers milled around the conveyor belt, waiting for their luggage; others marched straight past.

Anna walked into view, then suddenly stopped. She looked from side to side, then set off to her right.

‘She had no checked bag,’ Brian said. ‘What’s she doing? Why’s she not leaving?’

‘Going in the direction of the toilets,’ the security guard said. ‘They’re down a short corridor in the corner of the baggage claim area. There are no cameras there, but there don’t need to be. There’s only one way in or out.’ He looked up. ‘We’ll lose her when she goes into that corridor. But we know where she is.’

They watched Anna walk off the edge of the screen.

‘Are you sure there’s no other place she could have gone?’ Brian said.

‘Yes,’ the security guard replied. ‘That’s all there is down there.’

Brian felt, for the first time in a while, a sense of relief. Anna was in a known location with one way in and one way out. She could still be in trouble – maybe she had fallen sick in the bathroom, maybe something else had happened – but at least they knew where she was.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We wait and see if she comes out. And if not, she’s still in there.’

Walton frowned. ‘We checked the bathrooms,’ he said. ‘If she was there, we should have found her.’

‘Maybe in a locked stall?’ the security guard said. ‘Would they have looked in every one? Perhaps they just went in and called her name. If she didn’t want to be found …’

‘Or if she was unconscious, or asleep,’ Brian said. ‘They might have missed her.’

‘Maybe.’ Walton sounded unconvinced.

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ DI Spring said. ‘Can you speed it up? See if she comes out of the ladies.’

The security guard nodded and the images sped up. They studied the screen. Passengers marched in and out at double speed.

There was no sign of Anna.

‘She went in after Anna,’ the security guard said, when a tall woman with long, blond hair came out.

‘We need to find her,’ Spring said. ‘Ask if she saw anything. Keep it rolling.’

They watched for another few minutes. Eventually, Walton shook his head. ‘That’s a quarter of an hour of real time. She didn’t come out.’ He turned to the security guard. ‘Lou,’ he said. ‘Let’s go down there, and you can take a look. If she’s in there, we’ll find her.’

DI Wynne, Again

i

The doors of the police car opened and two officers got out. The driver, a woman in her mid-thirties, looked around the car park, her gaze settling eventually on Willow.

‘Are you the driver involved in an RTA with the tractor?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Willow replied. ‘I had to come here. My son, Oakley – I was supposed to pick him up.’

The officer looked at Stacey, and then at Max.

‘He isn’t your son?’ she said.

‘No,’ Willow said. ‘My son – he’s not here.’

The officer stiffened. ‘And you don’t know where he is?’

‘No,’ Willow said. ‘I don’t.’

‘You’ve checked with other adults—’

‘Yes,’ Willow said. ‘I talked to his coach and he messaged all the parents.’ She stifled a sob; something about explaining this to a police officer was making it very real.

‘And no one knows his whereabouts?’

Willow shook her head. ‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘Like his sister.’

‘His sister?’ The other officer, a man in his late twenties, frowned. ‘She’s missing also?’

‘When she was five,’ Willow said. ‘She was kidnapped.’

‘I’m not following,’ the male officer said. ‘Can you go step by step?’

‘Ten years ago his sister – half-sister – was kidnapped,’ Willow said. ‘And now she’s missing again. She should have been at the airport, but she didn’t show up. I came to get Oakley, but there was an accident and I was late and he’s not here.’

The two officers looked at each other. The woman put her hands together.

‘First things first,’ she said. ‘Who’s missing right now?’

‘My son, Oakley. Oakley Crowne,’ Willow said. ‘And his half-sister, Anna.’

‘Anna Crowne?’ the female officer said. ‘His half-sister is Anna Crowne?’

‘Yes,’ Willow said.

‘The Anna Crowne?’

Willow nodded. ‘Yes. Anna Miller now, but the same person.’

‘And she’s missing,’ she said. ‘Again?’

‘Unless she arrived,’ Willow said. ‘But my husband would have told me if she had. So yes, she’s missing again. And so is Oakley.’

ii

Willow listened to the female officer as she radioed in what had happened.

Missing child, Oakley Crowne, six years old, wearing blue shorts and a Liverpool shirt, blond hair, brown eyes. Could be in a vehicle. No information on what type of vehicle.

She felt hollow, as though this was happening to someone else. The male officer came over to her.

‘Could he have gone home on his own?’ he said.

‘I don’t think he knows the way,’ Willow said.

‘He might have tried.’

Stacey put her hand on Willow’s forearm. ‘He didn’t go past you, so if he did try to walk he would have gone that way’ – she pointed to the left – ‘I can drive slowly and look for him, if that’s any help?’

‘Yes,’ Willow said, although she knew Oakley would never have left alone. ‘You should do that.’

Stacey hugged her. ‘I’ll call if I have any news,’ she said.

Willow nodded. She could feel Stacey’s sympathy, smell the pity, sense that in her friend’s eyes she had already changed into the mum who lost her kid. She would never be any different, but it wouldn’t matter. She and Stacey would drift apart, their friendship too painful a reminder of what she had lost.

No. She couldn’t think like that. Oakley would be fine. They would find him, and all this would be over.

‘We need to search the immediate area,’ the female officer said. She looked around; a stand of trees lining the far touchline and the end of the football field. On the other end was a clubhouse, the long windows in the bar areas dark and unlit. The door to the changing rooms was closed.

‘I’ll see if he could have got inside,’ the male officer said. He turned to Willow. ‘Maybe you could check the perimeter of the field?’

‘I’ll go the other way on the road,’ the female officer said. ‘There’ll be a lot more officers here soon, but let’s do what we can.’

Willow nodded and headed off at a run towards the stand of trees. It was about twenty feet deep, the edge easily accessible, before the undergrowth thickened and became impassable.

‘Oakley!’ she shouted. ‘Oakley! Are you in there?’

She jogged along the touchline, her eyes darting left and right, searching for a flash of blond hair or a burst of his red Liverpool shirt. At one point she thought she saw movement and blundered into the trees, a thorny branch whipping her calf, the pain sharp even through her jeans.

‘Is that you?’ She searched for the motion again, calling her son’s name.

There was nothing.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit! Oakley! Please! Come out!’

She backed out to the edge of the trees and continued to run along the touchline. When she reached the end of the field she turned and followed the trees that ran along the goal line; they were stubbornly empty, too.

The male officer emerged from behind the clubhouse. He caught her eye.

‘Anything?’

‘No,’ she said. She knew the answer, but she asked anyway. ‘You?’

He shook his head.

They both looked up as a blue Golf turned into the car park. A woman in her early fifties with short dark hair climbed out of the driver’s side; from the passenger side emerged a man about half her age. He had red hair and freckles and a quizzical, nervous look.

The woman walked over to Willow.

‘Mrs Crowne?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Jane Wynne.’ She nodded in the direction of her companion. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Blunt. I understand your son is missing?’

‘Oakley. He was here, at football practice. I was late.’

Wynne fixed her with a sharp gaze. ‘Mrs Crowne, I understand you’re married to Brian Crowne?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know Mr Crowne, after a fashion. I was the detective when his daughter, Anna, was kidnapped, in not unsimilar circumstances to these.’

‘This is nothing to do with that. It can’t be.’

‘I agree. But I can’t help noticing the similarities.’ Wynne put her hands in the pockets of her suit trousers. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Willow recounted the events; Wynne listened, her face impassive. When Willow had finished, she folded her arms.

‘So Anna is also missing?’

‘Unless he found her, yes.’

‘Would you mind confirming?’

Willow’s stomach shrivelled. ‘Do you think there’s a link?’

‘I have no idea,’ DI Wynne said. ‘For now I simply need the facts.’

‘I’ll call him,’ she said, and picked up her phone.

He answered immediately.

‘Brian,’ she said. ‘Any news? Did you find Anna?’

‘No.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘But we saw her on the CCTV. She went into the toilets. Since she didn’t come out, she must still be there. We looked but we haven’t found her yet.’

‘You think she’s there?’

‘I thought she might be, but …’

Willow took the phone from her cheek and turned to DI Wynne and DS Blunt. ‘They haven’t found her yet,’ she said. ‘But they think they know where she might be.’

Wynne rubbed her cheek with her hand. ‘Thank you.’

‘Who was that?’ Brian said. ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ Willow said. ‘From before.’

‘Wynne?’ There was shock in his voice. ‘Why are you with her?’

‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ Willow said. ‘About Oakley.’

Something About Oakley

i

Brian was airside when Willow called. Walton had led them into the baggage claim hall. The toilets were on the far side. As the security guard – she had introduced herself as Lou Banner – had described, they were on either side of a short corridor.

‘OK,’ Banner said. ‘I’ll go into the ladies.’

She disappeared through the door. Brian leaned against the wall. Spring was facing towards the main hall, his back to them. His head was moving from left to right, scanning the hall.

‘See anything?’ Walton said.

‘Just looking,’ Spring replied, without turning to face them. ‘Having a think.’

Walton didn’t reply. After a minute or two, the bathroom door opened. Banner came out.

She was alone. She shook her head. ‘Not in there.’

Brian felt the hope drain away. He had not been sure they would find her, far from it, but he had wondered if maybe, please maybe, she would be there.

And now she wasn’t.

‘Then where the fuck is she,’ Walton said. ‘We watched her walk in here.’

‘Check the gents,’ Spring said.

‘She wouldn’t have gone in there,’ Brian said. ‘Surely.’

‘Where would you go if you wanted to hide?’ Spring said. ‘You’d assume the ladies would be checked, so, if you could sneak in unobserved, you’d go to the gents.’

‘If she was trying to hide,’ Walton said. ‘We don’t know that.’

‘Why would she?’ Brian said. ‘What would she be hiding from?’

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Spring said. ‘I’m considering every angle. You know her and so you think she has no reason to hide, and you’re probably correct. But I don’t know her. So I wonder if maybe she is hiding. And if she is, she’d be wise to hide somewhere no one will look for her.’

Walton puffed his cheeks out. ‘I’ll check.’

‘And the disabled toilet,’ Spring said. ‘Check that, too.’

The disabled toilet was at the end of the corridor. The dial was green, but Brian knocked on the door to be sure. There was no answer so he pushed it open; it was empty.

A few seconds later. Walton came out of the men’s toilet. He caught Spring’s eye.

‘Good theory,’ he said. ‘But she’s not there.’

Brian looked around. She had walked down this corridor, he had seen it with his own eyes. There were only three doors, so she had to have taken one of them. Since she hadn’t left, she must still be there.

But she wasn’t.

He felt like screaming. He might have done, but his phone rang. It was Willow.

ii

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Brian. Any news? Did you find Anna?’

‘No. But we saw her on the CCTV. She went into the toilets. Since she didn’t come out, she must still be there. We looked but we haven’t found her yet.’

‘You think she’s there?’

‘I thought she might be, but …’

But what? He didn’t know what to say. She must be here, but she wasn’t. It was impossible, but it was happening. What words could express that?

On the phone he could hear Willow talking to someone. She was explaining what he had just told her.

‘Who was that?’ Brian said. ‘Who were you talking to?’

There was a pause. ‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ Willow said.

It took a moment for the words to register. Why was Wynne with Willow?

‘Wynne? Why are you with her?’

‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ Willow said. ‘About Oakley.’

‘What about him?’ Brian said. The tone in her voice was subdued, tense. He pictured her at the football field. If Wynne was present, there must be a reason. Some kind of accident, or injury. Something serious.

His mind raced. Was Oakley hurt? He didn’t need this. Not on top of Anna. His life was a mess. What had he done to deserve this? What the fuck was going on?

‘He’s—’ Her voice broke, and he realized she was sobbing.

‘Willow,’ he said, alarm mounting. ‘Willow. Tell me. What is it?’

‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘Oakley’s gone.’

Saturday Night’s Hardly Alright

i

The further she drove the more two things happened.

First, she got angrier and angrier that Zach – that little fucker, or non-fucker, as it was – had stood her up.

Stood her up.

It was hard to believe that someone – an adult male human – would arrange a date and then fail to show. If something had come up, he could have called her. If he’d decided he hated her and didn’t have the balls – no, courage, she shouldn’t use balls as a sign of bravery, it was toxic masculinity, although in fact, fuck it, he did lack balls, the bastard – to tell her, he could have sent a message.

Yes, he could have taken the coward’s way out and sent a message. Made an excuse. Sorry, not feeling well. I have a headache or even Had to go and get a haircut, see you another time. Anything other than letting a woman in her early forties go and sit alone in a pub and wait for you to arrive.

And then not even answer your fucking phone!

Angry? Angry didn’t do it justice. She never wanted to see him again.

Maybe one time. Maybe one time so she could let him know what she thought of him using the universal language of a knee to his inadequate balls.

Second, she became more and more convinced that this was a wild goose chase. Anna would emerge from some pub with a friend and get in touch with her dad needing a lift and Brian would call and tell her to head home.

And then she’d have spent half her Saturday night alone in a pub being stood up and half in her car driving part of the way to her ex-husband’s house.

What a turd of an existence. Really, was this what her life had come to? A week spent working on custody cases and divorce settlements and property conveyances followed by a weekend alone, or, if she was lucky, with half an hour here or there chatting to her beloved teenaged daughter as she drove her to a sports game or friend’s house. She had friends but they all seemed to have lives: families or partners or golf and tennis clubs. She had somehow let herself become isolated, alone.

Was she alone? When she looked on Facebook – she tried not to these days – all she saw were images of perfect family lives or perfect single lives. She knew that these pictures were carefully curated to present a favourable version of the truth – no one posted a photo of themselves sleeping on the couch drunk after an argument with their husband – but at least they had the good photos to post.

Out on a date with a new boyfriend! Some quality time with my kids! Finally, time with my husband alone! A family holiday to Florence – such amazing culture!

She didn’t have them to post if she wanted to.

Coffee alone on the M40 on a Saturday night! Stood up in a pub!

Yay. Go me.

She had one friend in particular – Lara – whose posts were almost an act of aggression. She had three kids – two girls and a boy – and her posts alternated between trumpeting the athletic (one daughter was a top tennis player) or aesthetic (another daughter had the lead in the school play) or academic (her son was a chess prodigy) achievements of her multi-talented children, and displaying how culturally sensitive and aware she was.

Julia liked her. Lara was lovely, at least in small doses, but whenever she saw her Facebook posts she wanted to either vomit or punch her in the face. Did Lara not know how boastful and self-serving she appeared? Was it not obvious to her that people were a) not interested and b) fucking sick of seeing her brag about every fucking aspect of her life?

Especially when it so happened that Julia knew that the truth was not quite as she presented it.

Two years earlier on a mums’ night out Lara had drunk one or two too many and confessed tearfully to Julia that she and her husband – some kind of economist – were getting divorced.

Apparently they never had sex – the last time they had tried, her husband had given up, unable to get an erection. She had offered her sympathy, and he had replied It’s not me, it’s you. I don’t like flabby women. For a moment, Julia had thought she’d misheard; the standard formulation was It’s me, not you, and it had taken her some seconds to register that he had said it the other way around. The crudity and offensiveness was one thing, but the insensitivity was genuinely shocking.

Lara had explained to him how appalling and offensive that was, and how it assumed a woman’s worth was in her physical appearance and he had replied, I know. But try telling that to my dick. It is what it is, I’m afraid. Maybe it’s just how things are going to be for us. I’m OK with that if you are.

She explained that she wasn’t OK with that. He said it was the best he could do, unless she lost some weight.

Things had gone downhill from there until he decided he wanted a divorce, a decision he had informed her of in a Costa Coffee. Julia had promised to be there, come what may, ready to provide support to her friend.

But the divorce had failed to materialize, and it had never been spoken of again.

In its place, the Facebook perfection ramped up. A perfection which hid the truth. Not that Julia cared. It didn’t help her with her shitty life, but it did give her some perspective, and that made her a little – a little – less jealous of the rest of the world.

Her phone rang. Brian. Here it was. The instruction to head home. She was almost disappointed. It was at least something to do.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Not great,’ he said.

She sat up in her seat, the lights of the M40 flashing by.

‘In what way?’

‘Anna’s not here. She’s not at the airport. We looked everywhere.’

The lights seemed to close in on her.

‘I put her on the plane. I watched her go.’

‘She got off. It’s on CCTV. Then she went to the ladies. After that – gone.’

‘Brian,’ Julia said. ‘This can’t be happening. Not again.’

When he replied his voice was high and tight.

‘There’s more,’ he said. ‘It’s not your problem, but you need to know.’

‘What?’

His voice was flat. He sounded utterly defeated. ‘Oakley’s gone, too.’

ii

She had, at worst, thought there was some miscommunication between Anna and Willow – who was, in Julia’s view, a nincompoop of the highest order and perfectly capable of messing up a simple pick-up at an airport – and Anna would emerge later, safe and sound.

It wasn’t clear what else it could be. Anna had been on the plane, and therefore must have got off. And from there, it was hard to see what could have happened to her. She was, after all, fifteen, so abducting her in the middle of an airport would hardly be easy. All she would have to do was shout and one of the many security personnel would be there in seconds.

Plus, she was Anna.

Julia was hardly a shrinking violet (what was a shrinking violet anyway? Some kind of self-effacing flower? She’d have to look it up) but Anna took no shit from anybody. Julia was half-proud and half-terrified. She’d noticed other people tended towards terrified.

So the idea she would allow herself to be snatched from the airport concourse? It was hard to believe.

So why was she driving north?

Because it had happened once before. And that left a mark on you.

And now it seemed there was good reason. Anna was missing – properly missing, it seemed – and so was Oakley.

Brian had explained the facts, minimal as they were, facts which left many open questions. But there was one question above all others, a question that left a gnawing pain at the centre of Julia’s being.

Were they connected?

It seemed impossible they were.

It seemed impossible they weren’t.

Either alternative was awful, if in different ways. If they were connected that was mind-boggling. How could they be?

Her mind went, of course, to Edna. Anna’s grandmother, who Anna – and this had always disturbed Julia – distinctly resembled, both in looks and temperament, albeit thankfully without the tendency towards psychopathic violence. Edna, though, had been gone for a decade. Moreover, she had been dead for months.

Which finally ruled her out. Death was the only thing that would have ruled Edna out, and she was gone, now, victim of a car crash in Normandy. Even she couldn’t come back to life.

Normandy. Where Zach had been.

Zach, who had been charm itself on their days out, but who had not shown any interest in taking things further once they got home. It was almost as if he knew he couldn’t fake it.

Zach, who had come into her life and then disappeared, the day Anna had done the same.

She tensed, her chest constricting. Was he involved in this?

She forced herself to breathe deeply, the rhythm settling the growing panic. She was sure he had nothing to do with it.

But she’d been sure of things before and, whatever else she was, she wasn’t someone who failed to learn her lessons.

So how on earth was she back in this situation again?

At Last, a Lead

i

They were back in the first room. Brian sat at the table, his eyes fixed on the yellow stain on the door. DI Spring was opposite him, one hand on a hip, the other rubbing the top of his head. Walton was standing by the door.

Spring cleared his throat and turned to Walton. ‘There’s no other way out? A side door?’

Walton shook his head. ‘Nothing. No door, no window. Nothing. The only way out is the way she went in.’

‘Then she’s in there,’ Spring said. ‘We just have to work out where.’

Brian closed his eyes. He felt exhausted, drained of all energy and hope. He had been here before, a decade ago, and he recognized the feeling. This was not an accident and there was no innocent explanation. If it had only been Anna then maybe he could have held out some hope there was a solution. But Oakley too? He had no idea how – or why – they were connected, but it seemed they were. And if they were, then this was worse and more dangerous than he could have ever imagined.

‘Do you have any ideas where?’ he said.

‘We have to take it step by step,’ Walton replied. ‘There’s something we’re missing. She went into the toilets—’

‘Into the corridor that leads to the toilets,’ Spring said.

‘Correct,’ Walton said. ‘Once she’s off camera, she’s in that corridor. It’s the only place she could be. And there is no other exit.’

‘So she went in,’ Spring said. ‘And didn’t come out.’

‘Seems so,’ Walton said.

‘Assuming she went to the toilets, there are only three options: ladies, gents, disabled?’

‘Only three options,’ Walton confirmed.

‘No secret doors?’

‘None.’

‘No windows in the bathrooms?’ Spring said.

Again, Walton shook his head. ‘None.’

‘That would suggest she’s still in there,’ Spring said. ‘Somewhere.’

Brian’s foot was twitching, tapping involuntarily on the floor. They had been through this already. They had searched the toilets and she wasn’t there. It was getting them nowhere.

‘But she’s not,’ he said. ‘She’s not in there. We looked.’

‘Right,’ Spring said. ‘So that leaves only one option. She left.’

‘But she didn’t,’ Brian said. ‘We would have seen her.’

‘We missed her,’ Spring said. ‘We must have. There are only two possibilities here: she’s still there or she left. The first is off the table. So she left, somehow, without being on camera.’

‘Impossible,’ Walton said. ‘There’s no way to do that.’

‘Could the cameras be faulty?’ Spring said. ‘Or have been tampered with?’

‘Tampered with? I don’t see how,’ Walton said. ‘Faulty? Unlikely, but possible, I guess. We can check.’

‘Do so,’ Spring replied. ‘In the meantime, we need to check every single person who went into and came out of the toilets after Anna. I want a log, with times, of all of them.’

‘OK,’ Walton said. ‘It’s on the way.’

‘I’ll watch the footage,’ Brian said. ‘I want to help.’

Spring turned to Walton. ‘Fine with you?’

‘Sure thing.’

‘And Oakley,’ Brian said. ‘What about him?’

‘You said Detective Inspector Wynne is involved?’ Spring said.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘Do you think it’s linked?’

‘I don’t know,’ Spring replied. ‘It’s hard to see how. But we can’t rule it out. Either way, we still have to find out what happened to Anna. So let’s focus on that. And then, Mr Crowne, you might want to go home and be with your wife.’

And ex-wife, Brian thought. She’s on her way too. God, this was turning into a fucking mess.

‘One more thing,’ Spring said. ‘The man who was following her. We need to know what happened to him.’

‘We’ll find the footage,’ Walton replied. ‘Then it’s over to you guys.’

‘Good.’ Spring raised an eyebrow. ‘Let’s get going.’

ii

Brian sat next to Banner and Walton and watched the footage. Starting with Anna, every time someone walked into or out of the corridor they made a note of the person and time.

They watched until the first security guard arrived to search the toilets. If Anna had left, then it must have been before that.

There was no sign of her leaving. When Banner paused the footage, Brian closed his eyes. He was gripped by a sensation of utter despair. This was hopeless. Anna had gone into the toilets – or corridor – and not come out. So she had to be there. But she wasn’t.

And there was nothing obviously suspicious about any of the people who had come in or out after her. Normal, weary passengers, trudging in and out, bags in hand.

He looked at Walton, then Banner.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘This is awful.’

‘I know,’ Banner said. ‘And I’m so sorry. Let’s watch again. Maybe there’s something there.’

‘Yeah,’ Walton said. ‘Good idea. You never know.’

It was clear from his tone that he did not think anything would come of it, but he did not want to say so in front of Brian.

The footage restarted.

Anna, entering the corridor. Next, a man with two children went in. Then a woman in her mid-thirties. Then a woman in a wheelchair. A young man followed.

A few seconds later an elderly man came out, wearing a flat cap and tweed jacket, followed by a woman in her sixties. Banner paused the footage.

‘We haven’t seen them before,’ she said. ‘We didn’t see them go in.’

‘No,’ DI Spring replied. ‘They must have been in before Anna showed up.’

Banner restarted the footage. Brian felt a dizzy, heady sensation. Anna was in there, right now – at least on the video – yet they had no idea where she was. She felt so close.

‘Stop for a moment,’ he said. ‘We know Anna is in there now. So – if she’s no longer in there – one of the people who leaves must be her.’

‘Except,’ Walton said. ‘None of them are. The man with children leaves. Not Anna. The woman in the wheelchair leaves. Not Anna. The old man in tweed. Not Anna.’ He looked at Brian. ‘I simply don’t see who it could be.’

Brian slumped in his chair. Years ago, when Anna had been kidnapped, it was obvious what had happened: she had been abducted from school when her mum turned up late. The question was who?

This time the question was what the hell had happened at all.

And he had no idea. Nobody did.

‘I have to go home,’ he said.

No Sign of Him

Willow turned at the sound of a car entering the car park. It was Stacey. She opened the car door and climbed out.

She caught Willow’s eye and gave a slight shake of the head.

‘I went all the way to the main road,’ she said, her voice fading. ‘I didn’t see him.’ She walked over to Willow and hugged her. ‘I’m so sorry this is happening. But it’ll be fine. I know it will.’

Willow wanted to believe her, but she couldn’t. She felt tears well up, and, without warning, started to sob, her whole body shaking with the force of them.

Oakley was gone.

Was this it? Was today the last time she’d ever see him? Was the goodbye when she had dropped him off at football the final goodbye?

It didn’t seem possible. The universe could not be so unfair.

But it was happening. Right here, right now.

DS Blunt was talking into his phone by the blue Golf. DI Wynne left him and came across to Willow and Stacey. She waited, hands in her pockets.

It took Willow a while to compose herself. When the sobs had subsided, Stacey let go of her.

‘Mrs Crowne,’ DI Wynne said. ‘We have a process in these kinds of cases. We will mount a search of the immediate area. If that is unsuccessful, we will use all the resources at our disposal – air units with thermal cameras, teams of police divers, officers going building to building – to find your son. Concurrently we will put out a public alert for Oakley. If possible, I’d like a recent photograph. We will also make sure that officials at all ports, airports and train stations will be watching for him. We will do everything we can to find your son.’

Willow didn’t know what to say. She wanted to shout at the cop, blame her for what happened, blame anyone, but what she said also made sense.

Worse, it made this real.

‘We also have to consider what happened to Anna,’ DI Wynne said. ‘I talked to my colleague from the Manchester force – Detective Inspector Spring – and he informed me there is no news of her. They believe she is somewhere in the airport – there’s no sign of her having left – but it’s possible she isn’t.’

‘You think her and Oakley are linked?’ Stacey said.

‘I don’t know.’ Wynne held her hands up. ‘It could well be that Anna met a friend and didn’t bother to call her parents. Kids can be self-centred in that way, especially teenagers.’

‘So what next?’ Willow said. She felt small and helpless.

‘As I said, we have a process. First we look for Oakley here, where he was last seen. That’s our focus. And if you could, I’ll need the contact details of the coach and all the parents. We’ll interview them, see if anyone saw anything.’

‘I have them,’ Stacey said. ‘I’ll get them right now.’

‘And if no one saw anything?’ Willow said.

Wynne took a deep breath. ‘Then we’ll follow the other steps I outlined,’ she said. ‘But for now let’s hope the answer is closer to home, Mrs Crowne.’

‘And me? What do you need from me?’

‘It would be best for you to go home,’ Wynne said. ‘In case Oakley shows up there, either on his own or with another parent.’

Willow started to sob again. Stacey put her arms around her. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell Max’s dad to come and pick him up from your house. You can leave your car here. I’ll drive. Come on.’

She steered Willow towards her car. Willow felt empty, devoid of any ability to move or act or think. It was as though she was fading away.

And she would have been glad to do so. At least this would be over.

An Unwelcome Return

i

The news about Oakley changed everything. Julia had assumed Anna would show up; now she was terrified.

She remembered this feeling all too well. The alternating between all-consuming panic, then terror, then despair, then, for a brief sliver of time, hope, before the panic came rushing back and started the cycle all over again.

Over time the despair pushed out any other emotions, although they were there, under the surface, ready to appear at any moment.

And now that she knew Oakley was involved any hope of a swift resolution was quickly receding. She found herself shaking her head as she drove. What the fuck was going on? How could they both have disappeared?

She doubted it was some half-sibling plan cooked up together. Anna and Oakley weren’t close; Anna only saw him one weekend in four, and during the pandemic she had hardly seen him at all. From what Anna told her he was spoiled and brattish, but that was a teenager talking about her six-year-old half-brother, so who knew what the truth was?

Now, though, it seemed that Oakley and Anna’s lives were more intertwined than she had imagined, because she was sure that their disappearances were linked.

There was no evidence, yet, to prove it, and Brian had been unsure. I don’t see how, he said. I know it’s crazy but I think it’s a coincidence.

She could see where he was coming from. By far the most likely explanation was that Anna had gone off with a friend and that Oakley had wandered off when his mum was late and would soon be found. At least, those would have been the most likely explanations if only one of them had disappeared. But both of them? It was so unlikely that Julia felt there must be some kind of link, and the thought of that filled her with a sense of crippling dread.

The problem was the question of who would have done it? Who could have done it? Only one name came to mind.

Edna.

But Edna was dead.

And even if she hadn’t been, how could she have done this? She would have needed to know which flight Anna was on, and then she would have had to somehow abduct her. Edna would have been – if she was alive – in her mid-seventies by now, and there was no way she could overpower a fit fifteen-year-old girl, especially not one like Anna, who would put up a fight.

What would she have done? Dragged Anna through the airport, kicking and screaming? She would have been seen, and stopped immediately.

Or suppose she tried a different approach. Brian said Anna had gone into the toilets and not come out – so could Edna – or someone else – have drugged her in there?

Possible, but Edna would have had to carry her out, and, despite the fact Anna would be too heavy for her, that too would be obvious.

All these questions applied to anyone who would have abducted Anna. An airport was the wrong place to do something like that, which led her back to the conclusion that Anna had gone with a friend and neglected to tell anyone, her phone had died and she was at that moment laughing and joking in someone’s front room, unaware of the panic she was causing.

Which meant Oakley was a coincidence, and she had already been through the likelihood of that.

Which left her in a simple situation: she had no idea how, why or what had happened, and not the first clue who would or could have done it.

Julia glanced at her watch: 8 p.m. An hour to go.

She pressed her foot down. The sooner she arrived, the better.

ii

Her phone rang as she passed the Stafford exit. The number was not in her contacts, but this was not the night to be ignoring phone calls.

‘This is Julia,’ she said.

‘Mrs Crowne,’ a familiar voice said. ‘This is Detective Inspector Jane Wynne.’

The name, and the voice, and the associations with what had happened when Anna was five sent her into a whirl of panic. She breathed deeply to try and control it.

‘Mrs Crowne? Is everything OK?’

‘Miller,’ Julia said. ‘I go by my maiden name now. And I’m fine, I suppose. But – I’m sure you’ll understand – your call brought back some memories.’

‘Of course, Ms Miller. Is now a good time to talk?’

‘Yes. I’m in the car. Heading to Brian’s house. He called and told me what’s happening. Do you have news?’

‘I’m afraid not. There is a search effort underway, involving officers and some local residents. My colleague and I are interviewing all the parents who were picking up children at the football field this evening, but we have not yet developed any lines of enquiry.’

‘And Anna?’ Julia said. ‘Any news of her?’

‘Nothing, yet.’

‘God,’ Julia said. ‘I can’t believe this is happening again.’

‘It is quite unfortunate,’ Wynne replied. ‘And I’m very sorry, on your behalf. We’ll talk later, but I do have one question for you.’

‘Anything,’ Julia said.

‘Can you think of anyone who might have a motive to kidnap Anna or Oakley?’

‘Or both,’ Julia said.

‘Or both,’ Wynne agreed. ‘But either would be a start.’

Julia paused. ‘I was thinking about that myself,’ she said. ‘And there’s no one. No one living, anyway.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Wynne said. ‘Think as widely as possible. Anna’s friends, parents of friends, teachers. Anything that comes to mind. Strange behaviour you might have noticed, unexplained absences. Whatever you can think of, however small.’

There was nothing. Really nothing. She went through the last few weeks, searching for something Anna might have said or for a strange mood she had been in, but nothing came to mind.

The oddest thing that had happened was Zach standing her up out of the blue.

Zach, a man dating a woman, but who was not interested in having sex with her. It could happen, but it was – well, it could be considered under the banner of ‘strange behaviour’.

Surely Zach was nothing to do with this. Surely.

‘There is one thing,’ she said. ‘I’ve been dating someone. A man called Zach. We were supposed to go out for dinner tonight, but he never showed up. His phone is off, no messages, nothing.’

She felt suddenly stupid, telling this detective about how her boyfriend had embarrassed her, but Wynne put her at ease.

‘Keep going,’ she said. ‘Was this a recent relationship?’

‘A month or two.’

‘So quite new.’

‘Did you meet him online?’

‘No,’ Julia said. ‘We bumped into each other in a pub, in Oxford.’

‘Can you tell me about him?’ Wynne said.

‘He’s a French professor at the university. He’s recently back from a trip to Normandy, as it happens. Maybe he didn’t show up because he was tired.’

There was a long pause.

‘Normandy?’ Wynne said. ‘You said Normandy, right.’

‘Yes,’ Julia said. ‘Where Edna was living.’

‘Right,’ Wynne said. ‘Where Edna was living.’

‘You think it’s linked?’

‘I don’t know. Could you share Zach’s details? I’d like to talk to him.’

‘Of course,’ Julia said. She gave his full name. ‘I’ll send you his email and phone number straight away.’

In the Dark

i

Mike, the coach, had provided the contact details for the team. Wynne had asked him to inform the parents that they would be contacted by the police so to please look out for the call. She chose the next name from the list, Chuck Bentley, father of Bobby and the parent who had collected him from football practice earlier that evening.

The phone rang twice before a man answered in a broad Manchester accent.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Bentley? This is Detective Inspector Jane Wynne.’

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘You lot finally caught up with me!’

Over her years on the force, Wynne had often observed a curious tendency in some people to make a joke about being guilty when contacted by the police. What is it this time? or Thought I’d got away with it or something along the lines of Mr Bentley’s You lot finally caught up with me! She had often wondered whether it was owing to nerves, or whether it was a sign they were guilty of something.

Maybe both. She gave a polite laugh.

‘That’s for another occasion,’ she said. ‘I was hoping you could answer some questions about this evening. As you may already know, Oakley Crowne is—’

‘I heard,’ Bentley said. ‘Awful news.’

‘Indeed. We’re trying establish a line of enquiry and so we are contacting any potential witnesses to see if they can help. I understand you picked up your son this evening?’

‘I did,’ Bentley said. ‘Mike – the coach – said you’d be calling, so I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m afraid I didn’t see anything unusual at all. I waited in the car for Bobby. I was checking messages, not really looking, you know? And then Bob came over and got in the back and I drove off. I had to get his sister from swimming, so I didn’t really hang around.’

‘Did you see anyone there you didn’t recognize?’

‘There are always a few. Grandparents, nannies. But nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘And there was no unusual activity? Shouting, running?’

‘No. Not that I saw. I mean, it’s a bit of a circus, is pick-up. You’ve got twenty or so kids, most being picked up alone – I know, we should car pool, but it’s easier to do it yourself – so that’s near on twenty cars. And the car park can fit what? Ten? So you’ve got cars coming in and out, kids in the car park, some kids going out onto the road …’

Wynne pictured the scene. It would be – at best – semi-organized chaos. And the problem for her was that unless you were watching a particular child, you wouldn’t know what had happened to them. Let’s say you saw Oakley heading to the road, and when you looked back he was gone – you’d simply assume he was with the person he was supposed to be with. If someone wanted to abduct a child – provided you could get him into a car quickly, and without much fuss – it was perfectly possible no one would notice.

Of course, it was equally possible there had been some fuss, and someone had noticed. Not, however, Mr Bentley.

‘And Bobby?’ Wynne said. ‘Did he see anything?’

‘I asked him. Nothing, I’m sorry to say. Like I said, he came straight to the car.’

Wynne looked across the room. DS Blunt had put his phone down, and was consulting the list.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘If anything comes to mind, please call me.’ She gave him her number. ‘Anything at all, however insignificant it might seem.’

‘I will,’ Bentley replied. ‘And you call me if any more questions pop up.’

She hung up and turned to Blunt.

‘Anything?’

He shook his head. ‘Seems most people waited with their noses in their phones, then left as soon as their kid was onboard.’

‘Same as I’m hearing,’ Wynne said. ‘But let’s keep plugging away.’

ii

She was about to call the next parent when her phone rang. A Manchester number.

‘DI Wynne,’ she said.

‘This is Spring,’ a male voice said. ‘We talked earlier.’

‘Yes. Any news?’

‘None. You?’

‘We’re interviewing parents. As yet, no leads.’

‘Same here. It’s as though she vanished off the face of the fucking planet. I watched her walk into the toilets and she never came out.’

‘She must have.’

‘I know. But she didn’t.’

‘At least you have CCTV,’ Wynne said. ‘All we have is a six-year-old boy who’s not where he should be.’

‘I want to talk timing,’ Spring said. ‘Between the two. What time did the boy disappear?’

‘Between six-twenty and six-thirty,’ Wynne said. ‘Practice finished at twenty past and Mrs Crowne arrived at half past.’

‘Six twenty is fifty minutes after we last saw Anna,’ Spring said.

‘Where are you going with this?’ Wynne said.

‘Just thinking it through.’

‘You see a link?’ Wynne said.

Spring sniffed. ‘It’s hard not to. What I don’t see is how.’

‘If Anna entered the bathroom fifty minutes before Oakley disappeared,’ Wynne said, ‘it would have been hard for someone to get her out of the airport, into a car and to the football field in time to pick up Oakley. Possible, if they left almost immediately and had a car ready to go. But you didn’t see her leave.’

‘Right,’ Spring said. ‘If Anna and Oakley were kidnapped, it probably wasn’t by the same person.’

‘Unless one person picked up Anna, and another picked up Oakley,’ Wynne said. She rubbed her temples. This was becoming preposterous. ‘So if they’re linked,’ she said, ‘we need at least two people working together.’

‘Right,’ Spring said. ‘Hard to believe. Who would go to all this trouble?’

‘So maybe they’re not linked,’ Wynne said. ‘That makes more sense.’

‘But it would be a fucking massive coincidence,’ Spring said. ‘I’m sure you feel the same about those as I do.’

‘Of course I do. But I’ve also learned to believe in Occam’s razor, over the years.’

‘In what?’

‘The idea that the simplest explanation is more often than not the best. So despite it being a massive coincidence, it’s more likely than a team of master criminals abducting Anna and her half-brother for some unknown purpose.’

‘Which leaves an opportunist picking up Oakley, and something else happening to Anna.’

Wynne considered what Spring was saying. ‘Something else happening to Anna makes some sense. Perhaps she found some way out of the airport – a side door she shouldn’t have gone through – and went to the pub with a friend. But the idea of an opportunist taking Oakley?’ She paused. ‘It seems a risky place to do it.’

‘Which would mean he was targeted,’ Spring said. ‘And in turn that raises the question of why, and whether Anna is linked. So we have either a massive coincidence or a complex, coordinated operation by persons unknown for no obvious reason.’

‘Those are the options,’ Wynne said.

‘Neither one appeals,’ Spring said. ‘Tell me about the last time.’

‘Last time?’

‘Anna. When she was five.’

‘That was the grandmother, Edna.’

‘She disappeared, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. Eventually showed up in France.’

‘Was she arrested? Did I miss that?’

‘No,’ Wynne said. ‘She died.’

‘How?’

‘Car crash. She was living under a false name in Normandy. They found her original passport in her house, searched the name and found they had one of Interpol’s most wanted on their hands.’

‘So if she’s dead,’ DI Spring said, ‘where does that leave us?’

‘Without a single suspect,’ Wynne said. ‘Or a single lead.’

From the corner of her eye she saw DS Blunt gesture to her. He got to his feet.

‘One second,’ she said to Spring, then looked at Blunt. ‘What is it?’

‘We have something,’ he said. ‘One of the parents noticed something unusual.’

Stockton Heath, Again

i

Julia had not taken this route in years, but she could have driven it in her sleep. The houses, streets, pubs and shops all as familiar as a pair of well-worn gloves or a much-read book.

She passed the London Bridge pub. She and Brian had gone there on dates before they married, as newly-weds, before they had Anna, and then, once she came along, with her in tow. Not for the same kind of drunken nights out, but on Sunday afternoons for a roast dinner with other friends who had young kids, or with visiting relatives or parents.

Even with Edna, sometimes, although Edna thought pubs were vulgar and for the common people, and only deigned to visit, holding her nose all the while, because it was her one chance of seeing her granddaughter on a Sunday afternoon. Normally, if a pub lunch was proposed, she would try to persuade Brian to bring the family to eat at her house; he would cave in, and then Julia would tell him they were going to the pub, where other people and colour and fun were, and not to Edna’s cold and lifeless mansion, and then she would, during a tense but barely polite telephone call with her mother-in-law, inform her that they were grateful for the invitation, had to decline, but would be delighted if Edna joined them at the London Bridge.

Such occasions were one of the many reasons Edna had built up a simmering hatred of Julia, a hatred which had led to the worst weeks and months of Julia’s life, weeks and months which she was glad were in the past.

Until now, that was.

The sight of the pub – and the left turn that would take her to Brian’s current and her former home – crystallized everything that had happened in the last few hours into a single, agonizing point: Anna was gone, again.

Different, this time, of course: no Edna involved, for a start, but the same, in so many ways.

The same realization that you were powerless. All you could do was wait. You might see her one minute, then never see her again. You suddenly understood how huge the world was – if someone wanted to disappear, or someone wanted to hide another person, it was almost impossible to stop them.

The first time, Anna had been gone for seven days, seven days that could have been an eternity, seven days that had contained the most exquisite agony Julia could ever have imagined. And then she had been returned, but that had not been the end of things.

It had only been the start.

She shuddered at the memory. Being here made it so immediate, so powerful, but she pushed it away. She had new problems to deal with.

She took the left, and then the right at the off-licence – Bargain Booze – which led to Brian’s house. There was a parking spot on the road a couple of doors up; she took it, knowing that it would result in a passive-aggressive note on her windshield from Jan, the elderly lady who lived there and who thought of the space outside her house as her own, despite the fact it was no such thing.

If she still lived there, of course, although Julia guessed, from the fact the space had been left for her, that she did.

She climbed out and walked along the pavement, feeling as though she had gone back in time. The front door was the same: black paint, frosted glass, a silver number 8, no doorbell.

She rapped on the door. There was the sound of barking.

A dog, she thought. They have a dog. He always refused when we were married. Said Edna was allergic.

The door opened. Brian stood there, framed in the light. Behind his legs a puppy – some kind of poodle or poodle mix – barked furiously.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘She’s more bunny rabbit than dog.’ He stepped back. ‘Come in.’

ii

They walked through into the kitchen. The same cupboards, same cooker. A new fridge, though, with a water and ice dispenser built in. He’d always wanted one of those.

‘Tea?’ he said. ‘Or something stronger? I think there’s some brandy. We had it on the Christmas pudding.’

‘Tea’s fine.’

He didn’t need to ask whether she wanted milk or sugar. He switched the kettle on, and leaned against the countertop.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You’re here.’

‘Right. Any updates?’

He shook his head.

‘And theories?’

‘No.’ His lip quivered and tears formed in his eyes. They began to roll down his cheeks. ‘Nothing.’

Julia pulled out a chair and sat down. Her legs were weak and she was feeling dizzy. She realized she too was crying.

‘Brian,’ she said. ‘What on earth is this?’

‘I don’t know.’ He took a series of deep breaths. ‘She – she just vanished.’

‘People don’t just vanish,’ Julia said.

Brian looked up at her, his expression totally helpless. ‘Then where is she?’

There was the sound of the front door opening. The dog jumped up and ran out of the kitchen.

‘That’ll be Willow,’ Brian said. ‘She called to say she was on her way home from the football field.’

He turned and headed out of the kitchen. She heard a loud thud as something heavy – a bag, maybe – hit the floor, and then there was a high-pitched shriek.

She stiffened in her chair.

‘You bastard!’

It was a woman – Willow, presumably – shouting at the top of her voice. From experience living in the house, Julia knew that the neighbours on this terraced street would hear every word.

‘This is your fault!’ Willow screamed.

She heard Brian talking softly, but could not make out what he was saying. Whatever it was, it wasn’t working.

‘This is all because I married you,’ she shouted. ‘I should have left you when you told me about your stupid fucking daughter and your crazy ex-wife and your psychopath of a mother!’

More murmured words from Brian, and then the tirade continued. She sounded completely out of control. Julia began to wonder if she should make a discreet exit via the back door.

‘Did you do this? You’re probably the same as your mother! A fucking murdering lunatic! Insanity runs in families! I should have known, I should have fucking known. I should never have got involved with you. Never!’

There was another loud thud as something else hit the floor, and then the kitchen door banged open.

Willow stared at her, her face swollen and flushed, her eyes hollow and frightened.

‘You!’ she hissed. ‘You’re here!’

My Home, My Castle

That fucking bitch. Why was she at the house? Why? Because her daughter was missing. So what? Why did that mean she was here? And why was Willow supposed to care?

She cared about getting Oakley back, and that was all. Anna and Julia and Brian could all go and run off a fucking bridge or in front of a train or whatever they wanted, taking all their shit with them.

She never wanted to see any of them again, Brian included.

Brian especially.

She blamed him. Whatever this was, it was his problem. Not hers. And not Oakley’s. Except now Oakley was wrapped up in it and he was in danger and as soon as she had him back she was taking him away and never letting Brian near him again.

‘Hi,’ Julia said. She was thin-lipped, nervous.

Willow looked her up and down.

Bitch.

‘It’s him,’ she hissed, pointing into the room behind her. ‘He’s behind this.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘It is.’ Willow laughed. ‘Think about it, Julia. Go on. Think.’

‘I should leave,’ Julia said.

‘That’s OK.’ Brian came into the kitchen. ‘I’ll talk to Willow and—’

‘And what?’ Willow said. She laughed again. ‘You did the right thing, Julia. Getting your daughter away from him. That’s what I’m going to do when I get Oakley back. The difference between us is that I won’t make the mistake you did. I’ll be gone for good. Thank you, for teaching me that lesson.’

‘You do what you need to do,’ Julia said. ‘But I don’t think Brian is responsible for—’

‘You don’t?’ The bitch was stupider than Willow had thought. ‘Let me enlighten you, Julia. You want to know how you can tell it’s him? Because as soon as you let your daughter near him, this happens. She gets on that plane, comes to see Daddy and look what fucking happens.’

Julia was looking at her, slowly nodding her head.

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ she said. ‘I really think I should leave.’

Willow shrugged. ‘Be my guest,’ she said.

Mirror, Mirror

Julia and Willow, both in his kitchen. It had never happened before; he had never expected it to, unable to imagine the circumstances which would have brought them together. If he had tried, he would not have come up with this, not have foreseen a situation in which Willow was staring at him with hatred and contempt and Julia was looking at him with pity.

He deserved both.

‘You should stay,’ he said to Julia. ‘We need to talk.’

First he would have to calm Willow down. He had seen her like this once before, when she had suspected him of having an affair with a work colleague. She had totally misread the situation, but he was unable to convince her of that; she had lost any semblance of control, raging about slicing off his genitals – that was not the word she used – and threatening to publicly humiliate him by explaining to the world how he never satisfied her in bed and was in general a sorry excuse for a man. He left the house, and when he returned the next day she picked up where she had left off, issuing more threats of mutilations and humiliations, then falling into a frosty silence, which lasted two weeks, until he had in the end convinced her of his innocence.

Their marriage had resumed, but he could not fully forget the depth of her rage, a rage which had now returned.

He wasn’t sure what he would do. What he could do, because she blamed him for Oakley’s disappearance, and if Oakley didn’t come back soon she would continue to do so.

And then there was Julia.

Seeing her at the door then in the kitchen had shocked him. They had divorced after the whole situation with Anna and his mother, but that wasn’t the reason they had split up. They were going to anyway. Julia had made that clear; in fact, it was what had started the whole thing.

He had never wanted to, though.

And he still didn’t. It had hit him when she sat down at the table.

He still loved her. He had always loved her. He would have fought to stay with her, but what Edna had done had made that impossible. His mother had won, in a way, after all. She hated Julia, hated the fact she did things her way, hated how she rejected Edna’s view of the world, and she wanted Brian to have nothing to do with her. That was why she had done what she did. It hadn’t gone as she had planned, but Edna had got what she wanted when it came to ending their marriage. It cost Brian a broken heart, but his mother wouldn’t have cared about that.

And his heart had broken all over again. Having her here reminded him of what might have been: a shared life in this house, a teenage daughter, maybe another child. He loved Willow, too, but not like Julia. You got one true love in your life, if you were lucky, and his was sitting in his kitchen. It just happened not to be his wife.

He would have to deal with that later, though, not that there was anything he could do. It was over between them, and, whatever happened with Willow, there was no chance Julia would have him back. The very idea was ridiculous.

‘I’m happy to leave,’ Julia said. ‘You two have plenty to talk about.’

Willow nodded. ‘Yes, we do.’

‘No,’ Brian said. ‘You can stay. Your daughter is missing.’ He pointed at Willow. ‘And your son is missing. And I know how terrible that is. But here’s the thing: my daughter and my son are missing. And we need to do whatever we can to get them back. So maybe, Willow, you don’t want Julia here, and maybe you, Julia, would rather leave. Fine. But first, let’s sit down and figure out a plan.’

He looked from one to the other.

‘In the living room?’ he said.

They did not have time to move before there was a knock on the door.

Willow started. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s Oakley.’

Three Blind Mice

i

Wynne had barely stepped back when the door was yanked open. Willow Crowne glared at Wynne. Her eyes were wild and staring, her lips thin and bloodless.

‘Did you find him?’ she said.

‘Not yet,’ Wynne replied. She had the feeling that Crowne was about to slam the door, but instead she gave a small nod.

‘I was thinking that we could talk,’ Wynne said. ‘One of the parents did see something of interest. It’s not much, but—’

Brian Crowne joined them at the door. ‘You have a lead?’

‘A start,’ Wynne said.

Brian stepped back. ‘Come in.’

Wynne followed them into the living room. It was an odd sensation to be back. She remembered it well. That was what made her so uneasy about this case. To have two children from the same family – extended family, at least – disappear on the same evening was shocking enough. But for it to be the second time for one of them – well, that left her feeling as though there was more to this than she could, at that point, even begin to fathom.

The déjà-vu intensified when she entered the living room. Julia Crowne – Miller, she corrected herself – was sitting on the couch. She nodded.

‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ she said.

Brian Crowne gestured to an armchair. Wynne shook her head. ‘I can stand.’

‘You said you had a lead?’ Brian said. ‘For Oakley?’

‘Yes,’ Wynne replied. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing on Anna yet.’ She saw Julia’s face fall, her expression slackening. This was what made the job so hard.

‘DS Blunt and I have interviewed all the parents now,’ Wynne said. ‘None of them saw anything out of the ordinary, apart from Anne Davids.’

‘That’s Charlie’s mum,’ Willow said. ‘What did she see?’

‘She saw a vehicle she didn’t recognize. A blue van.’

‘There are a few parents with vans,’ Brian said. ‘Transits. A Sprinter. Could be one of them.’

‘This was a small van, the size of a regular car.’

‘Still,’ Brian said. ‘It could be a parent.’

‘That is certainly possible,’ Wynne said. She had the same impression herself. ‘But Mrs Davids claims she is the kind of person who notices these things, and she has not seen that vehicle before.’

‘Did she see Oakley get into it? Or go near it?’ Willow said.

‘No. And she did not remember anything about the driver, other than that they might have been wearing a hooded top of some kind.’

‘It’s not much,’ Willow said.

‘No,’ Wynne said. ‘But it’s something. And it’s quite a distinctive vehicle.’

‘Can’t you ask all the parents who were there if it’s their van?’ Brian said. ‘And if it isn’t – then why was it there?’

‘We did,’ Wynne said. ‘We asked them all. And nobody knew anything about it.’

ii

She saw the hope flare in Willow and Brian’s faces. There was even a ghost of it in Julia’s; any development was something, even if it wasn’t related directly to Anna.

She was glad for them, but she did not want it to lead to disappointment, because, although it was a start, it was not much.

‘Let me clarify a few things,’ Wynne said. ‘It’s promising, yes. If there was a blue van there that shouldn’t have been, that gives us a vehicle to look for—’

‘You’ve put out an alert?’ Willow said.

‘Yes. We did that immediately.’ Wynne folded her arms. ‘But we don’t have a registration, or a description of the driver. We can examine local CCTV, but in that area … it would be easy to avoid population centres and abandon the vehicle somewhere in the Cheshire countryside, then switch to a new one. Of course, maybe they didn’t do that. But it’s very possible.’

‘That assumes they planned this?’ Brian said. ‘They weren’t opportunists, hanging around a place there might be unaccompanied kids?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Wynne said. ‘Even if they were opportunists, they might have a plan to switch vehicles. They would still not want to be traced.’

‘What do you think?’ Willow said. ‘Was this planned?’

Wynne paused. This was the central question: were these two opportunistic crimes, linked by nothing more than a coincidence?

If so, with the lack of evidence they would be hard to solve, especially with time quickly passing. If Anna and Oakley weren’t found soon – and there was little prospect of that – then the chances they would never be found rose exponentially.

And in this case, too, it would be hard to find them. It would have taken meticulous planning and execution; she and Spring would be far behind the curve by now.

There was another question. If they were linked, two targeted abductions, then why? It was a lot of effort, not to say risk, for little reward. So much so that if it weren’t for the fact this had happened before, Wynne would have dismissed it entirely. There was no reason for someone to kidnap Anna and Oakley. It was difficult and risky, and there was no reward. Brian, Willow and Julia couldn’t pay a huge ransom.

But it had happened before, and that made her wonder.

‘DI Wynne,’ Julia said. ‘Do you think it was planned? Is there a link to Anna?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ Wynne said. ‘But if we can find out, we’ll be halfway to seeing Anna and Oakley again.’

PART THREE

The Boy

The boy has been asleep for a while, lulled by the gentle rocking but mainly by the sedatives. They will not harm him in the long run, although he will be groggy and disorientated when he wakes up. He needed a strong dose to ensure he went to sleep quickly and did not awaken at an inopportune moment.

Because there was work to be done even after he was taken.

You could not be too careful. Assume the worst. If it doesn’t happen, all you have lost is the effort that went into planning for it. If you don’t, you stand to lose everything.

And this has been too long in the making to risk it now.

You are tired, if truth be told. Keeping this going has been a strain that few could handle. Part of you has enjoyed it: the puzzle, the jeopardy, the test of whether you could pull it off. It has not been easy. It has caused stress, sleepless nights, moments of self-doubt.

But now it is near completion.

You would prefer that it had not been necessary. But it was the only way.

Order had to be restored, and this is the only way to do that. Their pain is a price that must be paid. You decided this for them, and although they would not agree, they will understand one day.

You will enjoy explaining it to them, when the time comes.

But before then, there is work to do.

You place a hand on the boy’s forehead. He is warm, his lips parted, his breath sweet. It would be a shame for any harm to come to him.

Which is another reason why you must go through with this. It is for his benefit, too, in the long term. Not many would understand that, but it is true.

Eighteen Months Earlier, in Norway

An Unwitting Courier

The pain in her finger was incongruous with the beauty of the view, a view – of fjords stretching into the distance in an almost impossibly perfect fractal – that she had been luxuriating in until a few seconds earlier, when she had tripped and fallen onto the rocky path. She’d put her hand out to break her fall and heard a pop as the ring finger on her right hand dislocated.

And now she was sitting on the ground, marvelling at the angle her finger was sticking out at. No wonder it hurt.

‘You OK, Claire?’

Melissa, the friend she had gone on her Norwegian hiking trip with, squatted next to her.

‘Fine. Apart from my finger.’ She held up her hand. ‘I think it’s dislocated.’

‘I’m not a doctor,’ Melissa said. ‘But I think that’s a pretty safe bet.’

‘What do I do? Put it back in myself?’

‘I wouldn’t. You don’t want to damage it.’

‘Shit,’ Claire said. ‘Then that means a trip to a hospital, which means leaving this.’ She gestured to the fjords. ‘And we’re only here for a weekend. By the time I get back, the trip will be over.’

‘There’s a medic at the campsite, I think,’ Melissa said. ‘Or someone with medical training. She was at the lodge giving out ibuprofen – for hangovers – to those two German guys this morning. She’s probably in her seventies? Maybe she could help.’

‘Maybe,’ Claire said. ‘But more likely she’s got a basic medical kit and I’ll be on a trip out of here. Fuck it!’

‘You can try,’ Melissa said. She got to her feet and held out her hand to help her friend up. ‘Let’s go and see.’

The woman that Claire thought – hoped – was a doctor was behind the main desk in the lodge. On the counter there was information about the area, suggested hikes, some small snacks and energy drinks for sale.

The woman watched as Claire approached the desk. She had short, blond hair and wore thick-framed glasses. Although she looked to be in her seventies, she was tall and athletic, and looked strong and fit.

‘Are you not out hiking?’ she said. She had a clipped, brusque tone in her voice.

‘I fell,’ Claire said, and put her hand on the counter. ‘Did this. I think it’s dislocated.’

The woman looked at it. ‘I think I’d agree.’ She pinched the offending finger gently and moved it a few millimetres from side to side. ‘But not badly. Pretty straightforward dislocation.’

Claire’s spirits rose. She sounded as though she knew what she was talking about. ‘Are you a doctor?’ she said.

‘I used to be. Retired, now.’

‘That’s fantastic.’ Claire grinned. ‘Do you think you could fix this? I don’t want to have to go to a hospital.’

The woman nodded. ‘I could. Provided you promise not to sue me if anything goes wrong.’

‘Will anything go wrong?’

The woman shook her head. ‘No. But just in case.’

‘Then I promise.’

The woman smiled. It was an odd smile; it was only her mouth that moved. There was no warmth in her eyes at all.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down. This will be over in no time.’

As soon as the finger was relocated the pain started to ebb away. It was as though her body had been protesting at the wrongness of something being so out of place and now it was back in order the protests were done.

The woman taped the finger to Claire’s middle finger.

‘That’ll keep it stable,’ she said. ‘It’ll be sore for a while.’ She reached into the medical kit and pulled out two white tablets. ‘Ibuprofen,’ she said. ‘It’ll help with the swelling. And the pain.’

‘And hangovers.’

The woman frowned.

‘Hangovers?’

‘My friend thought you were giving ibuprofen to those German guys for a hangover.’

‘Ah. Yes. She’s very observant, your friend.’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘That’s it. You can get back out there.’

‘Thank you,’ Claire said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Edie. Edie Murdoch.’

‘Well, I can’t tell you what a relief this is. Could I repay you somehow? Send something, when I get back to London? Is there anything you miss from the UK?’

‘No,’ Edie Murdoch said. ‘That’s fine.’ Then she paused, and thought for a few seconds. ‘Actually, there is something you could do for me. Could you wait here a minute?’

Claire nodded and the woman went behind the desk. She took out a piece of paper and a pen and began to write. When she was finished, she folded the paper and put it in an envelope.

‘Could you post this for me? It’ll get there quicker if you do.’

‘Is that all?’ Claire said. ‘It doesn’t seem like much.’

The woman smiled her odd smile.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s much, much more than you think. You’ll be helping me a great deal.’

Claire landed at Heathrow late on Sunday night. She didn’t leave the house until Wednesday – she was still working remotely most days – and it was only when she was on her way out of the door that she remembered the letter.

She found a stamp in a drawer and stuck it to the envelope. Edie Murdoch might as well have sent it from Norway.

The name on the letter rang a vague bell.

Anna Crowne.

She paused. Was Anna Crowne famous for something? Or maybe it was similar to someone she had been at school with? Or met through work?

She’d google it, but for now she had to get going. A few minutes later she passed a letter box. She dropped the letter through the slot, and thought, Anna Crowne. I’ll google it on the bus.

Unfortunately, by the time she remembered to search for it, she had forgotten the name.

Oh well, she thought, it was probably nothing.

A Midnight Memory

i

Sleep? Forget sleep. Willow doubted she would never sleep again.

When she did manage to fall into a shallow slumber it was broken almost immediately by the faintest noise. It sounded like a groan – was that Oakley, staggering exhausted towards the house, or was it the sound of a branch bending in the breeze? The next time she woke, it was to the sound of footsteps in the street outside. She lurched from her bed, pressing her face to the window.

A teenager staggered by, a bottle in his hand, his presence a reminder of the dangers that lurked out there. She pictured Oakley lost and disorientated, a sinister, shadowy figure opening a car door and beckoning him into a welcoming pool of light.

She had moved downstairs to the couch, leaving Brian upstairs. They had gone to bed around 1 a.m.; Julia – she almost felt bad for her now – had checked into a hotel. Sleep had been impossible and she had found it worse lying next to Brian, listening to his measured breathing.

He was awake too, she knew that, but he was focusing on his breathing.

As though he was calm.

They had not spoken much after Julia had left. He had tried, but she wanted nothing to do with him.

Willow. We need to be together.

At that moment she hated him more than anything on the earth.

I need nothing from you, she said. I don’t know how, but your fucked-up family and fucked-up past are to blame for this.

Blaming me won’t help, he said. And it’s also unreasonable.

She could have killed him. If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened. Oakley would still be with me.

You want to apportion blame? he said. Well, how about this? If – he paused and made a waving motion with his left hand – actually, forget it. I won’t say it.

Go ahead, Willow said. Say it, Brian. Don’t keep the peace. Say what you think. For once.

For once? What does that mean?

She shook her head. Forget it. Just say whatever it is. I don’t mind.

He shrugged, although he looked uncertain.

If you’d not been late, Oakley would be here, he said.

It turned out she did mind. You bastard, she said. How dare you. You don’t think I’ve beaten myself up over that? I can’t believe you said it. And whether I was late or not doesn’t matter. No one knew I was going to be late.

So she had left him to sleep alone. Besides, she wanted to be downstairs in case Oakley showed up.

She lay, staring at the ceiling. Lying here now she knew she had behaved badly, lost her temper – not for the first time – and said some cruel things, but even so, there was truth to her words. There was something going on here which was nothing to do with her, but whatever it was, it had swept up Oakley in its maw.

The mere thought of that brought the anger surging back.

He had accused her of being late. That was something he could never take back, words said that could not be unsaid.

That was when it hit her.

She was late. If she’d been on time, Oakley would have been fine. But she wasn’t, and that was really important, because if this was planned – and not an opportunist – then whoever it was must have known she was going to be delayed – or at least that there was a chance of it. Yes, without her hitting the trailer she’d have got there on time, but given when she’d left the airport there had been a good chance of some other delay. But how would anyone know that? Who had known she would be at the airport longer than anticipated?

The elderly woman at the airport who had said she would wait for Anna. Had she told someone Willow was late? Or had Anna come out when she was there, and, knowing Willow was chasing someone else, had she somehow inveigled Anna into a car?

Hi, your mum was waiting for you but she had to leave. She told me to wait for you and let you know to come with me.

She reached for her phone. She had to let the detective know.

There’s someone I forgot to mention. At the airport. Call me when you get this.

She put her phone down. It was going to be a long night.

ii

It was not long after she had sent the message that her phone buzzed. She snatched it up; it was a message from DI Wynne.

Are you awake?

Yes. Can’t sleep at all.

I saw your message. Could we talk?

Willow dialled the number.

‘Hello,’ Wynne said, her voice low, as though she didn’t want to disturb anyone. ‘You said you had some news?’

Willow glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a Swiss Railway clock Brian had bought. She thought it was a waste of money; everyone had a phone constantly in their hands these days. Well, he could keep it when she left.

It was 4.04 a.m.

‘Did I wake you up?’ Willow said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m a light sleeper,’ Wynne said. ‘And I barely sleep anyway these days. I’m at that stage of life, I’m afraid. And when I have a case like this – well, once I wake up my mind starts to race and so I go ahead and get the day started.’ She coughed. ‘What was it you wanted to talk about?’

‘There was a woman at the airport,’ Willow said. ‘When I was looking for Anna, she saw me – I must have looked flustered – and asked if I needed help. I was chasing someone I thought was Anna, but I didn’t want to leave the arrivals area in case she came through, so I described Anna to her and asked her to stop her if she saw her.’ She paused. ‘Is this making sense?’

‘So far, I think so,’ Wynne said. ‘You asked someone to look out for Anna at the airport.’

‘Right. But when I came back, she was gone.’

‘The woman?’

‘Yes. She had picked up whoever she was there for and left. I thought – well, I thought she might have waited.’

‘I suppose so,’ Wynne said. Willow could hear the disappointment in her voice. ‘But people are not always that reliable. Maybe she saw you heading back and left?’

‘Yeah. But I thought it was something, you know? I’m sorry to waste your time on this.’

‘Not at all. I want you to tell me anything you think of. And we’ll follow up on this woman. She’ll be on CCTV. Can you describe her?’

‘Quite old. Seventies, maybe. Grey hair. Thin.’

‘Wearing?’

‘A green quilted jacket. Barbour, maybe. Expensive.’

‘Anything else?’

Willow hesitated. ‘She looked trustworthy. That was why I accepted her offer.’

‘What do you mean, trustworthy?’ Wynne asked.

‘Like a teacher. Or a headmistress,’ Willow said. ‘You know. Stern, but kind. Or maybe not even kind, but honest. I thought maybe she’d been a doctor.’

Wynne did not reply for a long moment. ‘A doctor,’ she said, her tone now totally different. ‘Did you say doctor?’

‘Why?’ Willow said. ‘Does that mean something to you?’

‘No,’ Wynne said, drawing out the word. ‘Nothing specific. But – it’s interesting. We’ll get an image from the CCTV sent over first and you can verify whether it shows the woman you talked to, OK?’

‘OK,’ Willow said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Thank you,’ Wynne said. ‘And Mrs Crowne? If you can, get some sleep.’

Justice?

i

Almost 7 a.m. and the office was empty. DI Wynne filled the coffee machine – she made a full pot; it would be longer before she got her first cup, but they would need the volume – and sat at her desk.

She inhaled deeply. This moment, the still, the calm, the quiet, before whatever chaos was coming arrived, was her favourite moment of the day. She could think, process what she had learned, begin to fit the pieces together. Because that was half her job – slowly assembling a jigsaw until, if you were lucky, a picture emerged. The other half was assembling the pieces, but if you didn’t take the time to study them, seek the patterns that would reveal their secrets, then there was little point gathering them in the first place.

Often it was one small piece that was the key to it all, a detail that illuminated the entire picture. Sometimes it was there from the start but you didn’t notice it; it was only when you started to put the whole thing together that you realized it was important. Other times it was a slow process of accumulation, the evidence mounting up steadily until the solution emerged.

Other times there was no solution. Nothing came into view. The crime went unsolved, the victims never got the justice they deserved.

And then there were the worst cases, the ones when she knew who had done it but knew there was no way to prove it beyond all reasonable doubt, and knew that the perpetrator would go free.

Those cases upset her the most. There had been times – many times – when she’d asked herself why she did this, why she immersed herself in the world of murders and rapes and kidnaps and violence, why she spent her days and nights picking through the dregs of what the world had to offer only to see a criminal walk the streets as though nothing had ever happened.

It wasn’t for the money. If she wanted to make a living from crime there were far more lucrative ways to do so. Even as a cop she could have accepted some of the many bribes and gifts and incentives she’d been offered.

She could have been a doctor, or lawyer, or accountant. She could have owned a nice house and gone to work from nine to five and slept well every night. She could have enjoyed holidays on the Algarve and weekends with a good book, invested in a decent wine cellar and some expensive clothes.

But she didn’t. And she didn’t because she cared about justice.

It was outdated these days. The naive preoccupation of a fool. Look at the people who made the rules: they flouted them with impunity, whether having lockdown drinks or awarding millions to their old school chums. It made her question what she did even more. When none of them gave a shit, why should she?

But she did. Because, despite all that, despite the venality and corruption and greed, justice mattered.

That was the reward. The moment when the person who had killed someone or raped them or assaulted them in their home was caught and tried and the evidence that she, Jane Wynne, and her colleagues had painstakingly gathered and assembled into a water-tight case was presented to the judge and jury, and the judge and jury weighed it and, with the proper process and procedure, found them guilty of the crimes they had committed – that moment was what made it worthwhile.

It wasn’t for the punishment dispensed, the sentence handed down. She didn’t care about the perpetrators. It was for the justice that was done. Justice that brought peace of mind and the ability to move on to those who had been wronged.

When it happened, in some small way the world was set in order. A wrong was righted and her faith in people and their ability to create and organize and live in a working society was restored.

She believed in that, and she had dedicated her life to it. And she would have done it all again, despite what it had cost her, the relationships, health, well-being.

One day she would recover them.

But not today. She yawned and stretched and watched the coffee drip into the glass jug. It would be another few minutes before it was ready.

She laid out the pieces of the case in her mind. It was more than likely now that they had both been kidnapped. There was little chance that Anna was still in the airport or with a friend; even the most insensitive teenager would have contacted her parents after this long. And the chance that Oakley had wandered off was, while still a possibility, rapidly diminishing. He could have fallen into a waterway, or down a well, or been hit by a car and killed, but there had been a huge search through the night, helicopters with thermal-imaging cameras sweeping the area and alerting officers to any heat signals.

All had turned out to be animals.

Which left two kidnappings, and one over-arching question: were they connected? It seemed impossible they weren’t, but if they were, then how?

The door opened. DS Blunt walked in. He looked at her, eyes wide.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you were here. I thought I was early. I couldn’t – this is my first case like this. I was thinking about it all night, so I decided to come in.’

Wynne gestured at the coffee machine. ‘It’s nearly ready. Take a seat while you wait.’

DS Blunt sat opposite her. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ he said. ‘I feel like there’s something we’re missing.’

Wynne smiled. Justice clearly mattered to Blunt, too.

‘There’s always something we’re missing,’ she said. ‘Until we’re not. That’s why we do the job.’

He looked at her, eyes red-rimmed with tiredness. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘Not yet. But let’s lay it all out and see what we can come up with.’

ii

DS Blunt poured two coffees. The mugs were stained and chipped.

‘Milk?’ he said.

‘We have milk?’

Blunt held up a container of powdered milk. ‘We have this.’

‘That’s been here longer than me,’ Wynne said. ‘It might be an antique.’

‘So you don’t want it?’

‘I’ll have mine without.’ She looked at him. ‘Are you going to consume that?’

‘I have been,’ he said. ‘Although in the last day or two I have had a bit of an upset stomach. Nothing serious, like, but – well, you know.’

Wynne wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded in what she hoped was an encouraging way.

‘I hope you feel better,’ she said.

‘I’m fine,’ DS Blunt said. ‘But maybe I’ll give it a miss. So where are we?’

‘I’m working on the theory it was two kidnappings,’ Wynne said.

‘I agree, at this point.’

‘Probably connected, but maybe not.’

Blunt nodded. ‘Doesn’t change our approach, though, right? We still have to search, and we still have to follow whatever leads we find.’

‘Right. And there is some new information. Mrs Crowne – Willow – provided some interesting information early this morning. A possible lead.’

‘On Oakley?’

‘No. Anna.’ Wynne laid out what Willow had told her about the woman. When she finished, Blunt handed her a coffee. She took a sip.

‘Doesn’t seem much,’ Blunt said. ‘But I’ll follow up with DI Spring and we can take a look at the CCTV.’

Wynne paused. There was something else, something she was reluctant to share. Not because she felt she needed to hide anything from DS Blunt, but because she was worried it would make her seem crazy.

But she had to get it off her chest.

‘She gave a description,’ Wynne said. ‘Seventies, grey hair, stern. Specifically, Mrs Crowne said that the woman reminded her of a headmistress.’ She took another sip. ‘Or a doctor.’

Blunt looked at her over his mug of coffee. He was holding it in two hands in front of his chin, steam obscuring his face.

‘Could have been a doctor,’ he said. ‘Once we find her, we’ll ask.’

‘The thing is,’ Wynne said. ‘The description fits – well, Edna Crowne was a doctor. And she acted like one, if you know what I mean. If you met her, you’d assume she was a medic or a headmistress. She had that kind of bearing, and she’d be in her seventies now.’

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Wynne said. ‘She is.’

‘So it can’t be her?’

‘I know.’ Wynne sipped her coffee. ‘But when she described the woman at the airport it was as though she was describing Edna.’

Blunt looked unconvinced. ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ he said. ‘When we get the CCTV. Brian Crowne will be able to ID her. I’ll call Spring now.’

‘Put him on speaker,’ Wynne said.

Blunt dialled a number and laid his phone on the table.

‘Spring.’

‘Morning,’ Wynne said. ‘I hope it’s not too early.’

‘No,’ Spring said. ‘Not at all. You guys got something?’

‘Not much,’ Wynne said. ‘A woman to check up on. She was in the arrivals hall. Seventies, green quilted jacket. Willow talked to her, so you should be able to ID her on the CCTV. We’re going to want to talk to her.

‘We’ll check. Why’s she of interest?’

‘She offered to wait for Anna while Willow Crowne left the arrivals area – she thought she’d seen Anna – but was gone when Willow returned. She thought it was odd. One other thing – could you send a picture of her as soon as you have it? I want to show it to Brian Crowne, see if he recognizes her.’

‘Done,’ Spring said. ‘How’s the search for the boy going?’

Wynne looked at Blunt. ‘Nothing yet,’ Blunt said. ‘We had a search team all over the areas around the fields – dogs, thermal cameras, you name it – but there’s no sign of him.’

‘Not good,’ Spring said. ‘If he’s not in the immediate vicinity it’s likely someone took him.’

‘We agree,’ Blunt said. ‘They’ll continue this morning, but it seems unlikely they’ll find him.’

‘Maybe they’ll find evidence of him,’ Spring said. ‘Anything else?’

‘One of the parents saw a van,’ Wynne said. ‘Small, blue. No registration. We need to check the airport CCTV for a vehicle of that description.’

‘Small blue van,’ Spring said. ‘Not much to go on, but we’ll have a look, given it’s all we have. That and the woman.’

‘And then there are the local registered sex offenders,’ Blunt said. ‘We’ll pay them all a visit. Find out their whereabouts on the night in question.’

‘Good,’ Wynne said. ‘There’s one other lead. A man called Zach. Julia Miller – Anna’s mum – was supposed to be on a date with him, but he stood her up. Again, not much, but she thought it was odd, and she mentioned it. He’d recently been in Normandy.’

‘Is that important?’ Spring said. ‘About Normandy?’

‘Possibly,’ Wynne said.

‘Why possibly?’ Spring said.

Wynne paused. ‘It’s where Edna Crowne was living when she died.’

‘You think there’s a link?’ Spring said.

‘I don’t know. But we need to talk to him. I’ve spoken to a detective friend in Oxford and he’s going to find him. I’ll let you know what we learn.’

Spring coughed. ‘So we have the blue van, the woman, and Zach. Not a lot.’

‘Not nothing,’ Blunt said.

‘Right,’ Spring said. ‘There is one other thing that’s been bugging me. Not a lead. Just a question.’

‘Which is?’ Wynne said.

‘Brian Crowne,’ DI Spring said. ‘I’ve been thinking about Brian Crowne.’

‘What about him?’

‘It seems curious to me,’ Spring said, ‘that three times in his life his kids have disappeared. The first time was his mother, now dead. This time it’s – who? Who could it be? Who would have a motive? And the idea it’s random – that’s possible, I suppose, but really? Both on the same evening? You don’t believe that, DI Wynne, any more than I do.’

‘It could be random,’ Wynne said. ‘We can’t rule it out.’

‘I didn’t say rule it out. I said you don’t believe it. Which is why you think this guy going to Normandy means something, or this woman at the airport is important. They’re only important if there’s a plot. There’s no way she abducted a teenaged girl in broad daylight at an airport. Apart from the commotion it’d cause, we’d have it on camera. So it seems to me – and I might be wrong – that you think there’s more to this than two unconnected abductions, which would be, for the record, the biggest coincidence of all time.’

Blunt gave her a supportive look. ‘Coincidences happen,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ Spring replied. ‘They do. But let’s say this isn’t one. Then we’re looking for someone who has a motive to plan and execute this. Who?’

‘I don’t know,’ Wynne said. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Then what about Brian Crowne? You know these things are close to home, more often than not. Look at the last time. It was his mother, not some stranger. What’s to say they weren’t in it together? And this time she’s not here, so that leaves him.’

‘Why would he do it, though?’ she said.

‘He wanted to get his daughter away from his wife, the first time. His mother helped him. Then, when it went wrong, she took the blame to protect him.’

‘What about his father? Edna Crowne murdered him.’

‘He could have been in on that. Or not. Doesn’t matter. But they could have been working together.’

‘No,’ Wynne said. ‘I was there. That wasn’t what happened.’

‘You don’t know that. And this time he’s trying to do the same to his new wife?’

‘It would seem risky to repeat it,’ Wynne said.

‘Or it’s something else. He’s a psychopath and he can’t help himself. You’ve seen it all, DI Wynne,’ Spring said. ‘You know there’s all kinds of craziness out there. All I’m saying is we have to consider Brian Crowne a suspect.’

Wynne paused. ‘So you’re thinking, now Edna is dead, this time it’s him?’

‘Maybe it was the news of her death that made him do it. Tipped him over the edge, or he felt he had to honour her memory, or some such bullshit.’ Spring shrugged. ‘These people are not normal.’

‘How would he have done it? We saw Anna go into the bathroom. He was nowhere near.’

‘I don’t know. If I did, we’d have solved this case already. All I’m saying is, he’s a suspect.’

‘Then Willow Crowne is one as well,’ Blunt added. ‘If it’s normally someone close to home.’

‘Fine by me,’ Spring said. ‘I don’t trust any of them. But Brian Crowne has form.’

‘What are you proposing?’ Wynne said.

‘I’ll talk to him.’

‘OK,’ Wynne replied. ‘And we’ll be in touch as soon as we have anything.’ She cut the call and caught DS Blunt’s eye.

‘If we have anything,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

The Free Press

i

TWO MISSING IN KIDNAP MYSTERY

A fifteen-year-old girl and her six-year-old half-brother both disappeared yesterday evening in a case that is puzzling detectives.

Teenager Anna Miller was due to arrive at Manchester airport in the early evening. Airport authorities confirmed that she boarded a flight from Heathrow, but has not been seen since.

While the initial search for Anna was ongoing, her half-brother, Oakley Crowne, also vanished. He was at a youth football practice in the Cheshire village of Grappenhall. When his mother arrived he was not there. Police and concerned locals mounted a search of the area that lasted into the early hours, but he was not found.

To add to the mystery surrounding the case, it emerged that this was not the first time Anna Miller had disappeared. Ten years ago – when she went by her father’s name, Crowne – Anna was kidnapped by her grandmother, Edna Crowne, in a case that made nationwide headlines and led to an international hunt for the missing girl.

After Anna was located, Edna Crowne vanished. She was believed to be living in Thailand, but despite being on Interpol’s list of most wanted criminals, authorities were unable to find her until earlier this year, when she died in a car accident in Normandy, where she was living under an assumed name.

It seems extraordinary that Anna would suffer the same fate twice, especially at the same time as her half-brother. When pressed, Detective Inspector Jane Wynne said that enquiries are ongoing and further details will be released when they become available, and that the police are searching for the two missing children with all means at their disposal. They are seeking information about a small, dark-blue van that was seen in the vicinity. She asked for any member of the public with information about Anna’s or Oakley’s disappearance to come forward to police immediately.

‘Any detail, however small or insignificant it may seem, could be vital, and I urge you to inform us as soon as possible,’ she said.

Julia scrolled down and read the comments. They were the usual mixture: heartfelt expressions of sympathy, wild conspiracy theories, faux-erudite speculations of amateur sleuths.

And then this, from Ericasmum76.

It’s the mum, Julia. What a useless bitch. I remember her from the last time. What kind of mum loses her kids twice? I think she did it for attention. She should be in prison.

For a brief moment Julia considered posting a reply but she caught herself. There was no point; she would never be able to convince Ericasmum76 that she was anything other than what Ericasmum76 already thought she was. And – she remembered this, painfully, from the last time – there was no point reading this stuff. It only made things much harder. She’d been through it before when she became enemy number one for allowing her daughter to be kidnapped, a campaign orchestrated by Edna.

She closed her laptop and pushed it across the bed. The hotel had a kettle and tea bags, so she filled it and switched it on, then sent a message to DI Wynne.

Any news?

She knew that Wynne would have contacted her if there was, but she needed to do something. Sitting here, in the silent morning hours, alone in a hotel room with floral wallpaper and a dirty carpet, was soul-destroying. She had, inevitably, hardly slept, and the seconds had gone by like hours, filled with nothing but the emptiness of waiting.

Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it off the bed. It was a message, but not from Wynne. It was from Gill.

Hey! You holding up?

Which hotel are you in?

Not really.

The Underpass. Why?

I’m coming to stay with you.

Gill. This was typical of her, but she had her own life to lead. They had spoken the night before; her friend had offered to come then, but Julia – despite being desperate to see her – had insisted she didn’t make the trip.

That’s OK. You don’t need

to come all this way.

Too late. I’m nearly there.

Thankfully – and Julia was suddenly powerfully grateful for this trait in her friend – Gill didn’t take no for an answer, and thank God, because Julia had no one else. Her parents were dead and she had no siblings. Her friends from work were not close enough for this situation and so, without Gill, she’d be on her own.

Times like these made you look at your life. When she did, there wasn’t much there, other than Anna.

And Anna was gone.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and typed her reply.

Thank you, Gill.

ii

She met Gill in the lobby of the hotel. They hugged, Julia weeping as her friend comforted her. The woman at reception watched, her expression a mixture of shock and suspicion.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Julia said eventually. ‘I was feeling very alone.’

‘There was no way I was leaving you here,’ Gill said. ‘No way. Brian’s got Willow. You’re all alone.’

‘I’m not sure that’s much of a comfort to him,’ Julia said. ‘Things don’t look great between them.’

Gill let go of Julia and picked up her bag. ‘What happened?’

‘She blames him. Not for what happened, exactly – it’s hardly his fault – but for bringing all this into her life.’

Gill raised an eyebrow. ‘Seems a bit harsh.’ She shrugged. ‘But that’s his problem. Where’s your room?’

Julia led her along the carpeted corridor to her room and opened the door.

‘I can offer you tea or instant coffee,’ she said.

Gill waved her away. ‘I had one on the motorway. I’m fine. I’m dying for a pee, though.’

She went into the bathroom. When she came out, she sat on the end of the bed.

‘So. Any news?’

Julia shook her head.

‘It’s unbelievable,’ Gill said. ‘How could they both go missing?’

‘I don’t know. At first I assumed Anna would show up in a pub somewhere, or with a friend. You know the drill: typical thoughtless teenager giving her mum a scare. I was more worried about Oakley – not that he’s really anything to do with me, but you don’t want any kid to go through this – but now—’ she started to cry, and Gill put her arms around her. ‘Now I can’t stop thinking about Anna. Where she might be. You hear stories about girls being kidnapped and forced into prostitution and—’

Julia couldn’t continue speaking. She was racked with loud, tearing sobs.

‘Shh,’ Gill said. ‘Take a deep breath. Come on.’

Eventually she calmed down enough to talk.

‘That’s what I’m scared of,’ she said. ‘She’s been kidnapped by a gang and trafficked out of the country and I’ll never see her again.’

‘They don’t take people off planes,’ Gill said. ‘It’s too risky.’

‘Then what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gill paused. ‘Are you sure she got on the plane?’

‘They said so. They scan your boarding pass at the gate, and in any case, they saw her on the CCTV at Manchester, right before she went into the toilets.’

‘So if she got off, where the fuck is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ Julia said, the tears coming freely now. ‘I don’t know. My baby girl’s gone, Gill. Again. And this time I’m worried it’s for good.’

Eighteen Months Earlier, Oxford

All the Way from San Francisco

i

Anna walked along St Giles, heading away from the city centre in the direction of her house in Jericho, the area of Oxford where she and her mum had settled. Next to her, Antonia, the first friend she had made when they moved to Oxford, was talking on her phone.

‘Who do you like, then?’ she said. She was talking to Magnus, the son of a Swedish academic at the university who had called numerous times to – at least in theory – discuss a plan that had emerged in their friend group to go and get ice cream that evening. No plan could be that easily constructed, however; Anna found it endlessly frustrating that in place of a simple Shall we go for ice cream? Yeah, what time? Six? Sounds good, there was an endless interchange of text messages and phone calls to determine who exactly was going and who might not be. Gordon, for example, was not going if Janet went; she had broken up with him in a manner he felt was unfairly brutal a week ago, and he was having nothing to do with her, thank you very much. Magnus, Gordon’s loyal friend, was following suit in support, and would not be present either.

The problem was, Magnus had a crush on Antonia, and Antonia had a crush on Magnus, and there was not the faintest chance that he would not be there if she was, and vice versa. Not that either of them would admit it to each other. That would be embarrassing.

So instead, he had called with a proposal: what if they all went, but Janet did not.

This met, as Magnus knew it would, with a fierce refusal. Antonia explained indignantly that Janet was a friend and where they went, she went. If Magnus and Gordon didn’t like that, then they were free to do whatever they wanted.

Fine, Magnus had conceded, they would be there. But Gordon would not be talking to Janet.

And there that particular call had ended, and Antonia’s recounting of it to Anna had begun, at the end of which Magnus called again.

Antonia listened, then covered the phone with her hand and whispered to Anna.

‘He says he likes someone.’

‘Ask him who,’ Anna said.

Not that she needed to know; they all knew who he liked. But she did need him to tell her, so she could say I like you too and then it would be out in the open, but she would not have been the one to say it first.

These were important matters.

‘So,’ Antonia said. ‘Who do you like?’

Anna watched her friend. She had a nonchalant smile, but it was obviously forced. Anna could see from the thinness of her top lip and the fixed expression in her eyes that she was anything but relaxed.

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ she said, the smile faltering.

‘Then why did you call at all,’ Anna muttered. ‘Just get on with it.’

‘I’m not saying I like someone,’ Antonia said. ‘You called me. I didn’t say I liked anyone.’

She looked at Anna and rolled her eyes. It was another act; she was looking worried now.

‘Maybe I do like someone,’ she said. ‘But you tell me first who you like.’

There was a long pause.

‘So you do like someone? Do I know them?’ Antonia said. She listened, and caught Anna’s eye. She lowered the phone. ‘He says I know them well,’ she whispered.

‘Very well,’ Anna said. ‘Better than you know anyone else, I’d say.’

‘Who is it?’ Antonia said. ‘Go on, say it. One word. Spit it out.’

Another pause, then Antonia’s face lit up.

‘Really!’ she said, and laughed in delight. ‘You like me? No way!’

Anna could just make out Magnus’s voice, high and thin over the phone.

So who do you like?

Antonia giggled. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she said.

ii

Anna had her own reason to go for ice cream. There was a new arrival at school, Dale, from San Francisco. He was tall and tan and looked like he’d come from central casting as an all-American boy, but that was not quite the story. He was shy and awkward and prone to flushing in a bright red bloom from the neck up if he became the centre of attention. Unfortunately for him, he’d been given the nickname Captain America on his first day at school and it had stuck, despite it being the one thing guaranteed to spark the flush and send it creeping all the way to his ears.

Two days earlier Anna had been late for school lunch and found Dale sitting by the window, half of a hamburger on his plate.

She sat next to him, and watched his face redden.

Bet they’re a lot better back home, she said, nodding at the hamburger.

His eyes flicked left and right, his expression that of a cornered animal.

No, these are fine, he said. Not bad, anyway.

So they’re like this back in America? Really?

Maybe a little – I dunno – maybe more …

Tasty? Well-cooked? Generally appealing?

He nodded his head from side to side. I guess.

You’re from San Francisco, right?

Yeah.

What brings you here?

Mom. She works in tech. She got a job here. Something to do with the university.

And your dad?

He went an even deeper shade of red.

He – he passed away. COVID.

I’m sorry, Dale. I shouldn’t have asked.

It’s OK.

He looked like he was about to cry. Anna changed the subject.

We should go out sometime. She caught herself and hastily clarified what she meant. Not you and me alone. I mean, you should come out with us. There’s a group of us. We’re nice!

He nodded, a look of terror in his eyes. That sounds awesome.

Give me your number. I’ll let you know.

She hadn’t seen him since, but when the ice cream plan was made she sent him a message.

Six pm tonight? Ice cream? Not sure where yet but I’ll let you know.

He had not yet replied, and she was beginning to wonder whether he would.

‘He likes me,’ Antonia said. ‘He told me!’

‘You already knew that!’ Anna replied.

‘I know. But he told me.’

‘You didn’t say it back,’ Anna said. ‘You hung up!’

Antonia laughed. ‘Have to keep him guessing.’

‘Don’t make him wait too long,’ Anna said. ‘In case he changes his mind.’

Antonia’s face fell. ‘Do you think he will?’ She looked at her phone and tapped the screen. ‘I’ll call him back now.’

She put the phone to her ear.

‘Hi,’ she said, her voice bursting. ‘So – I think I like you too.’

Anna’s phone buzzed.

‘I know I like you,’ Antonia said. ‘So will you be there tonight?’

She looked at Anna and grinned. He will, she mouthed.

So, it turned out, would Dale. Anna read the message he had sent.

Sounds like fun! Thanks for thinking of me.

She typed her reply. It wasn’t what first came to her mind – that she’d been thinking of him for days – but it would have to do.

See you later, Captain America.

iii

She turned the key in the front door and pushed it open. It got halfway and jammed; she shoved harder, but the door was stuck.

Antonia slid past her and squeezed herself through the partial opening.

‘It’s stuck on some letters,’ she said. ‘Hang on.’

Anna heard the sound of paper tearing, then the door started to open. She walked inside. Antonia was holding a handful of post – a catalogue, what looked like some bills, and a letter, which was torn in two.

‘Ooops,’ Antonia said. ‘Guess I’m stronger than I look.’

‘Jesus,’ Anna said. ‘Mum’s going to think I’m checking her letters.’

Antonia looked at the envelope.

‘This one’s for you,’ she said. ‘At least I think it is?’

‘Think?’ Anna said. ‘Doesn’t it say?’

Antonia held it up. ‘It says Anna Crowne.’

Anna froze. Why was there a letter – handwritten – to Anna Crowne? She felt light-headed, her scalp prickling.

‘It’s my dad’s name,’ Anna said. She held out her hand for the letter, and stuffed it in her pocket. If Antonia had only seen the name once, she’d hopefully forget it. ‘Probably from some old aunt.’

Anna had never mentioned her former name. No one had asked, and she didn’t want to volunteer the information. Someone would recognize it and realize she was the girl who had been kidnapped and returned and she didn’t want them to know.

She did not want the attention, nor did she want to have to explain it to her closest friends. They would ask, and she would have to tell them.

My grandmother kidnapped me. Oh and by the way – she’s a psychopath who ran away afterwards.

No. That was in the past and she wanted it to stay there. Her mum had suggested a few times that she see a therapist to talk it through – she had done, in the years following, which had helped – but she didn’t want to any more. She didn’t feel the need. She hardly remembered it anyway; she’d spent most of the week she was away sedated.

And things were fine. She liked her life. Her mum had told her that she and her dad would have got divorced anyway, so they’d have been here in Oxford whatever. She had a good relationship with her dad – Willow was kind of a pain, but manageable – and she didn’t want to disturb anything.

So what was in the past could stay there.

Which was why this letter was such a shock. No one sent her letters, and especially not in her old name.

She forced herself to smile. ‘Dale’s coming tonight,’ she said. ‘He sent a message while you were talking to Magnus.’

‘Oh,’ Antonia said, pursing her lips. ‘Captain America and Anna Cro— what was it? Crowther?’

‘Yeah,’ Anna said. ‘Crowther.’ She put her bag down. ‘Make yourself at home. I need to go to the loo.’

Time Together

Brian padded down the stairs. He paused by the door to the living room and listened. Willow was talking, her voice a low murmur. It was punctuated by sobs and sniffles.

He had slept for maybe an hour, all of it in short, restless spells. He could not escape the thoughts circulating in his head: where were his son and daughter, were they safe in pain? Alive? And behind it all, the feeling that he was to blame, he deserved this, he had brought it down on the people he loved more than any others.

Memories of Anna and Oakley tormented him. His daughter, fifteen and fierce and independent and the love of his life. Over the years he had become accustomed to the pain of her living so far away, although on occasion it hit him as hard as it ever had. He was so proud of her, and he wanted to make her proud of him; he thought she was, in a way. And they were close. It was hard, at a distance, but he made sure she knew he loved her, and that when they were together, they made the most of the time they had.

Especially now, after the lost years of COVID. He had hardly seen her at all; it felt as though she had been a little girl before the lockdowns and a young woman when they ended.

He grieved that time, and then it turned out that those fuckers had been ignoring the rules they’d made all along.

Brian had voted Conservative all his life; it was another thing for him and Julia to differ on. She viewed anyone who voted Tory as one step up from Beelzebub himself. He would not vote for them again, though, not ever.

He was lucky he got to see Oakley. They had started to go and watch the Rugby League team, the Wire, on the weekends; Oakley loved the noise and drama. Afterwards they went to the pub. Brian had a Coke and Oakely a lemonade, and they talked through the game. It was the main way he spent time one on one with his son, and he had planned on it lasting for the rest of his life.

Now, it was gone. No wonder he hadn’t slept.

He opened the door. Willow turned to face him, her phone to her ear. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. She looked away, facing out of the window.

In the kitchen he poured a glass of water. He took a sip; even water was hard to swallow. He considered making tea, but he didn’t think his stomach could take it.

His son was gone, his daughter was gone, and his wife wanted nothing to do with him. He pushed the water away and headed back to the living room.

Willow had finished her phone call. She was sitting on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. He sat next to her.

‘Willow,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’

She looked up at him, her face drawn. She looked broken and lost.

‘This is nothing to do with me,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘But my boy is missing.’

‘You can’t blame me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t make this happen. And it won’t help us get through it.’

‘I blame myself,’ she said, in a monotone, her eyes staring into the middle distance. ‘I knew at the time, but I let myself be persuaded.’

‘Willow,’ Brian said. ‘We met and fell in love with each other. That’s all that happened. This is all – this is something else entirely.’

She closed her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I can’t stop thinking I should never have got mixed up in this.’

He put his hand on her knee. ‘We don’t even know this is related to what happened to Anna.’

She laughed. It was a bitter, humourless laugh.

‘You know that’s not true,’ she said. She opened her eyes and stared at him. ‘That’s why I blame myself,’ she said. ‘If it was Oakley alone – I’d say it was random bad luck. But the two of them? No way. And you know it too. This is all part of the same thing. And that’s why I feel sick. Because I should have known.’

‘We’ll get him back,’ Brian said. ‘We will.’

‘And then what? Ten years from now he goes missing again?’ She shook her head. ‘No. When he’s back, Brian, I’m taking him as far away from you as I can.’

She stood up and folded her arms.

‘I’m going to have a shower. And then I’m going to look for Oakley.’

‘I’ll join you,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Good. The more eyes, the better.’

She walked out of the room. He listened to her climb the stairs. The house was silent.

He was alone. And he feared he would be, forever.

One a Day

i

DI Wynne stirred her coffee and put the lid on it. Blunt had told her he limited himself to one cup a day, a rule which he also applied to alcoholic drinks. She wondered whether it would last; life as a detective was hard enough without denying yourself access to any of the things that helped.

Although maybe they didn’t, at least not in the long run. She had had to limit her own intake – not of coffee, that was off the table – but of red wine. It was easy for a glass at the end of the day to become two and three and four and then maybe open another bottle, and after all, it was wine, decent stuff too, not gin or whisky or brandy or vodka. She drank it as much for the aesthetics, the taste, the appearance in the glass, as the alcohol.

At least that was the story she told herself. When she was loading the trolley in the supermarket the detective in her called bullshit. What she wanted was the booze. But she bought it anyway and brought it home and drank it up.

So she had cut back. Kept it to weekends only. Ironically it was the cost that had been the final straw. She had added up how much she was spending each week and the total was shocking, especially now prices were so high. Buying eggs, milk and vegetables was expensive enough, without adding Italian red to the mix.

When you could get eggs, milk and vegetables, that was.

She was alone in the office. DS Blunt had gone to get the car. They were heading back to the football field and then to see Brian Crowne. Blunt was an odd bird, with his one-drink rules and neat suits and strict exercise regimes. He came across as naive and unworldly, a man of little depth, but she sensed that was, at least in part, an act. He may have seemed harmless and bit lightweight, but the more she saw of him the more she realized there was an unbending inner core.

It was a little frightening. She had met criminals like that: breezy and inoffensive but prepared to kill or maim anyone that got in their way.

Anyway, he was her partner for now. She walked through the station and out into the street. The car was parked outside, but before she could get in, a woman came marching towards her, her face set hard.

‘I know who it is,’ she said. ‘I know who took the boy.’

Wynne glanced at the car. She caught DS Blunt’s eye. He gestured at the woman and raised an eyebrow, questioning whether he should get out.

Wynne gave a small nod. The woman looked strained, her lips pressed together and her eyes wide.

Blunt walked onto the pavement and stood by Wynne.

‘You have information about the disappearance of Oakley Crowne,’ he said, with a pleasant smile.

‘I know who did it,’ the woman snapped.

‘Perhaps we could talk about this in the station?’ Wynne said. ‘It’s more private.’

‘There’s no need,’ the woman said. ‘I can tell you out here.’

‘It’s generally better in the station,’ Blunt said. ‘The main reason is so that we can give you the attention you need. That way we won’t miss any important detail you might mention. Out here’ – he waved his hand in a circling motion – ‘there are all kinds of distractions.’

‘I don’t – we can—’

Blunt stepped towards the station.

‘Shall we?’

ii

They sat at a table in the interview room. Blunt had his notebook in front of him.

‘Your name, ma’am?’ he said.

‘Vanessa. Vanessa Bowman.’

‘You live locally?’ he said.

‘Cawdor Street.’

‘And you have information on Oakley Crowne?’

‘Yeah. I know who did it.’

‘You have a name?’ he said.

She nodded vigorously. ‘Mal Swift.’

‘Who is Mr Swift?’ Wynne said.

‘He lives on our street. He’s new, and he’s a perv.’ She sniffed and folded her arms. ‘He’s a paedo.’

The name did not ring any bells for Wynne. ‘What makes you think he was involved?’

‘I know he was.’

She seemed convinced that she knew the culprit. Wynne leaned towards her.

‘How do you know? Did you witness the abduction?’

‘No. I wasn’t there.’

Blunt glanced at Wynne. ‘Did you hear something?’

‘No!’ Vanessa Bowman said. ‘I just know, all right? He’s a perv. He’s always watching my kids. I’ve got two boys – Steven and Micky. Micky’s twelve, so he’s too old for him, but not our Stevie. Stevie’s his age range. I’ve seen him at the window, watching the kids go past. It was him. I’m telling you. Other people have noticed too.’

‘I’m afraid we need more than that,’ Wynne said. Bowman’s cheeks were flushed and Wynne began to wonder whether, despite the early hour, she had already been drinking. Or maybe it was from the night before. ‘We need some evidence.’

‘You need to check him out,’ she said. ‘That’s what you need to do.’

Blunt gave a little cough. ‘Do you have any other indications as to why he might be a suspect? As my colleague says, we need as much as you can provide.’

‘You don’t believe me,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. I’m telling you who done it and you won’t even listen.’ She threw her hands up in disgust. ‘And it was you lot who mentioned the van in the first place!’

Wynne sat forward. ‘The van? What about the van?’

‘The blue van! You said you was looking for a small blue van. I saw it on the news.’

‘And Mr Swift has a van like that?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘He’s got an allotment. There’s garages there too, and he keeps it in one of them.’

‘You’ve seen this van?’ Blunt said.

She nodded. ‘He doesn’t use it much, but I saw him in it once. My boyfriend’s on the same allotment, and we were there one night when he showed up and took it out. That’s how I know it was him. Small blue van. It’s Mal bloody Swift, I’m telling you.’

‘You saw him take the van from the garage one night?’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ Bowman reddened. ‘We were – you know. At the allotment. With kids at home it can be hard to get the privacy to’ – she bobbed her head back and forward – ‘have intimate time. The allotment rules don’t really allow—’

‘That’s no concern of ours,’ Wynne said. ‘But I would like to confirm what happened. You saw Mr Swift take a small blue van from a garage near the allotment, a van he does not otherwise use?’

‘Right.’

‘And was this last night?’ Blunt said.

‘No. It was about two weeks ago.’

‘And did he return the van?’ Wynne said.

Bowman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We’d finished— we’d left by then. I didn’t think anything of it until I read the news. And then it came to me.’

Wynne had a feeling of sharpening focus. There were some cases in which the solution was obvious from the start, and the work consisted of gathering evidence. There were some that were a slow, grinding accumulation of facts, and there were some that were a total mystery, until one small detail opened the door.

A passer-by noticed a person hurrying and paid enough attention to be able to give a good description. Someone was late for work two days running and their excuse didn’t add up.

Two people having sex in the shed on their allotment saw a van they shouldn’t have.

And then the case was wide open. Sometimes that was all it took.

‘OK,’ Wynne said. ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

The Perfect Hiding Place

It is the perfect hiding place. A sight everyone is accustomed to. Nothing unusual. A familiar part of the landscape that will raise no suspicions.

There are lots of them around; people see them every day. Better still, they are associated with good people, virtuous people, people who can be trusted. Salt of the earth, unpretentious, solid people. Not only is it a hiding place, it is a disguise. No one will think to look here. Why would they?

The risky part was taking the child and getting him here. That required planning and skill and nerve.

It was possible you were spotted. It didn’t matter. You’d anticipated that might happen and ensured it wouldn’t be a problem. Even if someone saw you, they would not be able to trace you to here. They would be looking for the van, then the owner. That would be pointless. As far as anyone knew, the van had nothing to do with you, and, more importantly, you had nothing to do with the van.

They could know you used the van, they could look for the van.

They could even find it.

But it would not help them. This was built into the plan. It was assumed the van would be found, so the van had to be a dead end. A failsafe. A cut-out. The point where the trail stopped.

Leaving you free to get on with the important part.

It was all ready, now. You had what you wanted. Next was the endgame.

The endgame. It was an appropriate choice of words, because this long story would soon be over. It had begun many years ago, but the final reckoning was at hand.

It would not be what anyone expected.

That was your favourite part of all this. No doubt lots of people had theories about what had happened and how it would turn out.

None of them were right. How could they be?

For one thing, they did not know you had a partner. That was vital to the whole thing. You could not do this alone.

So yes, you had a partner.

But not just any partner.

The one partner they would never expect. When they found out who it was it was going to shock them all.

But it was going to shock one person more than any other.

For them, it would be the shock of their life.

From the Heavens

i

Vanessa Bowman had left, triumphant at her intervention. Wynne finished her coffee, thinking through the implications.

She was sure Anna and Oakley’s disappearances were linked, but it didn’t make much difference to what they had to do next: they still had to follow every lead. It also didn’t mean it was the same person. Oakley could be this guy Swift; Anna someone else entirely. All it meant was that they were somehow working together.

And this felt like it added up. The blue van, hidden at the allotment. Why would someone have a van hidden in a garage at an allotment, a van they didn’t want anyone to know they owned?

Maybe because they used it for things they shouldn’t have, and didn’t want it traced to them. Unregistered, untaxed, uninsured, probably. A risk if you got stopped, but why would you, if you kept to the speed limit and avoided an accident. Something could happen, for sure, but it was a low risk, with a high reward: the reward of having untraceable transport.

And if you were prepared to kidnap someone you were prepared to take a risk. The question was simply how you minimized it.

So this felt real.

There was a cough behind her.

‘Any more coffee?’

Detective Chief Inspector Marie Ryan smiled at her, an empty mug in her hands.

‘You’re probably used to the good stuff,’ Wynne said. ‘But we have some slop left if you can stomach it.’ She held out her hand for the mug, but Ryan shook her head.

‘I’ll pour my own. And I’ll take anything hot and caffeinated.’

DCI Ryan filled her mug, then pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Any update?’ she said.

‘Nothing concrete,’ Wynne replied. ‘But we had an interesting report from a member of the public.’

‘Oh? How interesting?’

‘Hard to be sure,’ Wynne said. ‘It revolves around the van. She read that there was a sighting of a small blue van, and she knows someone that has one. He keeps it hidden in a garage near his allotment.’ Wynne decided to omit some of the details. ‘She happened to see it one evening.’

‘Interesting,’ Ryan said. ‘But pretty thin.’

‘She has a theory he – a man called Mal Swift – has an unhealthy interest in young boys. Hers in particular. She has one around the same age as Oakley Crowne.’

‘Any reason for that theory? Has this guy done anything?’

‘Nothing specific. He’s a recent arrival to their street and she doesn’t like the way he looks at her son.’

‘Is she credible?’ Ryan said.

Wynne waved her hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. ‘A little on edge. And maybe a drink problem. But my sense is that it’s worth following up on.’

‘It’s getting thinner,’ Ryan said. ‘Some newcomer she doesn’t like – maybe a neighbourly dispute – so she decides to create a problem for him with the police.’

‘I considered that,’ Wynne said. ‘But there could be something there.’

‘We have to be careful,’ Ryan said. ‘I don’t want us making some poor guy’s life a misery on the say-so of a disgruntled neighbour.’

‘We also have to check out every possible lead.’

Ryan nodded. ‘OK. This would mean Oakley was taken by an opportunist, and Anna would be something else? Does that ring true?’

‘I can’t say, ma’am,’ Wynne replied. ‘But we have to check.’

‘Agreed. But tread carefully. What else is there?’

‘DI Spring thinks it could be Brian Crowne.’

‘And you?’

‘My instinct says no, but he is the common thread. And stranger things have happened.’

‘Julia Crowne is also a common thread,’ Ryan said.

‘Not with Oakley.’

‘True. Could it be him?’

‘We have to consider it.’

‘Anything more?’

Wynne nodded. ‘There’s the woman on the CCTV.’

Wynne was about to continue when DS Blunt walked into the room. He paused when he saw DCI Ryan.

‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘Good morning.’

‘Same to you,’ Ryan replied. ‘DI Wynne was filling me in on the investigation.’

Blunt smiled. ‘I might have something of interest,’ he said. ‘I ran Mal Swift to see what came up.’

It was clear something had.

‘And?’ Wynne said.

‘And he’s on the sex offenders register,’ Blunt said. ‘Served five years for child sex crimes. Been out a couple of years and recently moved here.’

Wynne looked at DCI Ryan.

‘We’ll tread carefully,’ she said, then turned to Blunt. ‘Let’s get moving. We have work to do.’

ii

Wynne typed in Mal Swift’s address. The map came up and she felt a shot of adrenaline.

‘Shit,’ she said.

Blunt turned to her. He was in the passenger seat of her Golf, his iPad on his knees.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Swift,’ she replied. ‘He lives one street away from Brian, Willow and Oakley. So if he had been watching local kids, Oakley would be one of them.’ She turned the key and the engine coughed, then rattled into life. ‘That’s the thing with these cases,’ she said. ‘It’s normally someone close to home.’

‘You want to know about Swift?’ Blunt said. ‘I have his information.’

She pulled out. ‘Fill me in on the way.’

‘He’s thirty-seven,’ Blunt said. ‘Originally from Surrey. Married when he was twenty-eight to Arabella Meyer. They have a daughter, Clara, now nine.’

‘Do they live with him?’

Blunt shook his head. ‘No. They divorced seven years ago, around the time he went to prison. He did five years. He was leader of a church youth group. Exposed himself to boys and girls, ages six to eight. There were accusations of inappropriate touching, but they weren’t proved.’

‘Right around Oakley’s age.’

‘Exactly that,’ Blunt said.

‘You said he did five years? What about the last two?’

‘He was in Portugal. The Algarve.’

‘The Algarve,’ Wynne said, thoughtfully. She paused. ‘Why there, of all places? There could be an innocent explanation. Maybe he wanted a fresh start in a new place.’

‘Or maybe he wanted to live somewhere there are lots of kids in swimming costumes and he could be around them without standing out,’ Blunt said.

‘Any reports he was active while there?’ Wynne said.

‘None that I know of. I’ll have someone check in with the Portuguese authorities, though.’

Wynne drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Let’s make that a priority,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he was homesick, but there could be another reason he left. It would be good to know.’

‘Got it,’ Blunt said.

Wynne’s phone buzzed, letting her know to turn left.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Zeroing In

i

DI Spring sat at the table in the interview room, his laptop open in front of him. DS Karen Kirkpatrick was standing by the table, a mug of tea in her hands. They had come to Wynne’s police station in order to meet Brian Crowne.

‘So this is her?’ he said.

On the screen there were two photos: one of a woman in her seventies, taken from the CCTV. Her hair was short and grey, and she had sharp, angular features. The other was of a woman in her sixties, taken some years earlier.

‘That’s a picture of Edna Crowne on the right,’ Spring said. ‘Ten years ago, so she could have changed. And that’s the woman from the airport. What do you think?’

‘It looks a bit like her,’ Kirkpatrick said. ‘It’s hard to tell, given the time that’s passed. It could be her. She’s the right age, and people can change their appearance if they really want to.’

‘I agree,’ Spring said. ‘Can’t be sure. I sent it to Wynne. We can see what she thinks. And Brian Crowne, when he arrives.’ He tapped the screen. ‘And we’re sure that’s the woman from the airport?’

‘Hundred per cent.’ Kirkpatrick pressed a button and another window popped up. ‘This is the footage. It’s edited to show the important parts.’

Spring watched the images unfold. The woman walking into the arrivals hall and looking at the screen. It was impossible to know which flight she was looking at, but after a moment she checked her watch – something expensive-looking on a silver bracelet – and turned to look at the door the passengers emerged through.

A few moments later, Willow Crowne came into view. She was running, and it was obvious from the footage she was distressed. She paused near the woman and stared at the screen, checking the flight times.

The woman looked at her. She studied her for a moment, then moved towards her and said something.

‘Rewind that,’ Spring said.

Kirkpatrick tapped the screen and the images played again.

‘See something?’ she said.

‘Maybe.’ He grunted. ‘Watch how she looked at Crowne before she speaks to her. Seems like she could be verifying it’s who she thinks it is before she says anything? Maybe if she’d only seen photos of her and she wanted to be sure it’s the right person?’

Kirkpatrick played it again. The woman definitely paused, her eyes fixed on Willow, before she spoke to her.

‘I see what you mean,’ Kirkpatrick said. ‘There could be a simpler explanation, though. Maybe she was wondering whether to interfere? Perhaps she saw someone looking upset and hesitated before getting involved?’

‘Could be.’ Spring scratched his cheek. ‘Let’s keep going.’

Willow and the woman spoke for a few moments, then Willow set off at a run. The woman watched her go, then turned back to the arrivals door.

She waited, watching the people coming through. None of them were the right person.

She glanced at her watch again, then did a small shuffle from foot to foot, as though she was frustrated by something. She looked back at the screen, and shook her head.

Then she paused and reached into her coat pocket. She took out her phone and looked at the screen, then tapped it a few times and held it up to her ear.

‘Looks like she got a message,’ Spring said, ‘then made a call.’

She spoke for a few seconds, then put the phone in her pocket, turned away and left.

Spring leaned forward.

‘What just happened?’ he said. ‘Play that back.’

They watched it again. The message, the phone call, then the sudden departure. Spring got to his feet. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

DS Kirkpatrick took a deep breath. ‘I think that’s pretty odd behaviour,’ she said.

‘Go on.’

‘She’s waiting for someone but she leaves before they arrive? She gets a message that changes something, she calls to confirm, then she goes. Why would you leave the airport before the person you were there to pick up arrived?’

‘Why indeed,’ Spring said. ‘Maybe the message said the person was delayed, or had arrived early and got a cab, or was at a different airport. Something like “Where are you? I’m here” so she calls and the person turns out to be at Liverpool airport instead, so she rushes off.’

‘Or it could be that she was supposed to get Anna but something changed,’ Kirkpatrick said. ‘Or she was there to observe Willow Crowne so she could tell someone else that she had left the area and the coast was clear.’

‘It could be that.’ Spring nodded. ‘Either way, we need to find her, ASAP.’

‘We’re working on it,’ Kirkpatrick said.

There was a knock on the door and a uniformed officer came in. ‘Mr Crowne’s here,’ he said. ‘Should I bring him through?’

‘Yes,’ Spring said. ‘We need to talk to Brian Crowne.’

ii

The door opened and Brian Crowne walked in. Spring closed the laptop and gestured to him to take a seat.

He had called earlier that morning and asked whether Crowne could come into the police station to discuss the case; he had offered to come to Brian’s local station to save him the trip to Manchester. He was glad he had; Brian Crowne looked in no fit state to be driving anywhere. His face was slack, his eyes hollow. He had shaved but had missed a patch on his left jaw.

‘Mr Crowne,’ Spring said. ‘Thank you for coming in. This is DS Kirkpatrick.’

‘No problem.’ Brian looked around. ‘Is DI Wynne here?’

‘She’s looking into something else.’

‘Who’s in charge of this case?’ Crowne said.

‘We’re working together,’ Spring said. ‘I’m taking the lead on Anna. Detective Inspector Wynne is taking the lead on Oakley. We’re in close contact.’

‘Is there anything new?’ Crowne asked.

‘DI Wynne is following up on a lead related to the van,’ Spring said. ‘We are tracing the woman your wife talked to at the airport.’

‘Do you know who she is yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Do you have a picture?’

Spring shook his head. Crowne would see the photo soon enough, but he wanted to talk to him beforehand.

‘Mr Crowne,’ he said. ‘In these situations there are a number of possibilities. One is Oakley wandering off. That now seems unlikely. We’ve searched the area – you and your wife took part last night – and unless he managed to get a long way away, I’d say we’re close to discounting that. We’ll keep looking, of course. Then there’s the possibility of a lone wolf who spotted Oakley and took him. Or it’s a more organized effort.’ He caught Crowne’s eye. ‘You don’t need me to tell you this, but there are gangs who kidnap children.’

Crowne flinched. ‘I know.’

‘Then there’s Anna. I doubt she went off with a friend – she’d have contacted you by now, so the same options apply. A lone wolf, or something more organized.’

He folded his arms. ‘But here’s the thing. An opportunist doesn’t hang around airports. It’s too risky. They’d be too easily spotted. There are easier places for them to go, sick as it may seem. Beaches, playgrounds. Anywhere a child might wander away from its parents. Which leaves us with something organized.’

‘You think it’s that?’ Crowne said, his voice flat.

‘We can’t be sure. But it seems possible.’ He tapped his fingers on the table. ‘We’ll find the woman your wife talked to, and we’ll find the van – and its owner. And then we’ll piece this together.’

‘Good,’ Crowne said. ‘Good.’

‘There’s one other thing I’d like to mention.’ Spring held Brian Crowne’s gaze. ‘More often than not the explanation for a child’s disappearance is close to home.’

Crowne’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Last time it was your mother,’ Spring said. ‘This time it can’t be her, but maybe’ – he shrugged – ‘I don’t know. You tell me. If there’s something you want to share, now’s a good time. We’ll find out eventually, anyway.’

‘Are you suggesting I’m involved?’ Crowne said, his voice lower.

‘I’m simply looking into every possibility. For this to happen once to someone is unfortunate. But twice? That looks like a pattern.’

Crowne shook his head in a violent, involuntary motion. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. You can’t think that.’

‘I have to think everything,’ Spring said.

‘This is stupid,’ he said. ‘This is fucking stupid. You have to stop, now.’

‘I can’t stop just because you don’t like it.’

Crowne stood up and slammed his hands on the table. ‘It’s got nothing to do with whether I like it!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t waste your time on this, when you could be looking for my children! Please!’

There was a long silence. Whether involved or not, he was not going to say anything now.

‘Are we done?’ Crowne said, eventually.

‘Yes,’ Spring replied. ‘We are.’

‘I can see myself out,’ Brian said.

When he had left the room, Spring turned to DS Kirkpatrick. ‘Thoughts?’ he said.

She pursed her lips. ‘I think if he did do it,’ she said, ‘he’s a bloody good actor.’

The Comfort of Friends

i

Julia and Gill walked along the canal towpath in silence, the afternoon sun soft and warm. It was all so familiar to Julia: the canal, the fields and paths and stiles, the hedges and copses and farms. The town centre of Warrington was close; the cities of Manchester and Liverpool less than a forty-five-minute drive away, yet if you followed the canals you were in the Cheshire countryside in a matter of yards. These walks had been one of her favourite things about living here. Of course, there were places a small boy could wander into and get lost; all places that had been searched.

Like they had been searched when Anna was kidnapped, and with the same result.

They had not set out to search for Oakley but they found themselves looking as they walked. Groups of police officers were still combing the area; occasionally a helicopter buzzed overhead. Julia hoped she was wrong, but she didn’t think they would find Oakley, not now.

He had been kidnapped.

The thought of it alone made her feel sick, for him and Brian and Willow, but also because of what it meant for her daughter.

She too had been taken. Julia knew it. There was no other explanation that made sense.

She just couldn’t think of how, or who, or why.

The first time she had never suspected it was Edna, but she had known what had happened: she had turned up late to pick Anna up from school and somebody had got there first. Who and why she didn’t know; how was clear.

This time none of it was clear.

Gill linked her arm through hers. ‘That canal,’ she said. ‘I can’t help picturing him falling in.’

‘I know.’ Julia had nothing to add. She felt paralysed by Anna’s absence, frozen by the not-knowing, by the inability to act.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gill said. She stifled a sob. ‘This must be so hard for you. I want nothing more than to see Anna again. I can’t imagine how you feel.’

Tears came to Julia’s eyes now, too. ‘I can’t lose her, Gill. She’s my baby. My little girl. She’s all I have left. The thought that she’s gone …’ Her voice tailed off. There was nothing to add.

They turned onto the road and headed for the hotel. It was gone 3 p.m. – nearly twenty-four hours since she had dropped Anna off at Heathrow. Was that all? Was that how long it took for your life to fall apart? It seemed another lifetime – watching her walk away, then heading to her date with Zach, a date which had never happened.

He had stood her up. Not that she cared now, but it was odd. He had not seemed like the standing-up type. Was there something else going on? Wynne would find him and they’d get some answers.

The hotel was around the corner; as they approached her phone buzzed. It was from Wynne.

Here’s the woman who Willow spoke to at the airport. Do you recognize her?

There was a photo, slightly grainy, but it was a clear enough shot of the woman’s face.

I don’t think so.

Could it be Edna?

No, it couldn’t. She was puzzled by the question; Edna was dead, and not by some vague rumour or report – Brian had identified her body.

But for the sake of it, she studied it again. It wasn’t Edna. The woman’s face was thinner, her nose more prominent, her neck longer.

But there was something in her posture, a hawk-like, poised bearing that was reminiscent of her mother-in-law.

And it was rare. Not many people had that. You could change the shape of your nose and lose weight and disguise other aspects of your appearance, but something like that, an elemental arrogance, was hard to fake, and hard to lose.

She typed a reply.

Hard to be 100% I

don’t think it’s Edna.

You don’t think?

Are you sure?

No, I’m not.

They turned into the road the hotel was on.

‘Oh shit,’ Gill said. ‘Put your phone down.’

‘What is it?’ Julia looked up. There was a scrum of reporters gathered around the hotel entrance. ‘Oh. I see. Let’s find a back entrance. Or a pub. We’ll never get past them.’

‘No,’ Gill said. ‘Keep going. I’ll deal with this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Keep walking. We’ll go in the front door. When I say, run for it.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll see.’ Gill grinned. This was why she loved her friend. ‘Let’s fuck with these vultures a bit.’

As they neared the reporters a buzz of conversation started. There she is. Is that her? A woman with black hair scraped into a ponytail and way too much make-up marched towards them. Behind her the pack blocked the pavement.

‘Julia Crowne?’ she said. ‘I’m with the Record, and I want to—’

Gill held up her hands. ‘My client has a major announcement,’ she said. ‘If you could gather over there’ – she pointed to an area to the left of the front door where there was a fire pit and terrace – ‘we’ll join you in a few moments.’

The reporters muttered to each other.

‘Move back, please,’ Gill said. ‘Or my client won’t speak.’

‘She’s your client?’ a man shouted. ‘Who are you?’

‘All in good time,’ Gill said, with a calm, reassuring smile. ‘By the firepit, if you don’t mind.’

They moved towards the terrace. Gill took Julia’s elbow and stood next to her, their backs to the main door of the hotel.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘My client’ – her mouth dropped open and she pointed at the road behind the reporters, the road she and Julia had walked down – ‘what the fuck is that?’

Everyone turned to look in the direction she was pointing.

‘Now,’ Gill whispered. Julia ran towards the hotel. She pushed the door open and ran inside. It closed behind her and she turned to see the reporters’ outraged faces.

‘We do have a message for you,’ she heard Gill say. ‘It’s two words, the second of which is “you”. Anyone need me to clarify what the first one is? I’ll do it anyway. The message from my client – my friend, if I’m honest, because I was just messing with you all – is “fuck you”. Any questions?’

ii

They sat in Julia’s room, laughing. It felt good, for a moment, to laugh.

‘They looked a bit shocked,’ Gill said. ‘The woman with the ponytail’s face was like a bag of spanners.’

‘A what?’ Julia said.

‘A bag of spanners. My grandad used to say that to us when we were pouting about something as kids. I can hear him now. “Lass, you’ve a face like a bag of spanners. Cheer up, petal.”’

‘It was fun,’ Julia said. ‘Although I think I’ll have to pay a price for it, at some point.’

‘Yeah,’ Gill said. ‘I remember last time.’

Julia nodded. When Anna had been kidnapped the press had been – how to put it delicately? – a bunch of ravening vultures without the least shred of regard for any concept of privacy or human dignity. At least a vulture had the excuse it knew no better; the reporters who had hounded her and written stories about how she had got what she deserved for failing to pick up her daughter on time, who had tried to find whatever sensationalist angle – some of them fed to the press by Edna – about Julia’s private life, should have known better.

But they didn’t, and they claimed it was all about journalism and seeking the truth. They weren’t journalists, and to them the truth was, at best, an abstract notion they could call on to justify their venality. There was money in printing bullshit about whoever was in the public eye at any one time, and back then that had been Julia. So they had printed bullshit – whatever the cost to her and anybody else – and collected their money.

No doubt it would happen again this time. But in the meantime she’d enjoy the small victory Gill had handed her.

A phone started to ring. It was, she realized, the one by her bed. It was the first time in years she had heard a landline phone. She picked up the receiver.

‘Hello? Is that Mrs Miller?’ It sounded like a bored young woman, every sentence a question.

‘Yes.’

‘This is reception? There’s someone here to see you?’

The fucking press. They had got inside the hotel. Now they had seen her, they wouldn’t leave her alone.

‘Tell them I’m not available,’ she said.

‘He said to tell you his name?’ Another question. ‘Brian Crowne?’

It was exactly the kind of trick the press would pull. Pretend to be Brian, get you downstairs, and then doorstep you.

‘Can you put him on?’ Julia said.

‘I think so? Hang on?’

A moment later Brian was on the phone. It was definitely him.

‘Julia. Can we talk?’

‘Sure. Any reason?’

‘I got questioned,’ he said. His voice was quivering with anger. ‘And accused of being involved. In my own kids’ disappearance.’

‘Why?’ Julia asked. ‘They’ll do anything for a story.’

‘What?’ he sounded confused. ‘Who will?’

‘The press. They’ll do anything – say anything – they don’t care.’

‘Not the press,’ he said. ‘The cops. Spring accused me of being involved.’

‘Why? What makes them think that?’

‘I have no fucking idea,’ he replied.

‘OK. I’ll meet you downstairs,’ she said. ‘Actually, it’d be better up here. See you in a minute.’

Rodents Are a Man’s Best Friend

i

DI Wynne and DS Blunt stood on the steps of Mal Swift’s terraced house. The door was painted dark green. There was no doorbell and no knocker. DS Blunt leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the door.

There was no answer. After a minute, Blunt knocked again.

‘No one home,’ he said.

‘Hold on.’ From the corner of her eye, Wynne caught a movement at an upstairs window. It could have been nothing – the reflection of a passing car, perhaps – but she stepped back and looked up at the window.

‘Mr Swift,’ she said. ‘We just want to talk. And we’ll be back, so now is really as good a time as any, if you are home.’

The curtain twitched and a few seconds later they heard the sound of footsteps. Swift was coming, but why had he been pretending not to be in? On its own it didn’t mean he was hiding something; it could be simply that he didn’t get many visitors, or didn’t like to be surprised, but she made a note to herself anyway.

The door opened and a man stepped onto the threshold. He was thin and of average height, well-dressed in pressed blue chinos and a dark grey sweater. He was wearing moccasins and his hair was blond and close-cropped, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. He wore glasses, behind which blue eyes studied them.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’ He spoke with a drawl, giving the impression of slight arrogance and condescension.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Jane Wynne, and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Blunt.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? What a pleasure.’

‘We were hoping you might be able to help us with some enquiries we are making about the disappearance of a young boy last night.’

‘I heard about that on the news. Still no word of him?’ Swift said. He wore a concerned expression, but it looked slightly off, like a bad actor in a cheap movie.

‘Not yet,’ Blunt said, his voice dry. Wynne sympathized with him; Swift was an unappealing character, but they had to do their best to remain neutral.

‘Our enquiries are ongoing,’ she said. ‘Would you be able to answer some questions?’

Swift shrugged. ‘If you like. But I can tell you right now that I know nothing.’

‘That’s fine,’ Wynne said. ‘We’d like to talk to you anyway.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Inside, maybe?’ Blunt said.

‘Surely this won’t take long?’ Swift said. ‘I’ve nothing to tell you.’

‘Might be longer than you think,’ Blunt said. ‘Of course, if there’s some reason you don’t want us in your house, we can come back later, with a warrant, and turn the place upside down. Who knows what we’d find?’

Swift stared at him. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘That’s what this is. You lot never change. Come in, then.’

He stepped back and held out his hand in a gesture ushering them into the house.

‘We’ll repair to the kitchen,’ he said.

They followed him down the hallway. There was a strange smell in the house; Wynne saw that Blunt had noticed it too. He glanced at Wynne and frowned.

Wynne hung back and let them go ahead. The door to the living room was ajar so she pushed it open and looked inside.

A fireplace, window looking onto the yard, a widescreen TV and sofa, and the source of the smell.

There was a large wire cage, full of animals. Hamsters, maybe, or gerbils. Wynne had no idea what. But there were a lot of them, and they stank.

She backed out of the room and entered the kitchen. Blunt was standing by the door; Swift was sitting at the table, a mug of tea in his hand, steam rising from the liquid.

‘I’d offer you some tea,’ he said, and took a sip. ‘But I’m all out, I’m afraid.’

Next to her, Blunt flinched. This was a side of him she had not seen, and she was quite glad he had it.

She pulled out a chair and sat opposite Swift. ‘Not a problem, Mr Swift,’ she said, and smiled. ‘We appreciate the thought. Could we start with some grounding questions?’

‘As you see fit.’

She decided that Swift was too comfortable, so she cleared her throat and caught his eye. She held his gaze.

‘You’re on the sex offenders register, Mr Swift.’ She left the words hanging there.

His lips were white, pressed together in fury. ‘I have paid the price for what I did,’ he said. ‘Even though it was all a misunderstanding. But you won’t leave me alone, will you?’

‘We have to be clear about these things,’ Wynne said. ‘And you recently returned from Portugal?’

‘What has that got to do with anything?’

Wynne ignored the question. ‘You did recently return from Portugal?

‘You know I did,’ Swift said.

‘Why did you choose to return?’ Wynne said.

‘Or did you need to leave?’ Blunt added. ‘Got a bit hot for you there?’

‘I came back,’ Swift said slowly, ‘for personal reasons.’

‘Would you care to share them?’ Wynne said.

‘They’re personal – nothing to do with you.’

‘That’s OK,’ Wynne said. She smiled. ‘We will, of course, be talking to the Portuguese authorities so if there is anything you think they will tell us, you might want to mention it now. Otherwise it could seem as though you were being dishonest with us.’

‘There’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Now, what questions do you have for me about the boy who disappeared?’

‘Yes,’ Wynne said. ‘Oakley Crowne. Where were you yesterday between five and seven p.m.?’

‘Here.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘My phone records?’ he said.

‘Easy to leave a phone at home,’ Blunt said.

‘Or you could ask my neighbours if they saw me leave? But the truth is, I was here alone.’

‘But no one can confirm that?’ Blunt said.

‘Actually,’ he said, picking up his phone. ‘Maybe they can.’ He scrolled down the screen for a moment, then handed the phone to Wynne. ‘I made a call at six seventeen to my mum. It lasted about ten minutes. Presumably you can prove the phone was here, so I must have been too?’

‘Your mum,’ Blunt said. ‘It’s always your mum with you lot. Still loves you, despite what you’ve done.’

Wynne looked at the screen. If it was true then this was an alibi of sorts, although it did feel a little too convenient.

‘Thank you,’ Wynne said. ‘We’ll look into that. While we’re here, would you mind if we had a look around your house?’

Swift laughed. ‘Go for it,’ he said.

Wynne got to her feet. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

They left the kitchen and she opened the door to the living room. Blunt walked in ahead of her and stopped abruptly.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What the hell is all this?’

‘Pets,’ Wynne said. ‘Rodents. No wonder he lives alone.’

There was a cough behind them.

‘I see you have discovered my friends,’ he said. ‘No doubt you take this as further evidence of my depravity?’

‘You said it,’ Blunt replied. ‘What else are you hiding away in this place?’

‘Nothing,’ Swift said. ‘As you will soon discover. Otherwise, do you think I would be allowing you to look around?’

‘I suppose not, Mr Swift,’ Wynne said. ‘Do you have a cellar?’

Swift shook his head. ‘There’s an attic. You’ll see the entrance. There are pull-down stairs.’

‘I’ll go up,’ Wynne said. ‘DI Blunt will look downstairs, and in your garden, if he could?’

She climbed the stairs. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom. She checked them one by one, but they were all empty, the beds made. They seemed strangely unlived in, and Wynne found herself wondering where Swift slept.

She pulled the attic stairs down with a loud rattle. She doubted there would be anything here, but at least he would know they were serious.

The attic was dry and dusty and empty. She went downstairs to the kitchen; Blunt was standing by the back door. He shook his head.

Swift was sitting at the table, a fresh cup of tea in front of him.

‘Find what you were looking for?’ he said.

Wynne smiled. ‘We’ll send some officers to take a closer look,’ she said. ‘If that’s OK with you.’

‘You do that.’ He sat back. ‘Let me tell you something, Detective. If I wanted to abduct a six-year-old boy – which I don’t – I wouldn’t go to a football practice to do it. Too many witnesses. And I wouldn’t keep him in my house. But whatever – you boys and girls in blue have a look around.’

‘Where would you keep him?’ Blunt said. ‘An allotment?’

Swift’s eyes narrowed. It was brief, but Wynne would have sworn that for a second he looked frightened.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘Of course not,’ Blunt said. He looked at Wynne. ‘Do you want to tell him, or should I?’

‘Tell me what?’ Swift said. His measured sangfroid had vanished, replaced with a more urgent manner.

‘Well,’ Wynne replied, ‘I don’t know how closely you’ve been following the reports, but we do have one lead. A blue van was spotted at the field. We’ve been looking for it.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Do you own a blue van, Mr Swift?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Mr Swift?’ Blunt said. ‘A blue van?’

Wynne could see the calculation play out in his head. If they know and I lie, I’m in trouble. If they don’t know and I tell them, I’m in trouble. But if they don’t know, why are they asking?

In the end common sense prevailed.

‘I do,’ he said. ‘I have a blue van.’

‘And where do you keep it?’ Blunt said.

‘My allotment,’ Swift muttered. ‘I have a garage there.’

‘So we understand,’ Wynne said. ‘You won’t mind if we take a look, I assume?’

‘I had nothing to do with this,’ Swift said. ‘You don’t need to go to my garage.’

‘That, I think, is something we’ll decide,’ Wynne said. ‘And if we need a warrant, we will get one.’

Swift looked away. He seemed diminished, smaller. When he turned back to Wynne, he had a blank look in his eyes.

‘I suppose I have no choice,’ he said.

‘You suppose right,’ Blunt replied.

‘Then go and look,’ Swift said. ‘If you must. Go and look.’

ii

‘Do we go now?’ Blunt said.

‘I think so. Before he changes his mind.’

‘You think it’s him?’

Wynne turned the key in the ignition and pulled out into the road. ‘I’m not sure what I think.’

‘He fits. Recently arrived in the area, history of child sexual abuse. Flimsy alibi. Then there’s the van, kept hidden in a secret location.’

‘He does. He fits perfectly.’

‘And did you see his face when he realized we knew about it? He looked as guilty as sin.’

Wynne nodded, and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.

‘What is it?’ Blunt said. ‘You don’t think he’s guilty?’

‘He’s guilty all right,’ Wynne said. ‘There’s no doubt he’s guilty of something, and it’s linked to the hidden van. But there’s one thing that bothers me.’

‘Which is?’

‘He’s letting us go to his garage.’

‘He has no choice.’

‘He could demand we get a warrant, and then, in the time it took, he could have moved whatever he’s got in there. Oakley, Anna or anything else.’

‘What would you have done if he’d demanded a warrant?’ Blunt said.

‘I would have detained him. Or watched him.’

‘Right. So if he did move it, we’d know.’

‘He didn’t know that.’

‘Of course he did,’ Blunt said. ‘This isn’t his first rodeo. He’s been through this before, so he knows it’s over.’

Blunt was right. It all made sense. There was something in that garage, and it was possibly – even probably – Oakley Crowne.

Whether dead or alive.

She checked her phone. Julia Crowne had replied to her question about the photo of the woman, saying she didn’t think it was Edna, but couldn’t be sure. Brian was yet to reply.

He still hadn’t. She’d call him once they’d checked the garage.

Because by then they might have his kids back.

Mis-stepping

i

Brian sat on the edge of the bed. His foot was tapping on the floor, his eyes flicking from right to left, blinking incessantly.

‘He fucking accused me,’ he said, his words fast and verging on inaudible. ‘I’m their dad, I’m supposed to protect them – although I haven’t exactly done a good job of that, but still I’m supposed to, and he thinks I hurt them? He thinks I—’

Julia sat next to him. She shared his distress; there was nothing worse than this waiting, and for him it was both of his children, but he needed to keep himself focused. She put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s unfair. But he’s only doing his job.’

‘His job? His job is to accuse me? Really? Is that what you think—’

‘Brian,’ Julia said. He seemed on the edge of a breakdown. She needed to bring him back to the real world, crappy as it was. ‘Did you get a message from DI Wynne?’

‘What message?’

‘With a photo?’

‘Of who?’

‘The woman Willow talked to at the airport. They have a photo of her. Wynne sent it to us so we could see if it could be Edna.’

‘Edna’s dead.’

‘I know. But did you look at it?’

‘I haven’t checked my phone. I’ve been— I’ve been distracted.’

Deranged, more like, Julia thought. ‘Check now,’ she said. She opened the photo on her phone. ‘Take a look.’

She handed Brian her phone and he studied the screen for a long time. She watched, looking for a flicker of dawning recognition or growing shock as he recognized his mother.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not her.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Julia said.

He continued to look at the photo. ‘But …’ he paused. ‘She’s the right age. And there’s something about her.’ He shook his head. ‘No. It’s not her. This is like when you want to see a shape in a cloud you can convince yourself it’s there. But it’s not her. And besides – unless she has somehow been resurrected, it can’t be her.’

‘Right,’ Julia said. ‘They’re just being thorough.’

‘I almost wish it was her,’ Brian said, his voice starting to break. ‘At least some of this would make sense.’ He started to cry in long, low sobs. He looked up at Julia, his expression utterly helpless.

Gill picked up her bag. ‘I’ll head out,’ she said. ‘Ping me when you want me back. I’ll be close.’

When the door shut, Julia put her hand on Brian’s back. It felt odd to touch him after all this time, but she had to do something.

‘Brian,’ she said. ‘Brian. It’s OK.’

ii

‘Brian,’ Julia said, dimly aware of the absurdity that she was comforting her ex-husband when she, too, was in need of comfort. ‘I know how hard this is, but we have to try to hold it together. It doesn’t matter what the detective thinks. He’s only doing his job. You have to let it go.’

The Disney song came into her mind; it had been a favourite of Anna’s when it came out, and they had listened to it until every note was embedded in the structures of her brain.

‘It’s not’ – his words were staccato, obscured by the sobs – ‘it’s not – it’s not just that.’

‘It’s OK,’ she said, although it was anything but.

‘It’s everything,’ he said, his breathing more regular. ‘Anna and Oakley. And Willow. She blames me.’

‘How can she blame you?’

‘Because if she hadn’t married me, none of this would have happened. It’s all because of what happened to Anna.’

Jesus Christ. Willow had never struck Julia as the most impressive human being at the best of times, but this seemed to be bringing out an even less impressive side of her.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘That’s like saying if none of us had ever been born this wouldn’t have happened. It’s true, but it’s fucking ridiculous.’

‘I know.’ He turned to her, his face red and blotchy. ‘But what can I do? She hates me, Julia. She blames me because all she can think about is herself. Meanwhile, I’ve lost everything.’

He started to cry again. She felt some sympathy; it was impossible not to, given what he was going through, but her main emotion was disgust. She was suffering too, but he seemed to have failed to notice that.

Willow may have been self-centred, but he was no better.

He leaned his head on her shoulder, his eyes closed, his cheeks wet with tears. She put an arm around him.

‘It’ll be OK, Brian.’

She could feel his tears on her neck, in the hollow below her ear. In years gone by he had kissed her there; now that seemed like no more than a bad memory.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for being here.’ He pulled his head back slightly, then tilted it towards her.

He kissed her on the cheek, his lips wet and warm from the tears. She was too shocked to respond; she should have, because moments later he was kissing her on the mouth.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured, and kissed her again. ‘I love you, Julia. I always have. I realized last night.’

She shoved him away from her. He looked at her, blinking through the tears.

‘Brian,’ she said. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

He stared at her, his eyes wide. She could see the enormity of his mistake dawn on him, his face becoming fixed in an expression of sheer horror.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She did not feel like telling him it was OK, because it wasn’t. It was wrong on so many levels – the kiss itself was bad enough, but worse was the idea that now, with everything she was going through, he would think it was in any way appropriate to fucking kiss her.

‘You should leave,’ she said. ‘Now.’

Closing the Loop

Spring read the email and smiled. It was good news. Not because it would necessarily lead them to Anna, but because it would answer the question of whether the elderly woman Willow had spoken to was involved or not.

And DI Spring thought she very well might be. In fact, he was coming close to thinking he had a reasonable view of what precisely had happened here. Proving it might be another story, but once you had the outline, you were a long way to closing the case.

We got your woman on CCTV leaving the car park, the email read, there was another woman in the passenger seat – maybe mid-forties – but it was not clear whether there was anyone else in the car. The car is registered to Maria Greene, at an address in Macclesfield.

So the elderly woman – Maria Greene – had left the airport with another woman. Maybe she had picked her up from a flight; maybe they had both arrived by car in order to abduct Anna. They could check the incoming CCTV. The elderly woman had talked to Willow to divert her attention, while the woman in her forties brought Anna out of the airport and into the car.

Risky, to show her face, but in his experience criminals took risks all the time, either calculatedly or because they made a mistake.

He typed the address in Macclesfield into his phone. It was getting late, but that couldn’t be helped. He and DS Kirkpatrick would head over there to talk to Maria Greene.

But first he needed to talk to Wynne. He was unsure about her; she seemed tentative. He wondered whether her involvement in the earlier case was clouding her judgement in some way, making her see shadows and ghosts. She was obsessed with Edna Crowne and whether she was involved, but Edna was dead. He understood: Crowne was an evil bitch who had put them all through the wringer, so it was natural they retained some fear of her, but even she couldn’t cheat the reaper.

He called her number.

‘Wynne.’

‘This is DI Spring. How’s it going with Mal Swift?’

There was a pause. ‘We’re heading to the garage at his allotment now. There’s definitely something odd going on with him.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘His reaction when we asked him about the van. It was obvious he’s hiding something.’

He took her word for it. Detectives with Wynne’s experience – he knew, because he was one – got a feel for the people they were interviewing.

‘So,’ he said. ‘We have a known sex offender in the area, who has a secret vehicle matching the description of one identified at the scene of the crime. Promising.’

‘That’s about it,’ Wynne said. ‘What about you?’

‘Nothing on Zach Thompson, yet, but we have a name and address for the woman Willow Crowne talked to.’

‘Both Julia and Brian thought it wasn’t Edna Crowne,’ Wynne said. ‘Although they weren’t able to be certain.’

There it was again. Her odd obsession with a dead woman. ‘I have an idea what happened.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Well,’ Spring said. ‘Here’s an outline, given what we know. Zach Thompson befriends Julia Crowne in order to gain access to Anna. Once he has what he wants, he disappears.’

‘Why befriend her in the first place?’ Wynne said. ‘Why Anna?’

‘Don’t know. Kidnapping gang took a liking to her, he took a liking to her – who knows – but that’s what he did. Once he knew she would be flying alone, he made a plan to exploit her vulnerability in that situation and abduct her.’

‘Why not grab her from the street?’

‘Again – don’t know. But we have a man who suddenly went missing and a woman who chose to interact with Willow Crowne at the airport. That puts both of them in the picture.’

‘Especially if she’s Edna,’ Wynne said.

Jesus. She really was obsessed. ‘Yes. But from what you said that seems unlikely. Her son and former daughter-in-law didn’t recognize her.’

‘They also didn’t rule her out.’

‘Either way,’ Spring said. ‘Edna or not, we have Zach and the woman. And soon we’ll be talking to at least one of them.’

‘What about Oakley?’

‘Local sex offender with a taste for small boys. Unrelated, probably.’

‘Seems a coincidence,’ Wynne said.

‘Fine. So maybe it’s linked, and Mal Swift is part of it. He spent time on the continent, same as Zach Thompson.’

‘He was in Portugal. Zach was in northern France.’

‘So they connected on the internet. Or maybe it is a coincidence. These are details, Detective Inspector Wynne. Either way, you’re about to find out what part Mal Swift played in this, and I’m about to do the same for the woman who spoke to Willow Crowne.’

It wouldn’t be Edna-fucking-Crowne. He was going to visit this woman, and find out whether she was involved.

But what he was not going to find was a dead woman. Resurrection was for Jesus, and DI Spring didn’t believe in him, either.

Closer, Ever Closer

We will wait here while they search. The boy – Oakley, little Oakley – drifts in and out of sleep. When awake he eats toast and sips some fruit juice, and then he slips back into a peaceful slumber.

For now it is better to keep him quiet, unaware of what is happening, but soon enough he will be allowed to wake fully.

And be told of his new life.

It is a key moment. How will he react?

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

It will be OK. There are all the things a small boy could want here. He will have to adjust, of course, but children are adaptable.

Many children are orphaned. Many children’s parents die in tragic accidents.

They go and live with loving relatives, who raise them as their own, slowly restoring them to full health.

Oakley will be no different. The fact it is not true is irrelevant.

He will not need to.

The time is coming. But for now, more waiting.

The Moment of Truth

Wynne recounted DI Spring’s hypothesis to Blunt. He nodded thoughtfully.

‘Could be,’ he said. ‘It makes sense.’

‘It’s a bit neat,’ Wynne said. ‘But I agree. It makes sense.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘I like it.’ Wynne paused. ‘I think he might be on to something – part of the way there, certainly.’ She turned on to a narrow road. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough. Those are the garages.’

They pulled into a gravel car park. To the right were a series of allotments, dotted with sheds and wire frames and low fences. To the left was a row of garages.

‘Which one is his?’ Wynne said.

‘Furthest right,’ Blunt replied. ‘So he said, anyway.’

They parked near the garage and climbed out. Blunt grabbed the padlock and examined it. He held up the key Swift had given him. ‘Let’s find out what he’s hiding.’

There were four or five other cars in the car park; as they got out some of the owners, working on their allotments, looked up. One of them put down his shovel and walked in their direction.

‘Evening,’ he said. He was in his sixties and had a tough, severe manner. ‘All well?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Wynne said.

The man didn’t move. He folded his arms and sniffed.

‘You’re here for a reason?’ he said.

Blunt turned to look at him. ‘No, we came by accident. We were looking for the cinema, and ended up here.’

‘No need to be rude,’ the man said. ‘I’m like to keep an eye on stuff.’

‘Very neighbourly,’ Wynne said. She held up her warrant card. ‘The owner knows we’re here.’

‘You’re cops?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What’s he done?’

‘We’re simply making enquiries,’ Wynne replied. ‘Do you know the owner?’

The man shook his head. ‘He’s new. Seems nice enough.’

Blunt turned the key and the padlock snapped open. ‘I’m sure he is. Now, would you mind?’

The man paused for a moment, then headed back to his allotment. Blunt pulled open the garage door.

The blue van was parked in the centre. In the far corner there was a desk and a chair. Next to it, against the wall, someone had stacked some bags of compost. Other than that, it was empty.

Oddly empty, given Swift’s reaction to finding out they were coming to search it.

‘Not much in here,’ Wynne said. ‘Try the van.’

Blunt walked around the van, peering through the windows. He paused by the rear door and took out the key. He pressed a button and the lights flashed. There was a click as the doors unlocked.

‘Probably empty too,’ he said. ‘This has the feel of a wild goose chase.’

Wynne agreed. Whatever was going on, Oakley Crowne was not in here.

And Mal Swift had not abducted him. His words came back to her.

If I wanted to abduct a six-year-old boy – which I don’t – I wouldn’t go to a football practice to do it. Too many witnesses.

He was right, and he would know.

‘Open it,’ she said, and nodded at the van.

Blunt swung the back doors open. It was dark inside, and he reached for the light switch on the wall.

The light flooded the garage. Blunt turned back to the van, and stopped dead.

‘What the fuck?’ he said. His mouth was open, his eyes wide in shock.

‘What is it?’ Wynne said.

‘You better come and look.’

Wynne walked over and peered into the back of the van.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she said. ‘What is all that?’

Leafy Cheshire

i

Maria Greene’s house was set back from a leafy Cheshire road at the end of a long drive. There was a new Aston Martin parked next to a pale blue E-Type Jaguar in front of a double garage the size of DI Spring’s house. As Spring and Kirkpatrick pulled in, a man in his seventies was walking out of the garage towards the E-type. He looked up at the decade-old Ford Mondeo pulling into his driveway, as though offended it was crunching his gravel.

Spring stopped the car and climbed out. He nodded at the man.

‘Nice motors,’ he said.

‘Putting the Jag away,’ the man said in a drawl that had more than a hint of a Liverpool accent in it. ‘Don’t like to leave it out overnight.’

‘I understand,’ Spring said.

The man held his hand, palm up. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Terry Spring,’ he said. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Kirkpatrick.’

The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Two detectives. Why?’

‘Really. We’d like to talk to Maria Greene.’

‘That’s my wife. I’m Arthur Greene.’

‘Is she home?’ Kirkpatrick said.

‘She is,’ Arthur Greene replied. ‘May I ask why you want to talk to her?’

‘That’s between your wife and us,’ Spring said.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh. Has she been a naughty girl?’

‘Maybe she can tell us,’ Spring said.

Greene nodded. ‘Come with me. She’s in the living room with our daughter.’

They followed him through a large main door, columns on either side, into a wide entrance hall. To the left was a door. It was ajar, and Arthur Greene pushed it open. Spring heard the sound of conversation; it stopped when Greene walked in.

‘Some people are here to see you, darling,’ he said. ‘Detectives.’

‘Detectives?’ a woman’s voice said. ‘Why?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me. Apparently it’s between you and them.’

‘Oh,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘Very exciting. Where are they?’

Greene gestured for them to come in.

Maria Greene was sitting on a large, dark blue couch, a glass of champagne on the table in front of her. It was next to a silver bucket – they probably had some fancy name, but Spring didn’t know it – in which the bottle was perched, surrounded by ice. Opposite her, sitting on a red armchair – they were the kind of people whose furniture didn’t match, which Spring’s wife, Angie, would have laughed at – was a woman about ten years younger than Spring. She had long, straight black hair and an athletic figure; she wore no wedding ring.

The daughter, presumably.

‘Hello,’ Maria Greene said. ‘Come in.’

Spring introduced Kirkpatrick and himself.

‘You’re Maria Greene?’ he said.

‘Yes. This is my daughter, Ashley. And you’ve met my husband. What is this about, if you don’t mind?’

‘Mrs Greene,’ Spring said. ‘We’d like to talk to you in connection with the disappearance of a fifteen-year-old girl last night at Manchester airport. We can do this alone, if you prefer.’

‘You mean without my husband and daughter listening?’

‘Exactly.’

‘That’s fine. They can stay.’ She took a sip of champagne. ‘Would you like a drink, by the way? It’s very good. Vintage. Some year or other.’

‘2001,’ Arthur Greene said. ‘You want a glass?’

‘No thank you,’ Spring said. ‘The girl – Anna Miller – was supposed to be picked up by her stepmother yesterday, but she did not arrive.’

‘I saw that on the news,’ Ashley Greene said. ‘What’s Mum got to do with it?’

‘I think I know,’ Maria Greene said. ‘This is because I talked to that woman, isn’t it? She’s the stepmum? And because I talked to her you want to talk to me? Well, I admire your thoroughness, but I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘We do have some questions, ma’am,’ Kirkpatrick said.

‘I don’t know what they could be. I have – obviously – got nothing to do with the missing girl.’ She waved her hand around. ‘But feel free to take a look.’

‘We’ll start with the questions,’ Spring said. ‘What were you doing at the airport yesterday?’

‘Picking up Ashley,’ Maria Greene said.

‘Really.’ Spring folded his arms. His neck prickled. She had left the arrivals hall without picking up Ashley. Her daughter had been in the car, but that didn’t mean she was on any plane. If she was, why had her mother not waited for her in arrivals? Why had he watched her leave the arrivals area alone on the CCTV footage?

She was lying. And once he started to pick at her lies the whole thing would unravel.

ii

‘Where did you fly from, Ashley?’ Spring said.

‘London. Heathrow, to be precise.’

‘You live there?’

‘Not at Heathrow. In Fulham.’

‘You work in London?’ Spring said.

‘You’re questioning my daughter now, too?’ Arthur Greene said. ‘Do I need my lawyer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Spring said. ‘Do you?’

‘It’s fine, Dad. There’s nothing to hide,’ Ashely said. ‘Yes, I work in London. I’m an estate agent. High-end sales.’

‘And you’re here for the weekend?’

‘Until Tuesday,’ Ashley said.

‘So to be clear,’ Spring said. ‘You arrived yesterday evening, from Heathrow?’

‘I did.’

‘You know we can verify that?’ he asked.

‘I can show you my tickets, if you’d like?’ She held up her phone. ‘All on here.’

Spring shook his head. ‘Later, maybe.’ He turned to Maria Greene. ‘So, you picked up Ashley yesterday at Manchester airport.’

‘You seem very interested – almost fixated – on this point,’ Maria said. ‘So for the avoidance of doubt, yes, I did.’

Spring looked at DS Kirkpatrick. ‘Do you remember the CCTV footage, DS Kirkpatrick?’

‘I do.’

‘I do too,’ Spring said. ‘And in it, Mrs Greene, you leave the arrivals area a few minutes after speaking to Anna Miller’s stepmother. But you don’t leave with your daughter. You leave alone.’

There was a long pause while Maria Greene studied him. ‘True,’ she said. ‘I left alone.’

‘Yet you just said you picked up your daughter,’ Spring said. ‘And now it seems you left alone.’

‘I hope,’ Maria Greene said, ‘that you have better leads than this, Detective Inspector – what was it? Smith? – because this is not at all the devastating trap you think it is.’

‘Really?’ Spring said. ‘Maybe I can be the judge of that.’

‘Maybe you can,’ she said. ‘And yes, really. Because, as you saw, I did leave without my daughter – at least I left the arrivals area. But not the airport. As you can see from her presence in this room, I picked her up.’

‘Then what did we see?’ Spring said.

‘My daughter sent me a message to say she was a few minutes away. I realized I had about ten minutes on my parking ticket before I incurred the next level of parking fees, which are outrageous at the airport, so I called her and said, if she hurried, I might avoid them. I told her I would go and get the car and meet her at the closest point to the arrivals area. And that, Detective, is what we did.’

DI Spring pictured the footage. Willow Crowne talking to her, then, not long after, her reading a message on her phone and making a call, then hurrying away.

It made sense.

‘And the woman you spoke to? You promised to look out for her daughter?’

‘Yes. I didn’t see her. And I’m very sorry that the girl is missing.’

‘You didn’t bother to tell the mother? You abandoned her for a few quid?’ Spring said.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Well,’ Kirkpatrick said. ‘I guess that kind of attitude’s how the rich stay rich.’

Maria Greene did not reply.

‘Any more questions?’ Arthur Greene said.

‘No,’ Spring replied. ‘I think we’re done here.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time.’

iii

‘Well that was a waste of fucking time,’ Kirkpatrick said.

Spring didn’t reply. When he had thought Greene was lying he had been sure they were about to break the case, and he didn’t like the feeling of disappointment that now gripped him.

‘What next?’ Kirkpatrick said.

‘Don’t know.’ He was about to start the engine when his phone rang. It was the station.

‘Spring,’ he said.

‘This is Carly. We had a call. Something you might want to check on.’

‘Go on.’

‘A woman who was on the flight rang in. She was sitting near Anna Miller, and she says that there was a man in his forties who she had an altercation with.’

‘What kind of altercation?’

‘Anna called him out for looking at her. Told him she was only fifteen.’

‘Right. What else?’

‘That was it. But the woman thought we’d want to know.’

Spring thought back to the CCTV footage, to the man following Anna. The skin on the back of his neck prickled.

‘Find out the man’s name,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk to him.’

Carly chuckled. ‘I already did,’ she said. ‘A quick call to the airline to find out who was seated next to her.’ She read out a name.

‘You have an address as well?’

‘It’s in Hale.’

‘That’s not far,’ Spring said. ‘We’ll go there now.’

Things Are Rarely What They Seem

i

It took her a moment to register what she was looking at.

The van was full of bodies.

Dead children, thrown in the van, limbs broken and torsos mutilated. They looked perfect, flawless, like life-sized dolls. And then she realized they were not like life-sized dolls. They were life-sized dolls.

She reached in and ran her finger along the thigh of one of them, a boy – if that even made sense in this situation – in school shorts and a football shirt. It was a smooth, pliable plastic, skin-like, in a way.

DS Blunt turned to her. His face was a mask of disgust, his normal calm gone. She saw that there was something personal in this for him. She would ask him what, later.

‘The sick fucker,’ he said.

Indeed. If it was Mal Swift who had done this, then there was little doubt he was, as DI Blunt had put it, a sick fucker. And if it wasn’t him, then whoever it was also answered to that description.

But having dolls was not a crime.

‘What is this?’ Blunt said.

‘I think,’ Wynne replied slowly, ‘it’s how he gets his kicks. It’s …’ – she paused – ‘it’s weird, to us, but at least it’s better than real kids.’

‘It’s fucking disgusting.’

‘You seem angry,’ Wynne said. ‘More than that. It’s like this is personal. Is there something I should know?’

Blunt looked away. ‘My brother,’ he said. ‘He was six.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t talk about it. Not now. Use your imagination. But that’s why I became a detective. So I could find these people and roll them up. And Swift is one of them.’

‘He is. But this is not a crime. And Oakley Crowne is not here. I don’t think he had anything to do with his disappearance. And that’s what we’re investigating.’

‘Then why the van? Why keep it secret?’

‘We can ask him,’ Wynne said. ‘But I think it’ll be better if you let me do the talking.’

ii

Wynne and Blunt sat opposite Mal Swift.

‘So,’ Wynne said. ‘We have a few questions.’

He nodded. ‘The dolls.’

‘That’s what you were hiding?’ Wynne said.

‘Of course. I can hardly walk around with them. But it’s not a crime. They’re dolls.’

Wynne bit back her disgust. ‘I understand. But I want to have a clear picture of this, Mr Swift. You have some very lifelike dolls which you dress up and then dismember?’

Swift rubbed his eyes, clearly agitated. ‘I thought it was OK this way. They’re dolls. Not people. Dolls. I have a need – an illness – and this isn’t harming anyone, so—’

‘You keep telling yourself that,’ Blunt said. ‘You—’

Wynne interrupted. ‘Mr Swift,’ she said. ‘I have seen everything during my career. Many things I wish I had never witnessed, things that, once seen, cannot be unseen. Things that come, unbidden, during the night, and leave sleep a distant prospect. I have looked into the darkest parts of the human soul and in there I have found people like you. People who have an urge they want to satisfy and they go right ahead and do it, whatever the cost to their victims. Then they dress it up with words like “need” and “illness” as though that in some way gets them off the hook, like they have no choice. But we always have a choice and there is no absolution for you, in this world or the next. So yes, they are dolls. And I don’t think you were involved with Oakley Crowne – too risky for you – but let me tell you this.’

She stood up, and put a finger in his chest. He flinched back from her.

‘I’ll be watching you.’ She jabbed him, hard, in his sternum. ‘Dolls are one thing, Mr Swift, but if your need or your illness makes you wonder whether you want a real-life flesh-and-blood victim – well, remember me, and remember that I will stop at nothing to hunt you down.’

She looked at Blunt and nodded at the door. As they walked out of the house, her phone rang. It was DI Spring.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘It’s not her,’ Spring said. ‘She’s nothing to do with it.’

Wynne looked up at the setting sun. So much for DI Spring’s hypothesis. ‘Same here. Swift didn’t do it. We have a few loose ends to wrap up, but it wasn’t him.’

‘Then what next?’ Spring said.

Wynne massaged the back of her neck. She wanted to go home and have a bath, then go to bed.

‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘We have nothing.’

Awakening

None of this is what it seems.

Two children kidnapped, the world wondering who did it.

Why they did it.

None of them can imagine the answer.

Not even your partner. Yes, you have one – not even you could do this alone. But your partner has no idea what is coming. That is their blind spot: they are so sure they are infallible they cannot imagine they have made a mistake.

But they have. A huge mistake.

A mistake that will be the end of them.

A mistake they will understand too late. They will spend what remains of their life wondering how they could have been so stupid.

For now, they have no idea. The plan you made together – the plan they know about – goes on.

You are visible; that is inevitable, but the boy is hidden. No one will ever find him. No one will ever suspect he is there.

Not until the very end.

Hale

Spring and Kirkpatrick pulled up in front of a three-storey Victorian terraced house on a quiet side street. The car in front was an F-type Jaguar.

‘Nice part of the world,’ Spring said. ‘Let’s go and introduce ourselves to Mr Millan.’

They climbed out of the car and rang the doorbell. A woman answered the door. She was tall and thin and had an expensive haircut.

‘Can I help?’

‘Detective Inspector Spring.’ Spring nodded to his left. ‘This is DS Kirkpatrick. We’d like to speak to Jeff Millan?’

‘What about?’

‘We’d like to speak to him. Is he home?’

She nodded. ‘He’s watching the football.’

Spring gave a mirthless smile. ‘Sorry to disturb him.’

Millan was sitting on the couch. He had a laptop open on his knees, his phone in his hand. Next to him on the couch was a bag, with some official-looking documents poking out of it. On the television a football match was soundlessly playing. When his wife walked in, he looked up.

‘Two detectives are here to see you,’ she said, and waved them in.

He frowned. ‘Really? What about?’

Spring looked around the room. There was a family photo on the wall, Millan and his wife, and two twin daughters. They looked around thirteen or fourteen in the photo.

Anna’s age.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Spring, and this is Detective Sergeant Kirkpatrick.’ Spring pointed at the photo. ‘Nice snap. Taken a while back?’

‘Ten years or so,’ Millan said. ‘We were in Cornwall.’

‘Those are your daughters?’

‘They are.’

Spring sniffed. ‘Twins?’

‘Obviously,’ Millan said, his face clouding with irritation. ‘What has this got to do with anything, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Just understanding the broader situation,’ Spring said. ‘They still live at home?’

‘No. Emily’s in Manchester and Caroline’s in Dublin. Why are you here, Detective …’ he paused, his voice rising in a question.

‘Spring.’

Millan looked at him expectantly.

Spring nodded. ‘We wanted to talk to you about Anna Miller.’

‘Who?’

‘A teenage girl who’s gone missing,’ Kirkpatrick said. ‘You may have seen it on the news.’

Millan nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. There was a boy as well. Brother?’

‘Half-brother,’ Kirkpatrick said.

‘Sounds like a family issue,’ Millan replied.

‘Maybe,’ Spring said. ‘But we have to follow all avenues of enquiry. Were you aware you were sitting next to her on the flight she took from London to Manchester?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was next to a teenager, but I didn’t know it was her.’

His answer, to Spring, seemed a little too quick. Anxious, almost.

‘Did you talk to her?’ Spring said.

Millan closed his laptop. ‘We exchanged words,’ he said. ‘Briefly.’

‘What about?’ Spring said.

‘I don’t recall.’

‘Really,’ Spring said, his tone deliberately sceptical.

‘Really.’

There was a long silence. Spring was happy to let it build. He wanted Millan to feel as uneasy as possible.

Millan closed his laptop and opened the bag by his feet. He pushed it into a pouch.

‘Is there anything else?’

Spring was about to tell Millan they had talked to a woman who had witnessed his interaction with Anna, an interaction with distinctly sinister overtones, when Kirkpatrick caught his eye. There was a look of shock on her face.

She turned to Millan and pointed at the phone in his hand.

‘Is that yours?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Is that your only phone?’

He nodded.

‘You don’t have another one?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Would you mind if I had a look in that bag?’ Kirkpatrick said.

‘Don’t you need a warrant for that?’ Millan said.

‘We can get one.’ Spring looked at DS Kirkpatrick. Her expression was fixed and concentrated. ‘Or you can cooperate. Unless you have something to hide?’

Millan looked uncertain, but he nodded. ‘Fine.’

Kirkpatrick reached into the open bag. When she withdrew her hand she was holding an iPhone. It had a purple and pink case.

‘This yours?’ she said.

‘No.’ He stared at it. ‘Never seen it before in my life.’

‘Mind if I turn it on?’

‘Fine by me,’ he said, his eyes wide.

Kirkpatrick pressed the button on the side of the phone. They watched as the screen lit up.

‘Well, well,’ Kirkpatrick said. She held up the phone, the screen facing Millan and Spring.

On it was a photograph of Anna Miller and two of her friends.

PART FOUR

News, Finally

i

Brian led DI Wynne and DS Blunt into the living room. Willow was on the couch, her eyes sunken and red. She was hugging her knees, her gaze focused on her feet. When the detectives came in she did not look up.

Julia was sitting in an armchair. She had arrived earlier, when Wynne had told them she was coming. There had been an awkward moment at the door; Brian had begun to say something, but she had shaken her head.

It’s over, she muttered. Forget about it.

She nodded at Wynne.

‘Mr and Mrs Crowne, Ms Miller,’ Wynne said. ‘I wanted to bring you up to speed with the investigation.’

‘Have you found Oakley?’ Willow said in a low, flat voice.

‘We haven’t, yet,’ Wynne said.

‘What are you doing to find him?’

‘We are using all the tools we have. Search teams are working through a grid, police divers’ – she hesitated – ‘are checking waterways. We have helicopters in the air. We are doing all we can, Mrs Crowne.’

Willow did not reply.

‘We had a lead on someone with a blue van that matched the description the witness gave.’

‘Who was that?’ Brian said.

‘A local man,’ Wynne replied. ‘We also don’t believe him to be involved.’

‘What about Anna?’ Brian said.

‘DI Spring found the woman who Mrs Crowne talked to at the airport,’ Blunt said. ‘She was not involved in anything to do with Anna.’

Brian looked at Julia. Her eyes flicked away; despite her dismissal, it was still awkward between them. Bizarrely, he didn’t feel bad about it. He didn’t care – yes, it was a gross misreading of the situation and an idiotic mistake, but so what? If Anna and Oakley turned up, it would all be forgotten; if they didn’t, it would be the least of his worries.

And he was increasingly convinced they were not going to turn up.

‘Is there anything else?’ Julia said. ‘Zach?’

‘We haven’t found him,’ Blunt said. ‘That’s still open as a line of enquiry.’

‘And we’re still looking for the van,’ Wynne said.

‘And then there’s me,’ Brian said. ‘Don’t forget I’m a suspect.’

DI Wynne folded her arms. ‘I’m sure we’ll rule you out,’ she said. ‘But until then DI Spring and I have to consider all options.’

‘You go ahead and do that,’ Brian said. ‘In the meantime, what else is there?’

‘I have to be honest,’ Wynne said. ‘There isn’t a great deal. We’ll continue to talk to the other parents, Oakley’s friends, Anna’s friends – maybe she mentioned a plan to them – go over their statements bit by bit. You never know what they might remember. Even the smallest detail could be vital.’

‘And we’ll re-examine the CCTV,’ Blunt said. ‘As well as the footage from the motorway cameras, and other surrounding areas.’

‘It’s a bit of a needle-in-a-haystack situation,’ Julia said. ‘At least, it seems that way.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Wynne said. ‘But that’s what we’re dealing with, and we’ll keep working through everything we can, step by step.’

‘That’s it?’ Julia said. She sounded defeated and hopeless. ‘Is there nothing else we can do?’

‘I think it would be a good idea for you to make an appeal to the public for information. Also ask them to look out for Oakley and Anna,’ Wynne said. ‘The more eyes, the better.’

‘Of course,’ Julia said. ‘Now?’

‘We can do it from the station,’ Wynne said. ‘If that’s OK?’

ii

It was all so horribly familiar. This time, though, he was with Julia and Willow. Willow was to his left, barely able to look at the camera. Julia was to his right.

He looked at the A4 paper in front of him. On it were printed the words he was to say. The cameraman lifted a finger, then gave him a thumbs up.

‘It is hard to believe that, ten years after it first happened, our daughter, Anna, is missing again. This time, her younger brother’ – he squeezed Willow’s hand – ‘and our son, is also missing. We – Julia, Willow and I – urge you, if you saw anything unusual since yesterday evening either at Manchester’ – his voice cracked, his lips quivering – ‘if you saw anything at all, please contact the number on your screen.’

The camera switched to Julia. She clasped her hands in front of her chest.

‘Please,’ she said. She paused and bit back the tears. ‘Please, if you have Anna or Oakley, then return them to us. Leave them in a safe place. That’s all you have to do. We need them. So please, let them go. We won’t try to track you down. You can move on with your life, and we can move on with ours.’

The red light on the camera went off. Wynne beckoned for them to leave the table.

‘Well done,’ she said. ‘That’s not easy.’

‘What now?’ Julia said.

‘We follow up the leads we can,’ Wynne said.

Julia rubbed her eyes. Brian watched the tears run down her cheeks. ‘It’s the powerlessness,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’

Wynne’s phone rang. She lifted it to her ear.

‘Wynne,’ she said.

Brian watched as her expression grew more and more serious. She caught his eye and raised a finger.

Wait.

She cut the call and lowered the phone.

‘What is it?’ Julia said.

‘Anna’s phone,’ she said. ‘They found Anna’s phone.’

The Search is On

‘You won’t find anything.’

Millan stood with his arms folded and smiled at DI Spring. They were in his living room; DS Kirkpatrick and three uniformed officers were searching his house.

‘Why is that?’ he said. ‘Because there’s nothing to find? Or because you hid it well?’

Millan laughed. ‘Could be either, I suppose. But in this case it’s the former. I have nothing to hide.

‘Then why do you have Anna Miller’s phone?’

Millan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I was sitting next to her. Maybe it fell into my bag.’

‘Teenagers don’t let their phones out of their sight,’ Spring said. ‘There’s no way she dropped it into your bag by accident.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘And if she had, she’d have been looking for it before the plane deboarded.’ Spring shook his head. ‘That phone’s not there by accident.’

‘Then maybe she put it there deliberately.’ He leaned forward. ‘But I don’t know how it got there and I had nothing to do with her disappearance.’

‘Why would she do that?’ Spring said. ‘Why would she put her phone in your bag?’

‘That’s for you to work out,’ Millan said.

Spring held his gaze. ‘We will,’ he said. ‘We will work this out.’

Millan looked unconcerned. ‘When you do, you’ll know I’m not involved.’

The door to the living room opened and DS Kirkpatrick came in. Spring looked at her, and she gave a small shake of the head.

‘Nothing?’ Millan said.

Kirkpatrick didn’t reply.

‘I thought as much.’ Millan gestured to the front of the house. ‘Should I show you out? Or do you have any other questions for me?’

Spring walked towards the door. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he muttered. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Mr Millan.’

‘Likewise,’ Millan said. ‘It’s always such a pleasure.’

Small Victories Are All There Is

i

DI Wynne walked out of the station, the night sky dark above her head. The search of Millan’s house had come up empty-handed and now he was refusing to say anything; he had got himself a lawyer who had told him to keep quiet, advice which he was following assiduously. The lawyer had gone so far as to claim that DS Kirkpatrick had planted the phone. There was, she said, no other way it could have got there.

Whatever happened with Millan, it was going to take a while.

And they had no other leads. Anna and Oakley had vanished.

She clicked the key fob and her Golf unlocked. It was a small victory; sometimes it didn’t work, these days, and she had to insert the key into the lock and do it the old-fashioned way. She had often wondered what would happen if she was in a hurry – being chased by someone intent on killing her, for example – and her car failed to unlock.

She would have a problem. In theory she was trained to fight her way out of a situation like that, but these days her chances of fighting her way out of anything were slim to none, at best.

But it had worked, this time. The car was unlocked and now she could go home to a glass or three of wine – except it wasn’t the weekend – and a few hours’ sleep before she woke at 4 a.m. for a couple of hours of tossing and turning and trying to put all this in order.

But she was glad of even these few hours of respite. She needed it more than ever as she got older. There was only so much of this she could take.

She was about to open the car door when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

It was Julia Miller.

‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ she said. She looked like she was barely holding it together – eyes red, dark circles beneath them, the fatigue and stress obvious. ‘Do you have a moment?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘Why are you here, at the station?’

‘I went for a walk. I was going to call but I was passing and I saw you.’ She held her hands up. ‘I don’t want to do your job for you, but I wanted to ask. Did you watch the CCTV footage from the airport?’

Wynne shook her head. ‘DI Spring led that.’

‘I’m not saying he got it wrong,’ Julia said. ‘But I was thinking maybe you could look, too?’

Wynne put her hand on the roof of the car. ‘I’m wondering what you think he missed?’

‘I don’t know,’ Julia said. ‘But Anna boarded that plane. And she got off it, and went into a bathroom. But she never came out, and she’s not in there now.’

Wynne held her gaze. ‘Carry on.’

‘People don’t vanish into thin air, DI Wynne. So where is she?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe Millan can tell us something.’

‘Maybe, but if not – well, I’d like you to take a look.’

‘DI Spring and his team—’

‘DI Spring is not you.’

‘Ms Miller,’ Wynne said. ‘If I do this, I will be taking time from other activities to redo something one of my colleagues already did.’

‘Do you have other lines of enquiry?’ Julia said.

‘Not a lot.’

‘Then please, watch it.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

ii

Wynne sat at her kitchen table. Her laptop was open in front of her. There was a glass of wine, untouched, to the right.

Upstairs was an empty bed. Not so long ago there’d been someone to share it with, but she had left.

Wynne hadn’t known how to make her stay. There were too many nights like this, when there was just that bit more work to do, that question to ask, that file to review, that one more thing to follow up on, because that might be the detail or the insight or the moment that made it all become clear. Or if it didn’t become clear, at least it was a new thread to pull on.

And then it was bedtime for a few fevered hours, before waking to a tired morning coffee and more work.

It was the life she’d chosen, but she was tired now. She’d been doing this for many years and she wanted a break. But she was worried what would happen when she got one. Because when the tide of her work went out it would reveal what her life was, and she had the horrible suspicion that it wasn’t much.

But that was for the future. For now, she had CCTV to review.

First, she read the logs describing what others had seen. Anna, leaving the plane. Anna, walking into the toilets. After that, it was simple enough: a succession of people walking in and out, all accounted for, one way or another.

All except Anna. She walked in, but never walked out.

Wynne looked at the clock. 11 p.m. She didn’t hold out much hope for this. Others had watched the footage over and over. She was a logical person; if Anna had gone into the toilets and not come out, then there was another exit. She’d go there herself tomorrow and find it. Now, it was time for bed.

But before she turned in, she’d watch it. She’d promised Julia.

Wynne pressed play.

It was all as in the logs. Anna went in, followed by all the people entering and exiting exactly as they were supposed to. Anna was the only anomaly.

Wynne sipped her wine. Late to start drinking, but what the hell. She sat back and thought it through. If there was something here, it wasn’t to be found by watching what others had already watched. She would simply see what they had seen.

No. The answer was in seeing it differently.

Or in seeing what was not there.

Anna had entered the bathroom, but not left it. Since she wasn’t in it, that was impossible.

Which meant she had left. One of the people on the tape leaving was Anna. But many eyes had reviewed the footage, and none of those who had left were Anna.

There was something Wynne was not seeing. Something behind all of this, something in the logic.

The problem here was numbers. One in, one out. A simple equation that should balance. Except there was one in, who didn’t leave. The only way that equation balanced was if there was someone who had left, but not gone in. A minus one to Anna’s plus one.

Wynne felt a creeping sensation between her shoulder blades. That was one answer: someone had left who had not gone in, meaning Anna could go in and not leave.

A one-out to balance Anna’s one-in.

She needed to see the footage from before Anna arrived.

She emailed DI Spring and the security guy at the airport, Walton, asking for the footage for the ten minutes before Anna entered the toilet.

Actually, she added, make it twenty.

Then she hit send, closed her laptop, and went to take a shower.

iii

Wynne poured a coffee and sat in her living room. She had woken at 4.20 a.m. and gone for a long walk. It was a crisp morning and with each step her mind had cleared. She had gone through the case, step by step.

One thing had become clear to her.

She was right the night before. The answer was in Anna’s disappearance.

She needed the CCTV footage. The answer was in there somewhere, in the minutes or hours before Anna had showed up.

She checked her phone. There was no reply from Walton, so she sent a follow-up:

Send that footage as

soon as you can, please.

She sipped the coffee. For a while she had been a coffee snob, buying beans and grinding them into various different blends, but she had grown tired of it. This was the basic stuff, drip-filtered, and she had come to the conclusion it was as good as anything she had made. Better, because it was a fraction of the effort.

A notification appeared on her phone. An email from Walton.

See attached. Let me know if you see anything or need any more.

She opened her laptop and clicked on the email. There was a link, according to Walton, to the twenty minutes before Anna had entered. She clicked it and waited for the CCTV footage to start.

When it began, she checked the time against her notes. As promised, it started almost exactly twenty minutes before Anna appeared. She watched people enter and leave, noting the times they had done so. There were some who left in the first few minutes who must have entered the bathroom corridor before the footage. She could check them later. For now, she focused on those that she saw entering.

She went back to the log. There were six people who were noted as leaving after Anna arrived, assumed to have been there already. She put a mark next to them as they arrived in the minutes before Anna did.

At least, she put a mark against five of them.

Wynne sat upright. Her back tightened.

One of them was unaccounted for. She read the entry in the log.

Man, elderly, flat cap, leaving. Must have been in before Anna’s arrival.

She remembered the footage. A man in his sixties or seventies wearing a tweed jacket, a flat cap and glasses had left shortly after Anna’s arrival.

But she did not see him arrive. She went back to the start and watched it again.

The man did not enter the bathroom corridor in the twenty minutes before Anna showed up. She watched until Anna walked into shot, then froze the image and sat back in her armchair. She sipped her coffee; it had gone cold.

This was it.

She could check earlier footage, but she was almost certain it would not show him going into the toilets.

Because he never had.

iv

Now she had the key it didn’t take long for her to work out what had happened.

Anna went in.

Anna did not come out.

The man did not go in. But he came out.

Her first thought was that Anna was the man in disguise, but she was able to zoom in on his face. Thick glasses, a flat cap, and a thin, lined face that – unless she was extraordinarily talented at disguise – could not have been Anna.

Which left the other people. The families, the holidaymakers, the businesspeople. But they were all accounted for. She could see their faces, plain as day.

All apart from the woman in the wheelchair who wheeled herself in, face hidden under a hood, her eyes looking down, her body covered with a blanket.

Then, a minute later, the man in tweed came out.

Then the woman in the wheelchair. Same hood, same lowered head, same blanket.

Hard to be sure it was the same person.

Hard to be sure it wasn’t Anna.

It was impossible to be certain from what she could see, but she didn’t need to be. It was the only option.

One in, one out. It was maths. That was what you had to see. Not the people; the numbers.

She picked up her phone and typed a message to Julia Miller and Brian Crowne.

Are you free this morning? I have some questions for you. Could you meet me at the station?

Their replies came immediately. Neither was asleep.

Of course, Julia said. What time?

Then Brian’s response came.

Me too.

Good. Meet me there as soon as you can.

Eighteen Months Earlier

Epistles

Anna pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She had heard it stopped ice-cream headaches – those wincingly painful moments you sometimes got after the first bite of ice cream – by heating up whatever nerve was causing the pain.

Even if it didn’t, it was something to do while the headache dissipated.

‘Anna?’ Antonia said. ‘You OK?’

Anna couldn’t answer. She shook her head, her eyes watering. When the pain subsided, she blew out her cheeks in relief.

‘Ice-cream headache?’ Dale said. He had a gentle, almost inaudible voice.

‘Yeah. They’re so awful.’

‘It’s weird. I don’t know why we get them,’ he said. ‘But it makes you wonder how life must be for people who live with pain.’

Anna had never thought of that aspect of it. ‘It really does.’

‘I have an aunt who’s in chronic pain,’ he said. ‘She can barely leave the house.’

‘In San Francisco?’ It was impossibly glamorous even to say the words.

‘No. She lives in Indianapolis.’

Anna pushed her ice cream away. Dale gestured to it. ‘It won’t be as bad now you’ve had the headache. Somehow your body adjusts.’

‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I’m not that hungry.’

‘I know how you feel,’ he said. ‘Too much sugar.’

‘Right. I might go and get some fresh air for a second.’

The sugar had nothing to do with it. Ever since the letter had arrived she had been distracted, preoccupied by what it said. The words played on a loop in her mind; she wanted to read them again and again to confirm what they said.

She left the table and went outside onto the main street. It was a warm evening, tourists and locals hopped on and off buses and in and out of pubs.

She barely noticed. She took the letter from her pocket and unfolded it. It was handwritten in thick, black ink, on heavy cream paper. There was no address at the top; just a date, and the words Dear Anna.

She read it again.

Dear Anna,

I am writing to you now you are a teenager, as I believe you are old enough to know the truth of what happened when you were a child. In my view, fifteen-year-olds are capable of much more than that in which our society generally allows them to involve themselves. You, I trust, are no exception; in fact I strongly suspect you are much more capable than the average.

When you were five I kidnapped you. That much is true. But I did not do this for some ill-considered, self-serving reason. I did not do it for me. I did it for you.

I did it to protect you.

I realize that may be hard to believe, but it’s true. I am afraid that your mother and father – which is painful for me to say of my own son – were not raising you in the way you deserved to be brought up. You are a special girl; you have some of me in you, which I saw from your earliest days.

I think you know this about yourself, Anna.

I could not bear to watch as that potential went undeveloped, although that is precisely what I was forced to witness day after day. The education they had planned for you, the values they were instilling in you – such as happiness being the goal of life and not achievement, or the pernicious idea that everyone is a winner and everyone gets a trophy, or the weak-minded nonsense that all opinions are equal and all people are of the same value – these were mistakes that had to be corrected.

You can do great things, Anna, but only if given the right tools and guidance.

I confess that is another reason for the timing of this letter. Even though I was unable to achieve my goals back then, it is not too late for you. You can still reach your full potential.

Likewise, your younger brother, Oakley. He too can be saved. His name alone should give you pause. Who calls a child Oakley? What kind of a name is that? It is juvenile and embarrassing. That your father allowed such a thing should tell you what kind of a man he is, and why you should be wary of trusting your future to him.

As for your mother – well, no doubt you love her. That is to be expected. And she is in some ways an admirable person. But she is misguided. She is what you will become if your path is not corrected. A woman of talent, but look at her: divorced, a middling career, a lonely old age beckoning. You must avoid this.

I ask only, Anna, that you consider what I say. That is all. If you wish to correspond further on this you can do so by emailing me at the address below. You are the only person with that address; it is for you and me only.

If you do not, then I wish you well; at least, until you see that the opportunity I offer is the best one available. I will be checking the email address as long as I remain alive, and will always be here for you.

I request also that you do not mention this to your parents. If you do, something will surface that could have terrible consequences for them, consequences I will be unable to stop.

Faithfully yours,

Edna Crowne – your grandmother

‘Hey, Anna.’ It was Antonia. Anna stuffed the letter in her pocket and turned around. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘Just needed some fresh air. It’s stuffy in there.’

Antonia held her gaze. ‘I suppose so. Coming back in?’

Anna wanted to go home – the arrival of the letter had knocked her off balance. As far as she’d known, her grandmother was dead, and now she was sending her letters, asking her to get in touch.

It was not what she had expected, or wanted. But it was, she had to admit, intriguing.

‘I’ll be in in a moment,’ she said.

‘You sure you’re OK?’

‘Sure.’

Antonia nodded. ‘See you inside.’

Anna watched her walk into the ice-cream shop, then turned and headed for home.

Wheelchair Access

i

Brian sat at the table, Julia in the chair next to him. They were facing a computer screen. Wynne stood behind them. Spring, Blunt and Kirkpatrick were to their left.

‘I reviewed the footage,’ she said. ‘And something came up.’

There was a tension in her voice, an expectation, that Brian had not heard before.

‘What is it?’ he said.

She clicked a button and the CCTV footage began to move. He watched as Anna came into and out of view.

‘All the people that follow Anna are accounted for,’ Wynne said. ‘Except one.’ She froze the screen. ‘In a second a man will leave the toilets. But there is no record of him entering. I went back twenty minutes.’

‘So he was in there all along?’ Brian said.

‘Or he never went in,’ Wynne said.

‘What do you mean?’ Brian said.

‘I’ll show you,’ Wynne said. ‘But remember the mystery here: Anna entered but didn’t leave. But we know she left, because she’s not there. It should balance; we should have the same number of people leaving and entering. But we have one fewer leaving – Anna.’ She paused. ‘And that means one fewer must have entered. The first time we see the man is when he leaves.’

‘So you think – what?’ Julia said. ‘Anna is the man?’

‘No. But he’s part of the explanation.’

‘Let’s watch it,’ Julia said.

Wynne started the footage rolling. A man in a flat cap came into the picture.

‘There he is,’ she said.

Brian’s throat tightened. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was suddenly dry.

‘Stop it,’ he said.

‘What do you see?’ Julia said.

He motioned with his finger for Wynne to rewind the footage. He wasn’t sure he could speak. It was all he could do to fight the light-headedness that had started when he saw it.

He took a deep breath. Wynne restarted the CCTV.

He watched the man walk into and out of shot. He closed his eyes.

‘It can’t be,’ he said. ‘It can’t be.’

‘What?’ Julia said. ‘Brian! What’s going on?’

He looked at his ex-wife.

‘That’s Edna,’ he said. ‘That’s my mum.’

ii

It was the way she walked that gave it away. Even zoomed in on her face he couldn’t have been sure, but her walk – now he had noticed it – was unmistakable.

It was his mother.

She was alive.

‘Are you sure?’ Wynne said. She was frowning, her expression serious and unsmiling.

He was. He nodded slowly. He had lost all feeling, all ability to focus on anything other than what he was looking at on the screen. His world had shrunk to one thought: it was Edna.

As that receded it was replaced by another, equally insistent thought.

It was impossible. He had seen her dead body, had spoken to the French police about it, agreed to have her cremated and her ashes sent home. If it wasn’t her, whose body had they cremated? Was there yet another victim of his mother?

But he had seen Edna’s dead body. There was no doubt about it. He had seen the photos, photos taken by the French police.

Except he hadn’t, because she was alive, and on the screen in front of him.

Alive and well and with his daughter.

When he had first learned what she was, first seen the monster that was his mother, his world had utterly changed. The foundations of who he was, of everything he believed, had shifted, and it had taken him years to feel stable again.

Years to feel safe.

Now they had shifted again. It was all different anew. And, once more, he felt scared. He closed his eyes. All he wanted was for this to be over.

‘Mr Crowne? Are you sure?’

‘I am.’ He turned to Julia. ‘You?’

Wynne played the footage again. Julia watched in silence, her eyes fixed on the screen. When the man – Edna – was gone she looked up and nodded.

‘He’s right.’ Her expression was flat, her eyes half-wild. ‘It’s her. Edna has Anna, again.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Brian said. ‘Anna’s still in there.’

‘You don’t think she’s involved?’ Julia said.

‘Oh, I think she is. I can’t believe it – I can’t even believe she’s alive – but I know she’s involved, and I know she’s with Anna. I just don’t see how. She left, and Anna’s still in there.’

‘I have a theory,’ Wynne said. ‘The wheelchair. There’s a woman in the chair, who enters after Anna. Then the man comes out. Then the wheelchair. I think it’s Edna in the chair on the way in and Anna on the way out.’

‘What?’ Julia said. ‘So Edna gets out of the chair, puts on a flat cap – maybe she’s wearing men’s clothes under the blanket – and leaves, and Anna gets into the chair and wheels herself out of the airport? That’s crazy.’

‘It’s the only explanation,’ Wynne said.

‘Maybe it is,’ Julia said. ‘But you’re missing one thing. If that is the explanation, then it means—’

A thought had been hovering at the edge of Brian’s mind. As Julia spoke, it crystallized, and the true horror of what they had learned was laid bare.

‘It means,’ he said, each word a razor blade, ‘Edna didn’t carry her out of there. She wheeled herself out.’

‘In which case she was waiting for Edna in there,’ Julia said.

There was a silence in the room.

‘So she must have arranged the whole thing with her,’ Brian said. ‘But that’s impossible.’

‘Impossible it may be,’ Wynne said. ‘But from what I can tell, it’s what happened.’

Seventeen Months Earlier

Face the Facts

i

The email arrived at the end of lunch. Dale – she had lunch with him most days now – was putting their plates and cutlery on the tray.

‘I’ll take them,’ he said. While he was away from the table, she checked her phone.

And there it was.

An email address she didn’t recognize; a subject line that left her short of breath.

Checking in: From Grandma.

For the first few days after receiving the letter from Edna, Anna had been unsettled. As far as she’d been aware, Edna was dead, and if not dead, then gone for good.

The idea that she was in fact out there, aware of Anna’s address – and now her email address, which Anna had no idea how she had found – and monitoring her in some way was unnerving. She had always been a sound sleeper, but now she woke frequently, jumpy at every sound. She found herself looking at strangers, wondering whether they might be Edna.

She had considered telling her mum and dad, but each time she had made up her mind, Edna’s warning had stopped her.

I request also that you do not mention this to your parents. If you do, something will surface that could have terrible consequences for them, consequences I will be unable to stop.

Was it a threat? Or something else? She didn’t know, so she kept it to herself, and as the days turned into weeks she began to forget about Edna. Maybe it was a hoax, or if not maybe Edna had given up on her. If she ignored it, then perhaps Edna would disappear again. After all, she had been gone for the best part of a decade, so why not the same again?

But now there was a new email.

Dale came back to the table. ‘You OK?’ he said. ‘You look pale.’

‘I feel a bit dizzy,’ Anna said. ‘Maybe something I ate. I need a moment.’

‘We have to get to History,’ he said. ‘We’ll be late.’

‘That’s fine. You go. I’ll stop at the nurses’ room and see if it passes.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let me know how you feel.’

She watched him leave, then walked out into the corridor. The nurse’s room was to the right; Anna turned left and headed for the toilets.

ii

She sat in a cubicle and opened the email.

Dear Anna,

It has been a month since I wrote to you. It is possible you did not receive my letter – the postal service is not what it used to be – so I am taking the liberty of writing to you directly.

If you did not receive my letter, then allow me to précis its contents: I am your grandmother, Edna, and I wish to establish contact with you. I believe you have great ability and potential, which is currently being wasted, and I hope to help you – and your brother, Oakley – fulfil it.

Anna, I know this must be a surprise to you, but all I am suggesting is that we establish a relationship through which I may be able to help you – with guidance and advice, should you need it, help with academic questions, even financial aid where necessary. I have many resources and much experience.

It is risky for me to email you like this, so I will no longer use this email address. If you wish to contact me, you can do so at the email address at the bottom of this letter.

As I highlighted in my prior letter, this is not a topic you should share with your parents. It will only cause them distress, and, in the long run, significant harm.

Your grandmother,

Edna

Anna rubbed her temples. She should tell someone – her mum, at least – but her mum would go to the police and they would start looking for Edna, and then Edna would do whatever she would do – Anna shook her head. She did not want to risk that. She could manage this.

It would be better for her to tell Edna to leave her alone. Edna could go back to the life she had been living, and so could Anna.

She clicked on the email address, and began to type.

In Plain Sight

The perfect disguise is no disguise at all. Who would suspect something they see every day? Something normal and natural and casual and beyond suspicion.

Together, you pass people in plain sight, slipping by with a wave and a cheerful smile. They don’t suspect you. Why would they? They are looking for something they will not find here.

This is a canal boat – a longboat, beautifully decorated in the traditional style – piloted by an elderly man in loose-fitting jeans and a tweed jacket, a flat cap on his head, a pipe clenched between his teeth. One of many plying the canals of England, canals that criss-cross the entire country, a silent network giving access to any location.

You sit next to the boy. He sleeps, but he is close to waking. It is your job to be there when he does.

Your job, assigned to you by your partner.

Although it is you who are in charge.

Your partner drives the boat. You watch the boy. He needs to be comforted when he awakes. A man in a flat cap will not do that. He needs you, a familiar face.

He stirs. This time there will be no more sedation. It is time for him to adjust to his new surroundings. You are on a remote stretch of the canal, heading south from Moore. Should he protest, the sound – what little sound escapes the walls of the longboat – will go unheard.

His eyes flicker open. You put a hand on his chest.

His eyes meet yours and he frowns.

He looks around, confused. ‘Where are we?’

‘We’re going on a trip,’ you tell him.

‘Where to?’

‘I’ll tell you later. But don’t worry! It’ll be fun!’

‘Are Mummy and Daddy here?’

‘Not right now,’ you say.

He looks alarmed. ‘Are there any grown-ups?’

‘Of course.’ You kiss him. ‘Grandma’s here.’

‘Granny Beth?’ That is Willow’s mother.

‘No. Not Granny Beth.’

‘Anna,’ he says. ‘Where are we?’

‘We’re on a boat,’ you say. He hugs you.

You, his half-sister. A familiar face to reassure him.

‘And Mummy and Daddy aren’t here?’

‘No. They’re not here.’

‘And Granny Beth isn’t?’

‘No. No Granny Beth.’

‘But you said Grandma is here!’

‘She is. Grandma Edna is here.’

‘Who’s Grandma Edna?’

The engine stops and the hatch opens. Edna – our grandmother – steps down into the cabin. She puts down the pipe and removes the flat cap and thick glasses.

‘Hello, Oakley,’ she says. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for years.’

Seventeen Months Earlier

Not Many Memories, Yet

i

Dear Grandma

Anna paused. It felt weird just to type that.

I did get your letter, but I didn’t reply. Sorry about that, but I didn’t really know what to say.

I’ve thought about it, and I’m not sure that it’s a good idea for you to be in touch with me. Mum and Dad would definitely not like it. I was also worried about what you said would happen if I told them, so I didn’t.

All in all I think it would be better for you to leave me alone. I don’t have many memories of what happened in the past. Mum and Dad have told me about it – and I’ve read plenty online – but it’s not something I think about these days and I’d rather leave it like that.

I also think you’re mistaken about me. I’m not special, not at all. In fact the only thing unusual about me is what happened when I was five.

So if you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if you didn’t contact me again.

Yours

Anna

Anna re-read the email. It had crossed her mind that this wasn’t even her grandmother; it could have been someone who had read about the case and, for some reason, wanted to mess with her. Either way, this response should close the chapter. She had felt bad being so direct – especially to another adult, despite what Edna had done – but she didn’t want to leave any room for doubt.

She hit send, then picked up her phone and typed a message to Dale.

Meet at Carfax? 1?

ii

‘Hey! Captain America!’

Anna squeezed Dale’s hand. They were walking through the University Parks to the river with the sandwiches they had bought for a picnic. Anna was also hoping for some ‘making out’, as Dale called it.

It was far better than ‘snogging’, which was what Antonia preferred, and which Anna thought made something that was quite thrilling and romantic sound utterly unappealing.

‘Captain America!’

‘Ignore them,’ she said. ‘They’re jealous.’

‘They’ were a group of three boys from school, Martin Kennedy, Hugh Gardner and Will Tandy. They had coined the nickname Captain America, or they claimed to have done so. Anna wasn’t sure they had the wit to have come up with it, witless as it was, but either way, they had been the ones who promoted and maintained its use.

‘They’re such douchebags,’ he said. ‘They think it’s so funny.’

‘Captain America!’ Tandy shouted. ‘Catch!’

They both turned just in time for the rugby ball he had thrown to hit Anna square in the face. She staggered back, the taste of blood in her mouth; Tandy’s mouth was open in an ‘O’ of shock.

Dale put his hand on her back. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine.’ Anna wiped her nose; when she looked at her hand it was smeared with blood.

‘Leave us alone!’ Dale shouted. ‘You’re such assholes.’

‘We’re such assholes,’ Gardner said, in a faux-American accent. ‘You’re the arsehole, mate.’

‘And look what you did to Anna,’ Dale said. ‘You’re fuckin’ thugs.’

Kennedy walked towards them. ‘What are you going to do about it, Captain America?’ he said. He put his face close to Dale’s, their noses almost touching. ‘Anything?’

Dale leaned away.

‘Thought not. You fucking pussy.’

Anna bent down and picked up the rugby ball. She threw it at Kennedy. It hit him on the cheek with a wet slapping sound.

He laughed. ‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘That really hurt.’

‘At least my aim’s better than his.’

‘Yeah,’ Tandy said, his confidence back now. ‘But he’s not the one bleeding. And anyway, what’s Captain America going to do about it?’

Anna walked over until she was face to face with him. ‘He doesn’t need to do anything about it,’ she said. ‘The question is whether you can stand up for yourself.’

‘I think I’ll be all right.’

‘Really?’ Anna said. ‘Because I’m not sure you’ll be able to stand up at all.’

She jammed her knee hard into his groin. He gave a low grunt, then, as the pain spread slowly outwards, his eyes widened. He bent double, his face draining of colour.

‘Weird,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d feel it. I heard from Mary you didn’t have any balls.’

She shoved him again and he sank to his knees.

‘Now leave us the fuck alone,’ she said.

iii

Dearest Anna:

I will of course respect your wishes regarding further contact. It is a mistake, but it is your mistake to make.

But there is one thing on which I am afraid I cannot compromise. You say you are not special; I beg to differ.

If you don’t agree, ask your boyfriend, Dale. Or the bully you protected him from. Very few people – never mind young girls – can do what you did.

Anna gasped. How did Edna know what had happened? Dale looked up from his maths homework – math, he called it, in the singular – and frowned.

‘Are you OK?’

No, she was not OK. Edna – Edna, who had kidnapped her – knew about the argument with Martin Kennedy and his friends, and the only way that was possible was if she had witnessed it.

If she was there. In Oxford. In the University Parks.

Watching her.

Anna glanced at the window, half-expecting to see a face there.

‘Anna?’ Dale said. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. The news. Another tragedy.’

‘What is it this time?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

There was the sound of a key in the front door and it swung open. Anna jerked around, half-expecting to see the spectral presence of her grandmother float into the room.

It was her mum.

‘Hi,’ Julia said. She was holding bulging shopping bags. ‘Oh. Hello, Dale.’

Dale jumped up and grabbed the bags. ‘Let me take those.’

‘Thank you.’ Julia smiled. ‘What great manners. Are you here for tea?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dale said. ‘Mom’s going out and I have to watch my brother.’

‘Babysitting too,’ Julia said. ‘The perfect son. Well, you’re welcome if you change your mind.’ She walked over and kissed the top of Anna’s head. ‘Good day?’

‘Not bad,’ Anna said. ‘You may get a call from Martin Kennedy’s parents, though.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘He threw a ball at me. I may have kneed him in the bollocks afterwards.’

‘Hard?’ her mum said.

‘Ninety-five per cent of maximum.’

‘Why not one hundred?’

‘My foot slipped a little.’

‘Shame.’

‘So I’m not in trouble?’ Anna said.

‘Not at all,’ her mum said. ‘I never much liked him. I’m going to get out of my work stuff.’

‘Your mom’s cool,’ Dale said, when Julia was upstairs.

‘I’m glad you think so. You should see her dancing.’ Anna shook her head. ‘Not cool at all.’

Dale closed his books and packed them into his bag. ‘Gotta go. See you at school tomorrow. Monday again.’

She hugged him, and then they kissed. It still felt awkward, but it was irresistible.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said.

When he was gone, she went back to Edna’s email.

You are, as I say, as special as I think you are. You are like me, Anna, and you know it.

But I will, if you insist, leave you alone, save for one thing. I have some money for you. I cannot, for obvious reasons, transfer it to you in the normal fashion, so I have made an alternative arrangement. You will receive a bank card in the post in the coming days. The letter will be addressed to you, but the card will be in the name of Anita Carter. The PIN code will be on a note in the envelope, but you will need to advance each digit by one to get the correct number.

There is plenty of money in the account. You may use it as you see fit.

Your loving grandmother,

Edna

Waterways

i

‘Grandma Edna?’

Anna nodded. ‘Yes. She’s our other grandma.’

‘Hello, Oakley,’ Edna said, in a sibilant whisper. ‘I’m glad to meet you.’

Oakley looked unconvinced. He hugged Anna closer.

‘I’m sleepy,’ he said.

Anna stroked his forehead. That would be the sedative. Edna had explained that he would wake up and go back to sleep a few times before he was fully restored. ‘That’s OK. You can sleep. I’ll take care of you.’

He closed his eyes and his breathing deepened. They were moored on the edge of a village – Edna had explained the regulations to her, and they were registered, under a false name of course, as ‘continuous cruisers’, which meant they could move about as they wished and moor anywhere they wanted. They had two weeks of food and water, although Anna had asked about getting some fresh fruit and vegetables, which would mean a trip to a shop.

Edna said she would go. She was better disguised. In her flat cap and glasses, she looked like an elderly man, so it should present little difficulty.

The plan they had developed over the prior months was detailed and precise. Take the same flight from Heathrow, then perform the switch in the toilets. Somehow Edna had determined that the corridor was a blind spot in the CCTV. Then, with Willow running late, they would pick up Oakley and vanish onto the canal boat for two weeks, before they left for their final destination, a remote farmhouse in Provence, where Edna would teach them both French and bring them up to be the people they deserved to be.

‘Is he sleeping?’ Edna said.

‘Yes.’

Edna started to set up the pieces on a chess set. ‘Let’s play.’

Anna sat opposite her.

‘The thing to remember,’ Edna said, ‘is that the value of the pieces changes according to the situation of the game. A pawn is the least valuable, early on. But it can become the most valuable, if, for example, it is one square away from being promoted to a queen. Or even in more subtle circumstances.’

Anna had only had a vague understanding of chess before she met Edna, but they had played by correspondence, and she had to admit, she quite liked it.

‘It’s like life,’ Edna said. ‘It all depends on the circumstances. The least important thing in normal life can be the most important when the situation is right.’

‘So chess is life?’ Anna said.

‘No,’ Edna said. ‘Chess has lessons for life. Many lessons. But it differs in one vital detail.’

‘Which is?’

‘Chess is a game of perfect information. You can see all your opponent’s pieces, and their positions on the board. From that, you can deduce their optimal move. They, too, know everything you know about your situation. In life, it is not like that, because there are things only you know, and things only they know.’ She gestured to the boat. ‘Like this. No one knows about this. Or me. They assume I am dead, but without the information I am alive, how can they predict my next move?’

‘You can also give false information,’ Anna said.

‘An excellent observation. Misdirection is a powerful tool. And then, of course, there is the most important piece of the puzzle: character.’

She caught Anna’s eye, her expression a mixture of crazed enthusiasm and utter malice. Anna found it both fascinating and terrifying.

‘Character is everything, Anna. Most people – almost all of them – will compromise or give in or forget what their goals were. That leaves the door open for people like us – like me and you and, eventually, Oakley – because we are different. We are ruthless. The vast majority of people don’t think we will do what we do because they can’t imagine themselves doing it. They tell themselves things like “no normal person would do that” and assume that means no one would do it. They are right – no normal person would do it, but we’re not normal, Anna. We’re something more than that.’

Anna studied the board. She could move a pawn to threaten Edna’s queen. The pawn would be unguarded. The queen could take it.

And then, whatever Anna did, the queen would have a diagonal to take an undefended rook.

It was a bad move.

Except for the fact that Anna could put Edna’s king in check with a bishop, leaving Edna with only one possible move: to take the bishop with her queen, and in doing so leave her queen exposed to capture.

She moved the pawn. Edna looked up at her, her expression quizzical, almost disappointed.

‘Anna. You’re a novice, I know, but …’ Edna’s expression changed. She looked sceptical, then angry.

And then she smiled.

‘Anna.’ She gave her granddaughter a little round of applause. ‘Anna Crowne.’

‘Miller.’

Edna shook her head. ‘No. You’re not a Miller. Good move, Anna Crowne. I think I was right about you. You’re my granddaughter, that’s for certain.’

ii

Edna watched on the small television. On the screen, Julia Crowne was making her appeal, hands clasped, face drawn and strained.

Please, if you have Anna or Oakley, return them to us. Leave them in a safe place. That’s all you have to do. We need them. So please, let them go. We won’t try to track you down. You can move on with your life, and we can move on with ours.

Anna turned it off.

‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’ Edna gave a snort. ‘This is exactly what I was saying. They think they can appeal to our better nature. Make us feel guilty. When a kidnapper takes an infant so they can sell it to the highest bidder, do they think those people will change their minds because the parents are upset? Do they not know what happens to these children? A person who would subject a child to the abuse and torture that awaits them will not be moved by their childlike appeals for the return of their offspring. That’s why they’re vulnerable in the first place. They think there are rules, standards of behaviour. But there are none, and they don’t understand what that means. You can’t play a game with someone who doesn’t accept the rules. If your opponent kicks the chessboard over and steals your wallet, so what if you beat them by the so-called rules?’

‘Exactly,’ Anna said. ‘That’s what I want to learn from you. You’ve been doing that ever since you disappeared.’

‘I’ve been doing it all my life,’ Edna said.

‘But especially since then.’

Edna conceded the point with a nod. ‘I had to.’

‘Where were you all that time?’

‘In Thailand, at first. I had another identity.’ Edna smiled. ‘Preparation is crucial. And I’m a doctor, so I can always make myself useful. People trust doctors, Anna. They don’t think about it. They trust that these strangers have their best interests at heart.’ She shook her head. ‘Foolish, in the extreme.’

‘And then?’

‘I had to leave. There was – an incident. I spent some time in Argentina, and then in Norway, hidden away in the fjords. And after that, as you know, in rural Normandy.’

‘Where you’ – Anna put the word in air quotes – ‘died.’

‘Yes. Where I died.’

‘What did you do, exactly?’

‘I took photos of myself, made-up to look like I had drowned and was on a slab in a mortuary, then phoned my idiot son and pretended to be a French police officer in need of his help identifying the body. He fell for it, as I knew he would. Then I sent some fake ashes, and, finally, I was dead and gone. Case closed.’ She smiled. ‘And from that point on I was free to do’ – she swept her arm around the cabin – ‘this.’

‘To rescue me and Oakley.’

‘Indeed.’ Edna pointed at Oakley. ‘And now we need to pick a new name for him.’

Anna had known from the start of this that her grandmother didn’t like Oakley’s name.

‘It’s not that bad,’ she said. ‘It’s more – I dunno – more modern?’

‘Don’t know,’ Edna said, with a shake of her head. ‘“Dunno” is for slobs and Americans. And Oakley is an awful name. It speaks of the most arriviste attitude one can imagine.’

‘Fine,’ Anna said. ‘If you say so.’

The look in her grandmother’s eyes sharpened for a second, then softened into a smile.

‘I do say so, Anna,’ she said. ‘There are strong names and there are weak names. Either can be acceptable, although strong is preferable. And then there are idiotic, faddish names, like Oakley. They are not acceptable.’ She smiled and squeezed Anna’s hand. ‘Isn’t it fun to learn together? Anyway, we will change his name.’

‘What to?’

‘That is the question at hand,’ Edna said. ‘What do you think?’

Nothing modern, for sure.

‘Stephen,’ she said.

‘Stephen? Really?’

‘Why not?’

Edna laughed. ‘King Stephen was a weak leader. Oversaw a period of anarchy. I don’t think so.’

‘Bob?’ Anna said. She was feeling out of her depth. ‘No one can complain about Bob.’

‘Second-hand car dealer,’ Edna said. ‘Like Terry. A bit – I’m afraid to say – working class.’

‘What do you think, Grandma?’

‘Well,’ Edna said. ‘What about Henry? Or William? Charles? Something kingly.’

‘Edward,’ Anna said. ‘There’ve been some King Edwards.’

‘You are a fast learner, Anna. When we get to France we will complete your education.’

‘King Edouard,’ Anna said.

‘Le Roi Edouard,’ Edna said. ‘Very good.’

Anna smiled. ‘I can’t wait. I’m so glad you came to save me when you did. I hated my life. Things are going to be so much better now.’

‘You are not missing your friends?’ Edna said.

‘No!’ Anna shook her head. ‘Not at all. I don’t want them. I want what you have – freedom.’

‘You will have it,’ Edna said. ‘You already do.’ She smiled a wide, beaming smile. ‘We shall call him Edward! Our very own Teddy.’

‘Edward it is,’ Anna said.

Seventeen Months Earlier

Ill-Gotten Gains

i

Anna put the card into the cash machine. She typed in the PIN number.

The screen went black for a second, then a menu came up. She chose ‘withdrawal’, then selected ‘£100’.

The cash machine whirred, and five twenty-pound notes rolled out of the slot.

Would you like another transaction?

She selected ‘yes,’ then chose ‘Current Balance’. When the screen changed and the balance of Anita Carter’s bank account – now hers – came up, she had to stifle a gasp.

There was £25,000 in the bank account. Underneath the number was the caveat that the balance displayed may not show recent transactions – so maybe it was really £24,900 – but either way, Anna had a lot of money.

She retrieved the card and stepped back from the cash machine. She shoved the five twenties in her pocket and walked slowly along Cornmarket Street.

She was supposed to be meeting Dale at her house in an hour, but she wasn’t sure she could. There was too much to think about. She took out her phone to send him a message.

There was a notification of an email from the account Edna was using.

Anna stopped walking; a man bumped into her back.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘My fault.’

‘That’s OK. I shouldn’t have stopped.’

She looked up at the sky, the sun high above Oxford, seemingly another in a sequence of normal days, except it was anything but normal.

She read the email.

Dear Anna

I see you have accessed the bank account. Good. It is your money. There is, of course, plenty more where that came from, but I know you are not the kind of person who is motivated by such base concerns as filthy lucre.

I am not, either. We are of a kind, my granddaughter.

But money is important, though vulgar. This is one of the many lessons I wish to share with you. That is all I ask, Anna. The chance to share with you what I have learned. This is surely a fair request from a grandmother to her granddaughter? I have been denied the opportunity to do so – and I understand why, even if I do not agree with the reasons, even if I do not agree with what they say about me, and I do not, Anna, I do not agree at all – but I am asking you to grant me that. The opportunity. No more, no less.

If you say no, I shall of course accept your answer.

Your loving grandmother,

Edna

If I say no you’ll accept it? Anna thought. You haven’t yet. Another thought pushed its way into her mind, an uncomfortable, unwelcome thought.

And you never will.

It was crazy, really, that she could be so convinced she was right, after all these years. Crazy, and intriguing. Edna must have her version of events.

Anna typed a reply.

You don’t agree with them? Why not?

ii

Edna’s response came later that day.

Why do I not agree with them? Because they are wrong, Anna. Not wrong in any sense they would understand, but wrong in the basic assumptions they make about how the world works. They see rules and constraints and they abide by them. According to those rules, they are right. But what if the rules themselves are incorrect?

That is what they fail to take into account. That is what makes me different from them.

That is the lesson I want to teach you.

Think of it this way: You are special. I am, too. There is no point in false modesty. How would I have done what I have done, otherwise? But I am not merely special in my abilities, but in my approach.

I do not accept the rules, Anna. Why should I? I did not have any say in how they were made, so they do not bind me. Rules are arbitrary; we chose them, but we could have chosen others. We decided that cars should not go over seventy miles per hour on a motorway, but why? Why not eighty? Or sixty? It is a choice.

The best way to explain this is with an analogy to sport. Let us pick rugby.

Rugby has rules, and if you wish to play the game you must abide by them. If you don’t wish to play rugby, then the rules are irrelevant. That is how I see life. There are rules which, if you wish to play the game everyone else is playing, you must follow. But if you are not playing the game, the rules do not matter.

So what does matter?

What matters is doing the right thing. When you were five I watched your potential being wasted. That was unfair on you, so I had to act. I did not do it for me; I did it for you. Unfortunately – mainly because of the inadequacies of my son – it did not work.

Let’s pause on my son, for a moment. It is not only because you are my granddaughter that I take an interest in you. If that were so, I would take the same interest in Brian.

Brian, however, is not special. He is not like you. He is not like me.

Which means it is pointless to try and make him so.

You, on the other hand, are worth any effort. You are my legacy, Anna. That is what I want the opportunity to share with you, what I want to pass on. I do not think it is too much to ask that I am given that opportunity.

Think about it: you can learn from me and you will be able to have whatever you want in life. You will bend the world to your will, shape it to fit your wants and desires. You will not have to compromise, give in to lesser people. You will get whatever you want.

That, Anna, is why I do not agree with them.

Your loving grandmother,

Edna

Edna, Again and Always

Julia paced the room, walking from the door to the window and back in an endless cycle. Gill sat cross-legged on the bed, her arms folded.

‘So,’ Gill said, ‘it was Edna? You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ Julia paused. ‘I mean, it was hard to see her face, but once you knew it was her, it was obvious. It was the way she walked.’

‘So, no doubt?’

‘No,’ Julia said. ‘It was Edna. I know it. And it explains it all. As fucking usual.’

‘And Anna was with her?’

‘That’s what it looked like. Her face was hidden, but it’s the only possibility.’

‘Jesus,’ Gill said. ‘So they did it together?’

Julia felt tears come to her eyes. Since Anna had disappeared she had veered between grief, anger, hope and numbness. Now a new emotion was part of the cycle: disbelief.

Because that was the implication of all this: Anna was in on it. Anna had chosen to disappear with her grandmother, with the woman who had kidnapped her as a child and murdered her own husband.

Anna had chosen her over her mother.

How was that even possible? How had they arranged it? How long had she been in contact with Edna? The idea that Anna had been plotting this for what must have been a long time was utterly shocking.

She had been in contact with Edna – Edna of all people – arranging her own disappearance. A memory came to her, a memory of an elderly woman in a wheelchair giving the finger to the driver of a Range Rover at Heathrow. Was that Edna? Had she been on the flight with Anna?

It was hard to believe, but what was harder was that Anna had been in on it. She felt a stinging betrayal. Anna had been deceiving her.

‘Can you believe it, Gill?’ she said. ‘My little girl has conspired with Edna to – do all this?’

Gill puffed out her cheeks. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘What did I do wrong? For her to prefer Edna, of all people? Fucking Edna.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ Gill said. ‘This is Edna. She got into her head somehow. Manipulated her. There’s no way Anna would have done it otherwise.’

‘But she did it,’ Julia said. ‘That’s what I can’t understand. Why didn’t she say something to me? I would have stopped it. I’m her mum. She can trust me.’

‘When this is over you’ll find out what happened,’ Gill said. ‘And it won’t be Anna’s fault. It’ll be Edna. All Edna. You know her and you know – better than anybody – what she’s capable of. If she set her sights on Anna, then there’s nothing she could have done about it. Edna’s a force of nature; Anna’s a teenager.’

Julia closed her eyes. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it, didn’t sense something was going on.’ She sat next to Gill. ‘And what about Oakley? Did they take him? Did Anna kidnap a six-year-old?’

Gill puffed out her cheeks. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe. Given Edna’s involved, it seems likely, even. But you have to wait, Julia. Give Anna some grace, the benefit of the doubt.’

‘I hope I get the chance,’ Julia said. ‘I just hope I get to see my daughter again.’

Canal Cruising

i

Anna cut a banana into thin slices and put them on the bowl of cereal she had made for Oakley.

‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘Banana on Frosties. Very nutritious.’

He dug his spoon in and took a mouthful. Milk spilled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it up with his sleeve.

‘Don’t let Grandma see you do that,’ she said. ‘She wouldn’t like it.’

‘Is she our grandma?’ Oakley said. ‘Why’ve we not seen her before?’

‘She was on a long holiday,’ Anna said. ‘Very far away. But now she’s back.’

He seemed to accept the explanation; that was part of being six. He was less at ease with the absence of his parents. He had asked three times already that morning if they were going to see them today.

Anna had deflected the questions which had prompted Edna to take her aside.

You should tell him about his parents, she said. That they have sadly died, and we are his parents now.

Anna shook her head. It’s too early. He’ll be upset. It’s better to wait, and deal with the fallout when we have more time.

Edna shrugged. Easier to rip the plaster off in one go, then he can begin to adjust. It’s going to have to happen sooner or later.

I know, Anna said, but let’s wait a day or two more.

She took a bite of her toast and pointed out of the window. They were passing through a remote section of the canal surrounded by farmland.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘Cows.’

Oakley’s eyes widened in excitement. ‘Cool!’ he said. ‘They’re sleeping.’

‘I think they’re awake,’ Anna said, ‘but they’re lying down. You know what that means, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘It’s going to rain. Cows lie down when it’s going to rain.’

‘Why?’

It was a good question. That cows lay down before it rained was a piece of received wisdom among her friends that she had never questioned; why they would do it had never come up.

‘Because they don’t want to slip,’ she said. ‘If the ground gets wet.’

‘But they have hooves!’ Oakley said.

‘Good point. And four-wheel drive.’

‘They have legs.’

‘Four-leg drive then. So maybe it’s not because they’re scared of slipping,’ Anna said.

‘Maybe they want to tell us it’s going to rain,’ Oakley said. ‘So we can get our umbrellas ready.’

‘Yes!’ Anna said. ‘I think that’s it. They’re being kind and letting us know rain’s on the way.’ She pointed at some darkening clouds. ‘And it seems they’re right. It’s getting colder too.’

She stood up and walked over to the door that led on to the stern. Edna was holding the tiller, flat cap on her head, wrapped in a woollen blanket.

‘Anna,’ she said. ‘Would you pass me my warm coat? It’s on the hook on the back of the door in my bedroom.’

Anna went to fetch the coat and brought it to Edna. ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Looks like it might rain.’

‘We can pull over if it gets heavy. But we need to keep moving.’

‘How far have we come?’ Anna said.

‘About thirty miles. We’re close to Shropshire now.’

They were getting quite far away. Anna felt a pang of uneasiness at the thought of the distance they had travelled.

‘Grandma,’ she said. ‘Would you mind if I closed the door? It’s cold inside.’

Edna peered at her. ‘It’s not too cold, and I prefer it open.’ She smiled. ‘I like to see what’s going on. You could put on a warmer sweater.’

‘Or close it,’ Anna said. ‘That would be easiest.’

‘Easier,’ Edna said. ‘Of two options, we say easier. Easiest is for three or more. That’s the superlative; easier is the comparative.’

‘Easier,’ Anna said. ‘It would be easier. And warmer.’

Edna fixed her with a hard stare. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Feel free to close it.’

ii

Anna ducked into the main cabin and closed the door behind her. Oakley didn’t look up from his Nintendo Switch.

That had been a point of contention between Anna and Edna, as well. Anna had explained how useful it would be to keep him occupied. Otherwise, he would need constant entertainment. He would be running around the boat, looking for something to do.

I hardly think sitting him in front of some mindless video game is the solution, Edna said.

It’s fine for now.

Surely he can entertain himself with a book? Or colouring?

Anna did not want to tell her quite how much of his time Oakley spent playing on his Nintendo. Even her dad – who was hardly the strictest parent – had tried to limit it. She had heard him arguing with Willow; Willow’s view was that they should let kids be kids, and not ruin their childhood with stupid rules.

Her dad had argued that a three-hour limit after school was not a ridiculous limit, but Willow had decided otherwise, and Dad – as he did – had given in.

Which, in a roundabout way, was why she was here. At least, it was part of the reason.

‘Oakley,’ she said. ‘What are you playing?’

He didn’t seem to register her question. Good. That was why she had asked it.

She walked down the narrow aisle towards the small bunk room she and Oakley shared. There was another room on the opposite side where Edna slept; it was incredible how much they crammed into these boats. She had seen them all her life, long, narrow, slow-moving barges chugging along the canals, but she had barely paid any attention to them. They were a harmless part of the landscape, something old people enjoyed.

That was the point. No one gave them a second thought. No one stopped to wonder what might be inside those boats, which was why she and Edna had chosen them in the first place. They were an excellent place to hide.

Anna pulled back the screen and sat on her bed. Her backpack was by her pillow, under a small window. She paused, and listened, then opened the flap and reached inside.

She pulled out a phone. It was a cheap non-contract, pay-as-you-go phone she had bought a week earlier. Her normal phone was in the creepy guy from the plane’s bag. If he’d found it he would either have thrown it away or turned it in to the police. It made no difference. It would simply confuse them, and make for some awkward questions for him.

Her heart was racing; she could hear it pounding in her ears. It was so loud she almost thought Edna would be able to hear it.

She took shallow, quiet breaths, then turned the phone on. The screen lit up, and then the phone sounded a series of notes signalling that it was online.

Shit.

To her ears it was as though an orchestra was playing a symphony at full volume in the bowels of the boat. It was impossible for Edna not to hear.

She had tested it, but she hadn’t noticed the sound it made. She paused and listened for the sound of Edna approaching.

All was quiet.

She waited for the screen to light up and the bars to indicate that she had reception, then selected new message.

She entered a number and began to type a message.

There was a click as the hatch opened.

‘Anna?’ Edna called. ‘Where are you?’

Anna froze. She shook her head. She shoved the phone – still switched on, if it made a sound she was doomed, fuck, this was a disaster – into her rucksack, and pushed the rucksack to the corner of her bed.

Then she lay on her side, facing away from the screen, faking sleep.

‘Anna?’

Her body was flooded with adrenaline. She could feel her hands and legs shaking. She didn’t reply. She couldn’t trust her voice not to betray her nerves.

‘Anna? What’s going on?’ There was a sharp, suspicious tone in Edna’s voice.

‘Grandma,’ she said, fighting to make her voice sound lethargic. ‘Sorry. I nodded off.’

‘Are you ill?’

‘No. Just sleepy.’

‘Or is it something else?’ A shadow fell over her and she felt a hand on her shoulder. Edna’s grip was hard, her fingers digging into Anna’s flesh. She tugged her over so they were looking in each other’s eyes. ‘Are you up to something, Anna?’

‘No,’ Anna turned away, trying to shrug off her grandmother’s grip. Edna did not let go. ‘Grandma, please. I have cramps.’

‘Cramps? What kind of cramps?’

‘My period. I always get them.’ Her period had come two weeks earlier, but Edna didn’t need to know that. She kept talking; she needed to distract her grandmother. ‘Mum thinks I should go on the pill. That can help.’

‘The pill,’ Edna said. ‘That’s ridiculous, at your age. Your mother’ – paused – ‘well, you know what I think of her.’

Anna did, and her mum would never have suggested she go on the pill, but it played into Edna’s jaundiced view of her mum.

Which was exactly what she had wanted.

‘I’ll be OK,’ she said. ‘In a few minutes.’

Edna held her gaze for a while.

‘I hope you feel better,’ she said.

Fourteen Months Earlier

A Grandmother’s Attention

The emails came every couple of weeks. Anna felt no need to say anything to her parents; Edna was not asking her to do anything. She was simply sharing her news.

Anna had the feeling her grandmother was lonely, and wanted someone to talk to. There was no harm in that.

The latest email had arrived on a Sunday morning.

Dear Anna

I hope you are well. I have been travelling lately and find myself in Amsterdam. Don’t be fooled by its reputation – a fleshpot where drugs and ladies of the night flood the streets; Amsterdam is a city of high culture.

I spent yesterday at the Rijksmuseum. It is truly wonderful. You will know, of course, Vermeer, Rembrandt and Van Gogh …

Anna knew their names, but little else about them. She felt a pulse of shame. Edna overestimated her, and she wished she knew more.

… and they are of course immeasurable geniuses, their works fully deserving of the description ‘masterpiece’, but there are so many other treasures there. Sweerts, Troost, Rubens, of course, Metsu, Berckheyde – the list goes on. My dear Anna, one day I will take you there and we will walk those halls together, soaking up the genius of Dutch painting. I took your father when he was seven or eight. I wonder whether he remembers. I was not such a bad mother, after all.

I have topped up your bank account. You have only to let me know should you need more funds. I am happy to oblige. It is the least I can do for you after all these years.

Send your news. I look forward to hearing it.

Your loving grandmother,

Edna

This was their relationship now. Anna was intrigued by her grandmother; she knew so much, understood the world so deeply. Yes, she had done wrong, but she was harmless enough now.

And Anna was happy to keep things as they were.

A Mother’s Love

Willow was lying on the couch, curled into a ball, her eyes half-open. Brian stood by the door to the living room. He felt raw, as though his insides were exposed. Every thought, every sound, was like a dagger into his nerves.

‘Edna was at the airport,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Anna was with her.’

‘She kidnapped her at the airport?’ Willow said.

He shook his head. ‘Not kidnap. Anna went with her willingly.’

‘What do you mean?’

He swallowed. ‘It seems – it seems they were working together.’

Willow uncoiled from the foetal position and stared at him.

‘What the fuck?’

‘Edna was in the wheelchair. She passed it to Anna. That’s how she left without anyone seeing her.’

‘That wasn’t what I was asking.’ Willow’s mouth was a sneer. ‘It was your daughter who did this. It’s not just being close to you that was the mistake. It’s your entire family. It was your actual daughter who kidnapped my son.’ She laughed. It was not a laugh with any humour in it. ‘Like grandmother, like daughter, I guess.’

‘We don’t know they had anything to do with Oakley.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She shook her head. ‘It seems likely, doesn’t it, Brian?’

He had thought it was impossible for him to feel any lower, but it turned out he was wrong. Willow was blaming Anna for kidnapping her son, but for him it was even worse. Oakley was his son, too – not that Willow seemed to care – and, not only was he missing, it was likely it was his mother and daughter who had taken him.

How had this happened? How had he missed it?

How had he not noticed that Anna was cut from the same cloth as Edna?

Eight Months Earlier

Morgan Silver Dollars

i

They lay on the riverbank, arms around each other. In the net two small perch swam in circles.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ Dale said. ‘Forever.’

She understood the sentiment – she felt it too, the sense of loss and dread at the thought he would be gone – but she knew it would fade slowly as the days and weeks went by. He would be in San Francisco; she would be in Oxford. They were a long way apart.

‘I’ – he had tears in his eyes – ‘I love you, Anna.’

He had never said it before. She had thought about it, but she had always decided she needed to be sure before she told someone she loved them.

It felt, in that moment, right.

‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘I really do.’

She realized he was crying, fully crying, and she kissed him.

‘Anna,’ he said. ‘I’ll never not love you. I know that, now. And we’ll be together again, someday.’ He took his keys from his pocket and unhooked something. He handed it to her.

‘I want you to have this.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You told me what that means to you. I can’t take it.’

It was two Morgan silver dollars – large, silver coins – welded together, with a hole drilled at the top to attach it to a keychain. But it was more than that. Dale had shown it to her the first time they had gone fishing: it was a penknife. A circular blade was nestled between the coins.

My grandpa made it for me, Dale said. We used to go fishing and Mom wouldn’t let me have my own knife, so he made this and told me to pretend it was a key fob. He could make anything.

Were you close?

He smiled, a sad, slow smile.

He was awesome. Me and him and Dad used to hang out. Once, I broke a rib falling out of a tree. It was agony. Grandad told me that the best way to deal with pain is to think of it as its own thing, outside of you. Just say: There is pain. Not I am in pain. He spent two years in a Vietnamese prison during the war – he had broken both legs when his helicopter was shot down and they were left to heal on their own.

She had looked over the coin penknife. It was beautifully made, and there was no way of knowing it contained a knife.

He died before we left for the UK. This is my most treasured possession.

‘I want you to have it,’ he said, and pressed it into her hands.

‘No. I can’t. You told me what it means to you.’

‘Exactly. And now it means we’ll see each other again, because you’ll bring it to me, I know you will.’

He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go home. We leave in an hour.’

‘You want me to walk with you?’

He shook his head. ‘No. This is how I want to remember you. In the sunlight, by the river.’

They hugged, and kissed, for a long time. Anna wished they could stay like that forever. She would have, but eventually he pulled away.

He kissed her again.

‘Bye, Anna. I’ll miss you.’

She nodded, her words caught in her throat, and watched him walk away.

ii

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ her mum said. ‘I know it’s tough. But you can keep in touch. It’s much easier these days. You can FaceTime whenever you want.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Of course it’s not. But it’s better than nothing.’

Anna was exhausted by all the emotion of the day. ‘I suppose so. I’m going to lie down.’

She climbed the stairs to her bedroom and lay on her bed. Her mum didn’t get it; she loved Dale. Her mum thought it was a teenage crush that would pass. She didn’t take it seriously. She didn’t take Anna seriously.

Her laptop was on the pillow; she opened it to check her email.

There was one from Edna.

Dear Anna

I am so glad we have reconnected over the past months. I see Dale has left to return home to America.

Anna was shocked; how could Edna know this? It had only just happened. She shook her head, and read on.

He is an impressive young man, and I can tell that you are in a mature and loving relationship. I applaud that. No doubt you will miss him. I am here for you, if so.

And you will see him again. You have funds at your disposal; you can fly to the US, or pay for him to visit you. I encourage you to do so. That is what the money I send is for.

You are young, Anna, but you can make your own decisions. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Your loving grandmother, Edna

Someone understood.

And Edna was right; she could pay for a flight. But her mum would never let her. She didn’t let Anna make her own decisions, and Anna was sick of it.

She started a reply.

Dear Grandma,

Thank you. I’m so glad someone gets what I’m going through.

She paused and considered what to write next. She’d explain about her and Dale. It felt good to be treated like an adult.

Believed Deceased

DCI Marie Ryan sat behind her desk. DI Wynne and DI Spring were opposite her. She tilted her head back, her eyes narrowed, then she exhaled and looked at them.

‘Let me get this straight. You’re saying that Edna Crowne, believed deceased in France four months ago, an event confirmed when her son identified her body, is in fact alive?’

‘She is,’ Wynne said.

‘Then whose body was it?’

‘There wasn’t a body.’ Wynne paused. ‘We checked with the French authorities. They have no record of it. It seems Edna Crowne faked the whole thing.’

‘Her son identified it as her.’

‘He did.’

‘Did we confirm it at the time?’

‘He handled the arrangements.’

Ryan slammed her hand on the desk. ‘Jesus Christ, Wynne! And now you’re saying that not only is she alive but she’s in England, and she managed to effect the kidnapping of two children, one from an airport and the other shortly thereafter from a football field, and then disappear without a trace?’

Wynne paused, then answered in a measured tone.

‘Other than the addition that Anna Miller was working with her, that’s a fair assessment.’

‘Yes. Of course. She also recruited her fucking granddaughter to help her.’ DCI Ryan squinted in an expression that indicated she was suffering from some scepticism. ‘It all seems a bit – far-fetched?’

‘We have her on camera,’ Spring said.

‘After a fashion. Two people who haven’t seen her for a decade think it’s her, but there’s no absolutely positive ID.’

‘One of them is her son,’ Wynne said.

‘His track record in identifying his mother is hardly very good.’

‘Ma’am,’ Wynne said. ‘All the evidence suggests it was Edna.’

‘What about Oakley?’ Ryan held up her palms. ‘Even if Anna was with Edna, we don’t know they took Oakley.’

‘Given Edna Crowne’s history, it seems likely,’ Wynne said.

‘And risky,’ Ryan replied.

‘Less so with Anna in the car,’ said Spring. ‘They could park at some distance and she could beckon to him. It makes it easier, in fact, if Anna is there.’

‘Maybe.’ Ryan nodded a confession, her anger dissipating. ‘But there’s another question: Why?’

‘Because Edna Crowne is Edna Crowne,’ Wynne said. ‘You seem to have forgotten what she did. She’s completely insane. When she wants something, she’ll do whatever she can to get it.’

‘I’m not talking about Edna,’ DCI Ryan said. ‘I’m talking about Anna. Why would she do it?’

‘We can’t be certain,’ Spring said. ‘But Edna Crowne was obviously in contact with her for some time before this. Who knows what she told her? Kids get groomed all the time. Someone like Crowne? Someone that manipulative? Once they get their claws into a teenaged girl they can persuade them to do almost anything.’

Ryan exhaled slowly. ‘If this is right,’ she said, ‘it’s a damn mess.’

‘That it is,’ Wynne said.

‘We have to find them.’

‘I know. We’re trying.’

‘What are your leads?’ Ryan said.

Wynne nodded her head from side to side. ‘Not many. The blue van. We’re assuming it was at the airport – otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to get to the football field in time – so we should be able to get it on CCTV.’

‘How does that help?’ Ryan said. ‘We’re already looking for the van.’

‘Maybe get a registration,’ Spring replied. ‘Trace it to someone.’

‘Crowne will have thought of that,’ Ryan said. ‘What else?’

Wynne caught DI Spring’s eye. ‘Not much.’

‘Not much or not anything?’

‘Not anything,’ Wynne said. ‘We’re working with the French police to see if there is anything about her time in Normandy that might give us a lead, but that’s going to take time.’

‘And we know she faked it anyway,’ Ryan said. ‘It doesn’t help us find her. So, allow me to summarize. Edna Crowne is roaming around the north of England with her grandchildren, and we have no idea where she is?’

‘Correct,’ Wynne said. ‘And at this point, no hope of finding out.’

Four Months Earlier

Dying to Meet You

i

Anna read the email again.

Her correspondence with Edna had become warmer in the past months as she shared more and more of the details of her life.

Edna had suggested they try to meet soon; Anna had demurred, trying to find a polite way to say no.

I want to, but it seems impossible.

It seemed Edna had only heard the first three words.

Dear Anna

I am so glad you want to meet in person. It will be a thrill after all these years. Nothing is impossible, and certainly not a simple meeting. I will provide a location and time and you can travel there to meet me.

Your loving grandmother,

Edna

Anna typed her reply.

Dear Grandma

Of course I would love to see you but travelling could be difficult. Perhaps we could meet in Oxford?

Anna xx

Her grandmother’s reply changed everything.

ii

Dear Anna

I am afraid I must come clean. I must confess to an ulterior motive.

Of course, I wish to be your correspondent. Of course, I wish to know what is happening in your life.

But I want more. I want to give you what you should have had all along. I want you to have what I have.

A better life. A life in which you can travel the world and indulge whatever fancy you choose. You see, Anna, I am getting old, and I do not wish to see what I have created disappear from the earth. It has been my life’s work to build the existence I enjoy: I have money and freedom. I can move from country to country undetected and I spend my days following my passion for the finer things in life: art, music, food.

I want you to have this. I want to give it to you. And I think you want it.

I understand you love Dale, and I see that he is important to you. I support you, so I offer it to Dale as well. Once we are settled, we will bring him along. It will be a test: if he says yes, you will know he feels as strongly about you as you do about him.

Anna, here is what we must do. We must disappear. Simple enough, if you agree, and I am sure you will. But there is one complication.

Oakley.

We must rescue him.

He is my grandson, Anna, and I cannot let him rot in the care of my son and his wastrel wife. We will have to risk it all. We will have to kidnap him.

I have planned it all. If you agree, I will share the details.

The plan is in motion. You will soon learn that I am deceased. This is not the case. I have arranged some circumstances in which it will appear I have died so that the world will think I am finally dead, leaving me free to do whatever I want.

Leaving us free, to do whatever we want.

So, my darling granddaughter, please consider my offer. And if you accept, all I have will be yours.

Your loving grandmother,

Edna

Canal Calls

Anna stepped onto the towpath. Fields stretched as far as she could see; they were dotted with barns, and to her right there was a small copse. In the distance a church spire pointed to the heavens, but other than that there was nothing around.

She turned to the canal boat.

‘Grandma,’ she said. ‘Would you mind if I went for a short walk? We’ve been on the boat for quite a while. I need some exercise.’

Edna glanced up from under her flat cap.

‘That should be fine,’ she said. ‘But don’t be long. I want to get moving soon.’

‘Maybe ten minutes?’ Anna said. ‘That’s all I need.’

Edna nodded. ‘Ten minutes.’

Anna looked left and right. To the left the canal was straight as a die; to the right, where the small copse started, it curved out of view.

She headed to the right. She walked briskly, like someone getting their blood flowing, and without looking back at the boat. Why would she? She was only out for a walk.

Once she was around the bend, and out of sight, she stopped. She examined the copse; it was thickly wooded, dense with undergrowth.

She darted in between two wide trunks and headed deeper into the trees. When she was sure she could not be seen, she sat down, her back to a tree, and reached down the front of her jeans.

She pulled out the mobile phone and switched it on. She shoved it in her armpit to muffle the sound it made when it booted up; when that was over, she took it out and began to type a message.

There was a noise. A twig cracking.

She lifted her head and listened, breath held, like an animal that has sensed a threat.

Nothing more. The copse was silent.

Mum, she wrote, it’s me, Anna. I’m fine. I’m on a canal boat – I don’t know exactly where but it won’t be that hard to find us.

She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. Her whole neck seemed to contort and she cried out. A thin, bony hand snaked out and grabbed the phone from her hand.

She saw the message pass her eyes, the words unsent.

‘I knew,’ her grandmother said, her voice icy with barely restrained fury, ‘you were up to something, Anna. What on earth are you doing?’

This was the worst possible outcome. Edna would read the message and God alone knew what she would do to Anna then, but whatever it was, the phone would be gone and with it, Anna’s last and only chance of getting out of this alive.

Whatever happened, that message had to be sent.

‘Grandma,’ Anna said. ‘You’re hurting me. I’m sorry about the phone. It’s for Dale.’

‘For what?’

‘Dale. My boyfriend.’

‘He moved back to America,’ Edna snapped. ‘Godforsaken place that it is.’

‘I know. But he’s still my boyfriend. I love him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s been eight months. You’re contacting someone else.’

Anna shook her head and wriggled away from Edna’s grasp. ‘No, I’m not. Of course I’m not. Why would I? Take a look. You can read it for yourself.’

Edna lowered her gaze to the screen. As soon as she did, Anna launched herself at her grandmother. She ignored everything but the phone; with her right hand, she grabbed Edna’s wrist and bent it back; with her left she snatched the phone. Edna grunted in pain, and put out her foot to trip Anna.

Anna went sprawling onto the leafy floor, a root tearing at her knee. She felt Edna’s weight on her, felt her grandmother’s hands scrabbling for the phone.

Anna held the phone away from her, then, arms outstretched in the dirt, pressed send.

She dropped the phone and watched Edna scoop it up, but it was too late.

Edna read the message.

‘You fucking traitor!’ she roared, and smashed her elbow into the middle of Anna’s back. The pain was sharp and bitter, but it was nothing compared to what Anna knew was coming.

She had tried, and she had lost, and Edna would have her revenge.

She put her cheek to the damp ground and sobbed, her tears mingling with the Cheshire dirt.

PART FIVE

Next Steps

i

Edna pressed her knee hard into Anna’s back, right on the soft spot between her shoulder blades. It was agony, but she refused to make any noise or give any indication she was in pain. She closed her eyes and thought about Dale, and the day they had parted.

Grandad told me that the best way to deal with pain is to think of it as its own thing, outside of you. Just say: There is pain. Not I am in pain.

Edna dug her knee in harder.

There is pain, Anna thought. I am not in pain. And if Dale’s grandad can last two years, I can last however long this takes. So fuck you, Grandma.

‘What have you done?’ Edna hissed. ‘Have you been lying to me? Have you betrayed me, Anna?’ She spat onto the leafy ground. ‘I should kill you here and now,’ she said. ‘But that would be messy.’ She grabbed a handful of Anna’s hair and yanked her head up. There was the sound of hair tearing from her scalp.

Anna bit back the cry of pain.

‘And,’ Edna said quietly into her ear, ‘I want to watch you suffer.’

There was a sudden, sharp pain in her ear, then the sensation of blood running down her neck and cheek. Edna let go of her hair and her face fell back to the ground.

Edna spat again, and something landed in front of her eyes.

It was a chunk of her ear, sticky with blood and saliva.

‘Now then,’ Edna said. ‘I’ve got to get you back to the boat. And I can’t trust you not to try and run away, Anna Miller – you can have that name back now, bitch, you’re no longer a Crowne – so I’m going to have to do this.’

She wrapped her hands around Anna’s neck and began to squeeze, her sharp thumbs pressing into the flesh either side of the base of her neck.

‘This is risky,’ Edna said. ‘I only need you to be unconscious, but I could get this wrong and kill you. Or leave you with brain damage. I’ll try not to, though, because I want to take my time over you.’

She made a guttural, almost animal sound.

‘You betrayed me, Anna. You thought you could win my trust and use it against me?’ She slapped her hand against Anna’s face. ‘Why? Why did you do that? You’ve ruined it all, Anna. I wanted to give you everything. And I tried. But you betrayed me. And now all I have is my pride. And I will restore my pride. I’m going to starve you, Anna, for weeks, until the hunger is so all-consuming you’ll do anything to stop it. Then I’ll slice off pieces of your body and feed them to you. I’m going to keep you alive but in so much pain it drives you mad. And when I die, I’ll die with the comfort of knowing that you’ – she held Anna’s chin between her thumb and forefinger – ‘learned your fucking lesson.’

Anna felt her grip on consciousness loosening. Her vision was darkening around the edges.

But she was glad. Anything to get away from Edna.

‘I’m going to video it all,’ she said, her voice swollen with rage. ‘All your suffering. You, eating parts of your tender young body. And I’m going to send it to your useless slut of a mother.’

This was the moment when she should beg, No, please, leave her out of this, and Anna nearly did. But she stopped herself.

She would not give Edna the pleasure. Whatever happened to her, however bad this got, she would not show any weakness.

Not if that was what Edna wanted.

Not if that would make Edna feel she had won.

She would rather die.

She smiled. Maybe she was more like Edna than she had thought after all.

Her vision faded to black.

ii

Anna opened her eyes. Her head was throbbing; her neck felt like there was a belt cinched tight around it.

She blinked, wondering for a brief moment where she was, and then it all came back.

Edna. The copse. The phone. The message she had sent.

She was on her bed. They were moving; at least the engine was thrumming. She was on her side; she tried to turn onto her back so she could sit upright, but her hands were tied behind her.

Her ankles were bound too.

Shit.

She had sent her message – she thought so, anyway – but other than that she was, to coin a phrase she and Antonia often used, royally fucked.

Edna. Her grandmother. She had underestimated her. Stupidly, she had thought she could make her own plans and sort out the whole big mess herself. As though Edna Crowne could be beaten by a schoolgirl.

She thought of Dale. He would never know what had happened to her. They would never go fishing in California, never walk the streets of San Francisco together.

She loved him, she really did. They had kept in touch since he had left and they had plans to get together when she was sixteen. Ironically, she had the money for a flight, thanks to Edna, but now that would never happen.

He would never get his grandad’s coin knife back. He had been so sure it was safe with her.

She froze. The coin knife, disguised as a key fob. Edna would have taken anything remotely dangerous from her bag, but a key fob?

There was a chance it was still there. What was it made of? Morgan silver dollars? She twisted her body so that her back was to her rucksack. She grabbed the zip and tugged it open, then pushed her hand into the cavity of the bag. Her keys were in there, somewhere. She ferreted around until her fingers brushed on metal.

There they were. She pulled them out, feeling for the familiar circular shape of the coins.

Of the knife.

There it was; her heart expanded with a flush of hope and, scrabbling for purchase with her nails, she tried to pull the blade out. It was awkward, the angles all wrong, and soon the tendons in her wrist were aching.

She could move it, but each time she pulled it free, it snapped back into place.

If she could get it all the way out she would be able to cut the ties around her wrist – and then those around her ankles – and she would be free. Tough as Edna was, she felt she had at least an even chance if it came to a struggle against her, especially if Anna had the element of surprise.

And then the boat engine stopped.

She heard the door to the back deck open, and then footsteps advancing towards her bunk.

She noticed there was no sound from Oakley. No greeting to his grandmother. That wasn’t good, but she could deal with that later.

She stuffed the coin penknife into the back pocket of her jeans. Edna might search her – she had probably already done so, knowing Edna – but even if she had, and she found the coin there, she would see nothing suspicious.

Thanks to Dale’s ingenious grandfather.

Edna would think it was some sentimental bauble, proof of Anna’s weak mind.

Of course, she may decide to take it from Anna through sheer spite, but there was nothing Anna could do about that now. All she could do was hope.

‘Wake up.’ Edna’s voice was hard, but brittle like glass. She sounded on edge.

It was not a good sound.

Anna turned over and looked at her grandmother. Her jaw was clenched; her lips thin. Her eyes seemed dead, but there was an alertness and watchfulness in them that was terrifying.

She looked hardly human, like a trapped animal, wild and savage.

‘So you’re alive.’ Edna looked left to right. ‘We have to leave this boat, thanks to you. I read your message, you little slut, and we have to go.’

‘Where?’ Anna’s voice was a croak; her throat felt badly damaged.

‘Never you mind. Your time for asking questions is over.’

Edna took her hand from the pocket of her quilted jacket. She was holding a syringe.

‘You could have had it all,’ she said. ‘I offered you greatness, and you threw it back in my face, as though I’m some fucking idiot like the rest of them. Well, there’s a price to pay, Anna Miller. And the price for you is that your life – from now on – is nothing other than pain.’

She pressed the needle of the syringe to Anna’s neck. There was a brief pricking sting.

And then, once more, a slow fade to black.

The Best News

i

Julia sat on a bench and looked at the dirty brown water of the Bridgewater Canal. Gill was next to her.

‘You sure you want to?’ Gill said.

Julia turned to her. She was her oldest and best friend. They had known each other for decades.

‘I suppose so,’ Julia said. The sense of loss was so overwhelming that it had pushed out any other feelings. She felt hollow and empty.

Anna was gone. What else was there?

Gill unpeeled the wrapper from the packet of cigarettes.

‘Marlboro Reds,’ she said. ‘That’s all they had. At least we used to smoke Marlboro Lights.’

‘Does it really make a difference?’ Julia held her hand out. She took the cigarette from Gill and put it between her lips. It had been a long time since she had smoked and the sensation brought back a flood of memories.

Gill passed her a book of matches.

‘Got them from the hotel,’ she said. ‘I told the receptionist I was surprised they still had matches. She said they’d bought a job lot and had nothing else to do with them.’

She struck one and it flared, the light and the sound a burst of unexpected chemical energy. Julia leaned into it and inhaled, listening to the crinkle and crisp of the tobacco burning.

The smoke filled her lungs. For a second she thought I’ve missed this and then she started to cough.

She took another drag, and coughed again. It was deeply unpleasant and she found it hard to believe she’d ever got started.

‘Not for you?’ Gill said.

Before she could speak, her phone buzzed.

It was a text message, from a number she did not recognize.

Mum, it’s me, Anna. I’m fine. I’m on a canal boat – I don’t know exactly where but it won’t be that hard to find us.

She looked at the message, smoke coiling up around the screen. The words took some time to sink in.

‘Holy shit,’ she muttered.

‘What is it?’

She turned to Gill. ‘It’s Anna.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a message from Anna. She must have a different phone.’ Julia dropped the cigarette by her foot and ground it out.

‘What does it say?’

Julia read out the message. For the first time since this had started, she felt that there might be a resolution. Even more, she felt relief. Anna had not betrayed her. She was not working with Edna. She was working against her.

Which put her in a crazy amount of danger. Anna had no idea what she was up against.

But she was alive and she was asking for help, and that was everything.

She typed a reply.

Anna. It’s Mum. I got your message. Do you have any more specifics about where you are? Can you describe it? I love you.

‘I have to call Wynne,’ she said.

ii

‘A canal boat?’ Wynne said. ‘Is that it? Any more detail?’

‘No,’ Julia said. ‘But surely you can search all the canals?’

‘We can,’ Wynne said. ‘We’ll have the helicopters looking for any narrow boats that are off the beaten path, maybe hidden away somewhere. But we have no way of knowing which boat they’re in. We’ll check them all, but it’ll take time.’

‘They can’t get away though, can they? The boats are slow.’

‘True,’ Wynne said. ‘But we have to be careful. The canal boat world is a tight-knit community. If word spreads that boats are being searched, Edna will know that we know, and she could flee. Or do something even more drastic.’ Wynne paused. ‘But we’ll be watching. We’ll block the canals and we’ll have the helis in the air. And we’ll have officers at every place a road crosses a canal.’

This was it. This was the moment when it happened. Anna was coming back.

‘There are lots of places to disappear along the canals,’ Wynne said. ‘But this is good news.’ She cleared her throat. ‘There is one thing, Ms Miller. I suggest not getting your hopes up too much yet. We need to be sure this is real.’

‘What do you mean, real?’ Julia said. ‘We know where she is.’

‘The message may not be genuine,’ Wynne said. ‘There’s a chance it’s a hoax.’

‘From who?’

‘Someone who wants to play a cruel trick on you,’ Wynne said. ‘Or wants to derail the investigation.’

‘No one would do that,’ Julia said. ‘Why would they?’

‘You’d be surprised what people will do, Ms Miller,’ Wynne said. ‘They take a sick pleasure in causing trouble. Why, I can’t say, but that they do it is, I’m afraid, a sad fact of life. I’ve seen it too often.’

Julia felt the hope start to fade. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘It can’t be. I sent a reply. Maybe that’s what they want.’

‘Did you get a response?’

‘Not yet.’

‘How long ago?’

‘A few minutes.’

‘If you get anything, let me know immediately.’

‘So you think it is real?’

‘We’ll treat it as though it is,’ Wynne said. ‘We have to. Which raises another possibility. Edna will know that, so she could be using it to divert attention from where they really are.’

‘You think it’s Edna?’

‘It could be. She could be misdirecting us. And if she is, they’re nowhere near a canal. But time will tell. I need to go and get this organized. I’ll be in touch as soon as there’s news.’

Wynne hung up.

‘And?’ Gill said.

‘They’re going to search the boats,’ Julia said.

‘You look less happy than before the call,’ Gill said.

‘Because I hadn’t thought it through,’ Julia replied. ‘Wynne pointed out it could be a hoax, or even Edna misdirecting the police.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think it is, though. I think it’s Anna.’

Gill put her arm around Julia’s shoulders and hugged her tight. ‘Me too,’ she said.

Two Days Earlier

The Time Has Come

Anna’s ear popped as the plane began its descent. The man next to her had hardly looked up from his book. His bag was at his feet, the front pocket gaping open. There was all kinds of rubbish in there – cords for electrical devices, paperwork, crisp packets.

She bent down to tie her shoelaces, and slipped her phone into his bag. Given the mess in there it was likely he wouldn’t find it for days, if ever, but it made no difference. Even if he found it when he got home and told the police, it would be too late.

She’d be gone, with Edna and Oakley.

Anna went over her plan. It was simple. She was going to lure Edna out into the open and have her arrested.

It was the only way to finally stop her.

She had agonized about whether to tell her parents that Edna was back in her life, but Edna had made it clear that if she did, her parents would suffer the consequences, and who knew what that meant?

And anyway, Edna would still be there, utterly insane, and incapable of stopping.

She had been in Oxford, watching Anna when she kicked Kennedy in the balls.

She was there.

And then she had made her offer to Anna. Her offer for her and Dale and Oakley to live with Edna in France.

It was insane, but that wasn’t the worst of it. She had faked her own death.

And that was when Anna understood the situation she had created. She had allowed Edna into her life, and now she had to sort it out.

If she didn’t, Edna would never stop.

Anna was like her, she thought. Anna was her legacy. But Anna wasn’t like her, although she would never be able to convince Edna of that.

OK, maybe she was a little like her.

Because once Anna had understood that Edna would never go, she had realized what she had to do, and now she was doing it.

Edna had a plan. They would kidnap Oakley and make their way to France. It was madness, but it gave Anna the perfect way to prove to Edna that they were true partners. Only someone committed to the enterprise would get involved in a kidnapping.

But Anna would use the plan against her. She had signed up, agreed to it all, but without sharing with her grandmother the one piece of vital information: she was not with Edna, she was against her, and once it was done, Anna would call the police and Edna would be history.

Of course, her parents – and Willow – would be devastated for a few days, but that was a price they would have to pay. It would be worth it.

The plane’s wheels bumped against the tarmac. This was it. This was when it would happen.

They would meet in the toilets, Edna in a wheelchair. Anna would get in and wheel herself out; when the toilets were empty, Edna would exit dressed as an old man. Then they would reconvene at the van and drive to Oakley’s football practice; Willow was supposed to be picking him up, but they were hoping, with Anna missing, she would be late.

No matter either way: if she wasn’t, they would find another way to get Oakley. If she was, and the chance was there to kidnap him, Anna would beckon Oakley to the van and introduce him to his grandmother …

It was risk-free for Anna. If they were caught, she could blame it all on Edna; if not, Edna’s grand plan would unfold. Navigate the canals until the search went cold.

And then to France.

Except that would never happen because, in her rucksack, Anna had a phone, bought with Edna’s money. And as soon as she could, she was going to get a message to her mum telling her what was going on. And then Edna would be out of their lives for good.

No Room for Error Now

Anna slowly regained consciousness. It was like swimming up to the surface of a noisy, brightly-lit pool; she could hear noises and see lights but everything was dulled and hard to make out.

Gradually, though, it became clearer. The first thing she was aware of were the jolts and bumps.

They were not on the boat any more, that was for certain. She opened her eyes.

They were in the back of a van, a van which was moving at speed. Through the windows in the back door she could see trees and hedges flashing by. Oakley was sleeping – sedated, presumably – on the cushions from the canal boat.

Anna was on the hard metal floor, hands and ankles tied.

How the fuck had Edna got hold of a van? And how had she moved Anna to it, unseen? Oakley was one thing, but Anna weighed more than Edna.

Much as she detested her grandmother, she had to give her credit. There was no quit in Edna.

Which was the entire reason Anna was here in the first place. Edna was never going to leave her alone, so she had no choice but to find a way to stop her.

It wasn’t exactly going to plan. She’d sent the message – she could assume that now, otherwise why would Edna have left the boat – but it wouldn’t have worked. The police would be searching canal boats; meanwhile, Edna, Anna and Oakley were in a van.

Not only had the message not worked, it had made things worse. The police were looking in the wrong place.

All Anna had succeeded in doing was to speed up Edna’s plan. They were headed, no doubt, to some secret place Edna had, where Edna would hide Oakley away and start doing whatever she was going to do to Anna.

She heard her grandmother’s low, evil whisper. I’m going to video it all. All your suffering. And I’m going to send it to your useless slut of a mother.

This was a disaster. Anna was completely trapped, totally at Edna’s mercy. There was nothing she could do to stop her grandmother. She had utterly failed. She should have known better. She was no match for Edna Crowne.

Edna held all the cards.

All except one.

Her hands were going numb, the cord binding them digging into her wrists, but she could just about feel her fingers. She slid her thumb and forefinger into the back pocket of her jeans.

This was her last chance. If it was there then maybe there was something she could do.

Maybe. Because if Edna had taken it, or it had fallen out, this was over.

Her fingers closed over the round metal of the coin penknife.

Thank you, Dale, she thought. And thank you to your grandad.

The Cheshire Ring

i

If it wasn’t a hoax – and Wynne thought it might well be one – then it was a major step forward.

But no more than that.

DS Blunt handed her a mug of tea. He put his phone on the table. ‘DCI Ryan and DI Spring,’ he said. ‘On speaker.’

‘So,’ Ryan said. ‘You have a lead?’

‘Possibly on a canal boat,’ Wynne said. ‘Other than that, not much.’

‘At least we know what we’re looking for,’ Spring said. ‘Assuming it’s real.’

‘We have to assume that, for now,’ Wynne said. ‘And that it’s not deliberate misdirection.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I think there’s one other possibility, too.’

‘Which is?’

‘Edna Crowne didn’t send the message deliberately, but she knows about it.’

‘Anna sent it secretly,’ Blunt said. ‘If it was her.’

‘Julia Miller replied to the message,’ Wynne said. ‘She did not get a response. If it was a hoaxer, they would normally play her along – that’s what they want – so the fact they haven’t makes me wonder if it is real. And the fact that – if it is – Anna has not replied suggests maybe she can’t.’

‘Or hasn’t had the opportunity to,’ Spring said. ‘She’s in close quarters with Crowne, after all.’

‘Very possible,’ Wynne said. ‘Equally possible that Crowne found out. If she did, she’ll have ditched the boat.’

‘I guess we’ll find out,’ Ryan said. ‘How are you planning to search the canals?’

‘Boat by boat,’ Wynne said. ‘And over a large area. At four miles an hour they could have gone sixty, seventy miles by this point, even if they only travelled by daylight. We’re going to get boats in the water at the edge of the search area and work towards Stockton Heath, checking every boat. We’ll also put officers on bikes. They can cover miles in a few hours. There’s a lot of canals, but with enough officers we can search all of it in a few hours.’

‘Good job,’ DCI Ryan said. ‘And whatever you need, Detective Inspector, you have only to ask. The next few hours are critical. Crowne cannot get away.’

‘Understood,’ Wynne said. She hung up the call. ‘Well,’ she said to Blunt. ‘This is it.’

The door to the incident room opened. A uniformed officer looked in.

‘DI Wynne,’ he said. ‘Got a moment?’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘Might be nothing,’ the officer said. ‘But we got a call from dispatch. Someone rang in about a stolen van.’

‘Quite a few stolen vans every day,’ DS Blunt said.

The officer gave a wry smile. ‘Yes. But this one was taken from a layby next to a canal. Somewhere near Nantwich. The gentleman in question had parked up and gone for a walk. When he came back, his van was gone.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘With two officers. They’re taking down his details.’ The officer paused. ‘We did get in contact with them to ask whether there was a canal boat nearby. They confirmed there is. No one on it, at present.’

Wynne glanced at DS Blunt.

‘How long to Nantwich?’

He shrugged. ‘Get a squad car with the lights on. Maybe thirty minutes?’

‘Let’s go,’ Wynne said. She turned to the officer. ‘Tell them to wait there with the van owner until I arrive. And get an alert out on that van. Every officer anywhere near Nantwich needs to be looking for it.’

ii

DS Blunt’s estimate was right; they were pulling up in the layby almost exactly thirty minutes after they left. Two uniformed officers – a man and a woman – were talking to a man in his late forties. Next to him, engrossed on her phone, was a woman, maybe twenty years younger than him.

Wynne and Blunt walked over.

‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ she said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Blunt. You’re Mr Strand?’

‘Mike Strand.’

‘This is your—’

‘Friend,’ Strand said. ‘Marjorie.’

There was no way she was called Marjorie. Wynne took in the gold ring on his wedding finger and understood what he had been up to on his walk near the canal. Cheaper than a hotel room.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Your van was stolen?’

‘I explained it to these two. We went for a walk. When we came back it was gone.’

‘Where did you walk?’ Blunt said.

‘Along the towpath.’ He pointed to the right, where the canal ran through open fields. ‘That way.’

‘How long were you gone?’

‘About forty-five minutes,’ Strand said.

‘Did you see anything unusual?’ Wynne said. ‘Anyone acting strangely?’

‘No,’ Strand said. ‘I think we saw a couple of dog walkers, but that was it.’

‘Marjorie,’ Blunt said, with a small smile. ‘Did you see anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘We were, like, focused on each other.’

‘Is this to do with them missing kids?’ Strand said.

Wynne nodded. ‘Yes. It’s very important, so anything you remember you should pass on immediately.’ She handed a card to him and to Marjorie. ‘Call me anytime. And our conversations will remain private.’

She turned to the officers.

‘Where’s the boat?’

They pointed left, in the opposite direction to the one Strand and Marjorie had taken. ‘About twenty yards,’ the woman said. ‘No one on it.’

Wynne and Blunt headed along the towpath. The boat looked deserted. Wynne walked the length of it. All the curtains were drawn. When she reached the stern, she climbed aboard and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. She turned the handle; it was locked.

‘We have to get in,’ she said. ‘If this isn’t the boat, we’ll have some apologizing to do.’

Blunt slammed his heel into the lock. There was a splintering sound; when he pulled the handle the door swung open.

Wynne put her head inside. It was warm, the air clean. It did not have the stale feel of a room or space that had been long abandoned. She walked inside. Pots and pans, cleaned and on the drying rack. Tins of soup and beans, dry pasta. A loaf of bread.

On the table, a young child’s toys.

She walked the length of the cabin. At the end was a bunk room. She pulled back the screen.

The bed was unmade. It had been recently slept in.

And by the pillow was a pink rucksack.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Blunt! Come and look at this. She was here. Anna Miller was here.’

A Rural Idyll

The van slowed, then made a sharp turn to the right. The sound the wheels made changed from the smooth rush of tarmac to a bumpier, noisier ride. They must have turned onto some kind of back road, a farm track or private lane.

Anna squeezed the coin penknife in her fingers. This time she managed to pull the blade out a little further before it snapped back. She was becoming frustrated, the blade too stiff, her grip too weak. Her wrists and fingers were aching from the effort.

The van swung right, then began to reverse. From the rear window Anna saw a cottage, white walls covered with some kind of plant growing up the sides, white flowers blooming from the green stems. The windows were small, the frames painted a dark blue or brown.

The cottage disappeared from view, replaced by an old garage.

Then the van stopped again and she heard the sound of the driver’s side door open, followed by gravel crunching underfoot. Edna walked into view, standing in front of the garage. She undid a large padlock. There were two garage doors, one opening to the left and the other to the right. Edna pulled them open, revealing a dark, forbidding interior.

Edna flicked on a light. At the back of the garage was a door leading, Anna assumed, to the house. She knew that if she went into that house she would never come out. Once she had gone in there she would be gone for good.

As would Oakley. He was still sleeping next to her, still knocked out by whatever Edna had given them. She didn’t see him much, but she loved him; despite the fact he was, if she was honest, not of much interest to her – no six-year-old boy was – he was still her brother. Half-brother, technically, but what difference did that make? He was her family, and she had to protect him.

Even though it would be bad for her, it would be worse for him. She would be killed, but then at least it would be over. He faced a life sentence, full of God knew what horrors Edna would cook up in the name of bringing him up correctly.

She was deranged, her insanity expressed in the form of an obsession with her grandchildren. If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else, which would have made Anna’s life a lot easier. And her dad’s; Anna wondered what his childhood had been like. Had Edna been this way all his life, or was her madness relatively new?

Either way, it couldn’t have been easy.

But that was for another day. For now she had to find a way to get out of this. She scrabbled with the coin, trying to pluck the groove with her nail so she could pull it open.

She snagged it and the blade opened, wider this time, but her fingers were numb and clumsy and it slipped back.

She tried again. The blade eased out again. She moved her hand, twisting from the shoulder to get better purchase. This time she had a firmer grip, and the blade started to come out. Something pulled in her elbow and she grunted in pain, but she could not give up, not when she was so close.

There was a sharp click and the blade was out. It sliced into the pad of her thumb with an agonizing stabbing pain. She felt blood start to run down her fingers.

The front door of the van shut and they reversed into the garage. When they were inside, Edna climbed out and walked to the back of the van. She opened the door. Anna shut her eyes and lay still, the knife sticking into her hand. She was desperate to move; she could feel it cutting through the skin and into the flesh. It was an odd, burning sensation and she had to fight the urge to move away from the blade.

But Edna had to think she was asleep, so she lay still.

There is pain, she thought. But I am OK.

She listened as Edna picked up Oakley. There was a scraping sound as she dragged him across the floor of the van. Anna risked cracking one eye. Edna was carrying him through the door at the back of the garage, into what looked like a kitchen.

This, then, was it.

This was her final chance to save her, and Oakley’s, lives. For her, from death; for him, from hell.

A Widening Circle

Mike Strand and ‘Marjorie’ had been on their ‘walk’ for around forty-five minutes, so it was possible Edna had stolen the van forty minutes before they had called it in. That had been around twenty minutes before Wynne was told and the alert went out. Add to that the thirty minutes it had taken to get here and the time they had been talking to Strand and Marjorie, and Edna Crowne could be anywhere within an hour and a half to two hours’ drive.

That was a very, very large search area, and it was getting larger all the time. In an hour she could be at the East Coast, in West Wales, south of Bristol or close to the Scottish border. Another hour and she could be more or less anywhere in the country.

Or, if she had managed to slip past the border, well on her way to continental Europe.

Although she was in a stolen van for which they had the registration. She could have switched vehicles – she had done it when she ditched the blue van for the canal boat – but that seemed unlikely. She would have needed a backup in the vicinity, yet there was no way she could have known where she would have needed it.

So the odds were she was still in the stolen van, which made Wynne wonder whether she was on the road at all.

‘Penny for them,’ DS Blunt said.

Wynne looked at him. ‘My thoughts?’

‘Unless you need a bit more. With inflation these days …’

‘You can have them for free,’ Wynne said. ‘I’m afraid that’s about all they’re worth.’

‘They could be anywhere, more or less,’ Blunt said.

‘That’s where my head was,’ Wynne replied. ‘But then I wondered whether she’d be concerned that we know the vehicle she’s in.’

‘The van stands out too much?’

‘Right. Too easy to spot. In which case, she may have gone to ground. Gone into hiding.’

‘Where? A temporary place?’

‘Or the destination she always had in mind,’ Wynne said.

‘If it was nearby.’

Wynne nodded. ‘If it was nearby.’

‘You think it is?’

‘I think it’s possible. Maybe that’s why she used the canals in the first place. Yes, they’re a good place to hide, but what if it wasn’t only hiding she had in mind? What if she was using the canals to get to her destination?’

‘And instead – now we’re onto her – she went there by van instead?’ Blunt said.

‘Put yourself in Edna Crowne’s shoes. She doesn’t know how long it’ll be before the owners of the van return, but she can assume ten, twenty minutes, maybe. Then it takes some time to call it in and get the alert out. So she has a minimum of half an hour, maybe substantially more, to get to where she needs to be. That’s a radius of fifteen, maybe twenty miles.’

‘She could be hiding in a lock-up, or a remote area, waiting for an opportunity to get out of the country.’ Blunt shrugged. ‘Travel at night, maybe.’

‘That’s true. And we can’t know. But let’s say she was headed for somewhere accessible by canal, within twenty miles of here. Then what?’

‘Then we’d be looking for a house by a canal. Detached, probably reasonably isolated.’

‘And unoccupied,’ Wynne said. ‘How many of those can there be?’

Blunt stared at her. ‘Not that many.’

‘Indeed,’ Wynne said. ‘Not that many.’

Final Moments

Anna held the coin – in essence the handle of the knife – between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. What she needed to do – the only way out of this – was to cut the rope that her wrists were bound with. The problem was that her right wrist was tied over her left, her hands pointed in opposite directions. She could not bend her fingers back far enough to get the blade to the rope.

She was going to die because she could not get the knife an inch closer to where she needed it to be.

She tried again, straining at the ties, twisting her wrists until the ligaments screamed in pain. It was no good. She pulled her hand back, the rope biting into her flesh. She would have gladly pulled her hand off the end of her arm, but the rope held.

Her left shoulder ached from the twisting and straining. That was the problem; her wrists were constrained by the range of movement of her shoulder.

She would gladly have pulled her shoulder off, too. She would have done anything to avoid being taken in there by Edna.

She didn’t know what Edna would do, but she knew one thing. In there was death. Pain, suffering and death.

She could not go in, and she would do anything to avoid it, including tearing off her hand or arm.

Or dislocating it. Maybe that would be enough to give her the range of movement to cut the rope and get her hands free.

She looked at the door to the kitchen, terrified she would see Edna in the door frame. Then it would be over. She had to do this right now.

Oh, God. Could she do it? Could she dislocate her own shoulder? She took a deep breath. This was what it took to beat Edna. Her grandmother would have done it, no problem, and Anna knew she had to.

Find your inner Edna, she thought. And get this fucking over with.

Anna wriggled into a position where her back was against the front seat of the van. She pushed herself up until her elbows were against the headrest, then lifted her hands so the headrest was in between her back and her elbows, her hands dangling below it.

Even that was painful for her shoulders. She could feel them pushing against the front of the socket.

She slid to her right so that all the weight and strain was on her left shoulder, and then she leaned forward.

It was agony, unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her shoulder felt like it was tearing from her body. She could actually hear the ligaments and tendons and flesh ripping.

She stopped, sweat pouring off her forehead.

That was the most pain she had ever felt in her life, more pain than she had known was possible, but her shoulder was still stubbornly attached.

She looked up at the door to the kitchen and imagined Edna appearing there, seeing what she was doing, and laughing a demonic laugh, before injecting her with something and taking her into that house, into a future full of pain even worse than this.

The idea sent her into a desperate panic. She had heard of animals gnawing off their own limbs to escape traps; she understood what they felt. It was a dark, all-consuming fear, a knowledge that however much this hurt, it had to happen.

It was survival.

There is pain, she thought. And it will pass.

And she lurched forward.

This time the pain was of a different magnitude. It blocked out everything, left her close to blacking out to avoid it.

She shook the dizziness away. Her shoulder felt loose, limp, broken. She levered herself up and dragged her hands over the headrest, and God, oh God, did it hurt. It felt wrong and awful and sickening.

She took a deep breath. There would be time for that later.

There is pain. I am not in pain, but there is pain.

She twisted her right hand, feeling for the rope with the point of the knife. Her left arm was limp, and the rope was closer.

The blade snagged on it, and she was able to hook the rope with her little finger. Her shoulder was a bloom of pain; she forced it from her mind.

There is pain. I am not in pain, but there is pain.

Jesus, there was pain.

She pulled the rope closer with her little finger, clamping it into place against her palm.

Then, slowly, and through the agony, she began to cut.

A Numbers Game

Wynne and Blunt parked in front of Brian Crowne’s house. At the station they had studied the map of the canal network. There were thousands of houses lining the canals where they passed through different towns and villages, but Wynne had circled a handful of main areas which fit her theory.

Remote, plenty of detached houses, plenty of privacy.

The problem was where to start. The police in those areas were going door to door, and that would take time. If Edna was in one of these locations they would get her in the end, but by then it may be too late.

They knocked on the front door. After a few seconds they heard footsteps, then the door swung open. Brian Crowne looked out at them. He had lost weight already, his face drawn. There was stubble on his cheeks and his eyes were rimmed with red.

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘Thank you for meeting us,’ Wynne said.

‘No problem. You said there was something you wanted to talk to us about?’

‘Yes. Is Ms Miller here?’

Brian nodded. ‘She arrived a few minutes before you did. She’s in the living room with Willow. Willow’s …’ – he paused. ‘She’s not doing very well.’

‘I understand,’ Wynne said. She nodded at the door to the living room. ‘Shall we?’

Brian led the way. Willow Crowne was on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. She did not acknowledge their arrival. Julia was sitting in an armchair, a glass of water untouched on the table in front of her.

‘Ms Miller,’ Wynne said. ‘Mrs Crowne.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Willow said. ‘That’s not my name any more.’

Wynne glanced at DS Blunt. ‘As you all know, Ms Miller received a message purporting to be from Anna. We now believe that to be the case.’

‘What happened?’ Julia said. ‘What changed?’

‘We received a report of a stolen van, taken from a layby near the Shropshire Union Canal. DS Blunt and myself went to the scene, where there was a canal boat.’ She paused. ‘The boat appeared to be abandoned, but there was evidence that it had recently been occupied.’

‘By Anna?’ Brian said, his eyes now alight with hope.

‘By Anna,’ Wynne said. ‘And most likely Oakley.’

‘Oakley? How do you know?’ Willow snapped.

‘We found a pink rucksack similar to the one Anna was wearing when she disappeared,’ Wynne said. ‘There were also toys for a young boy.’

‘Oakley,’ Willow said. ‘My poor boy.’

‘You think they’re alive?’ Brian said.

‘That is our supposition,’ Wynne said.

‘Where did they go?’ Julia said. ‘And why?’

‘Hard to say,’ Blunt replied. ‘But one possibility is that Edna Crowne found out about Anna’s message and knew she had to leave the boat.’

‘She’d be upset at Anna,’ Brian said. He closed his eyes. He did not need to spell out what that meant.

‘We think it’s possible Edna had an ultimate destination – or simply a backup – somewhere on or near a canal in mind, so took the van straight there,’ Wynne said. ‘We have all hands looking for it, as well as a general alert out to the public.’ She looked at Brian. ‘Can you think of any place on or near a canal with a link to your mother? Or anyone in your family? Or someone she may have known?’

She studied Brian’s face as he thought, hoping for that moment of clarity as a memory emerged.

There was nothing, just a blank stare and then something that was almost a smile.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The funny thing is that she hated canals. I remember her arguing with my dad about them – he quite liked them, but as far as Edna was concerned, they had been built to transport goods around the country but were no longer used for that, so they were useless and should have been filled in. She didn’t even think they looked nice. So no, I’m afraid. No place comes to mind at all.’

Wynne’s phone buzzed. It was DI Spring.

‘Wynne,’ she said.

‘We may have a sighting of the van,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Near Market Drayton. Some chap saw the alert and was, as he put it, keeping his eyes peeled. He noticed it, he said, because it had windows in the back door. Most don’t, so he paid more attention to it than he might otherwise have done. Apparently there are people who care about this kind of thing.’

‘Thank God they do,’ Wynne said.

‘Right. Anyway, the van matched the year and make of one that was stolen, so he called it in.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘I talked to the local plod. He says there are three houses that border the canal that come to mind. Two are rented but have no tenants. The other he’s never seen anyone in.’

‘Tell him to go to that one first,’ Wynne said. ‘And send the address.’

‘Will do.’

Wynne cut the call and looked up.

‘Someone may have seen the van. We have to go.’

‘Where?’ Julia said.

‘Market Drayton,’ Wynne said.

‘I’m coming,’ Julia said.

‘I don’t advise that at this—’ Wynne began.

‘I don’t care,’ Julia said. ‘I’ll follow you.’

‘And I’m going to with her,’ Willow said.

‘Me too,’ Brian added.

There was nothing she could do to stop them. Wynne shrugged. ‘Fine. But stay back when we get there.’

‘Of course,’ Julia said. ‘I promise.’

Wynne could see from the look on her face that she would do no such thing.

A Knife Fight

i

It was brutal and agonizing and she had no idea what kind of damage she was doing to her hands and wrist, but she was, she thought, making progress in cutting through the rope.

Sweat – as much from the pain as the effort – ran down her face as she sawed back and forth, her precarious grip on the slippery knife made worse by the blood running over her hands. She was losing feeling; each time the point of the knife sliced into her palm the pain was less intense, although maybe that was simply the result of her getting used to it.

She no longer cared. She had come this far and now she was going to get herself free. She dragged the knife over the rope, feeling it sink a little further into it with each stroke.

She pulled with her right hand – her good hand – to see if the rope was any looser, if there was any give in it.

Her hand moved further than it had a few minutes ago and her throat tightened in anticipation.

It was maybe only half an inch more movement, but this was working.

She gripped the coin penknife as hard as she could and stabbed it forward. The blade sank into the rope and then deep into the pad of her thumb. She bit back the yelp of pain, yanking her right hand away from her left with all the strength she could muster.

There was a lessening resistance and then, almost to her disbelief, her hands were free.

She rotated her right shoulder, feeling the blood run back into her arm and hand. Her left shoulder was bent at an angle, her arm hanging uselessly by her side. She lifted her elbow, supporting the weight.

There is pain, she thought. I am not in pain, but there is pain.

Pain or no pain, she was free.

She leaned down to her feet and cut through the rope around her ankles, then flexed her legs, her feet tingling. She turned to the door that led to the kitchen.

Still no sign of Edna. The garage door was open; Anna could run down to the road and find a passer-by.

She heard footsteps and a shadow passed in front of the door.

It was too late to run. Very well; she’d have to fight. But Edna couldn’t know she was free.

Anna reached around her back with her good hand and positioned her hands behind her back, then lay on the floor of the van so that Edna would find her in the position she had left her.

Except Anna was not in that position any more.

She was not in that position at all.

ii

Anna had her chin to her neck, her eyes hidden in the shadow of her hair. Eyes narrowed, she watched Edna’s silhouette appear in the door frame.

Her arm snaked out and a dim light came on. Edna had taken off the flat cap and thick glasses; what stood before Anna was her grandmother, her face thin and hard and angular.

She walked briskly towards the rear doors of the van.

‘Anna,’ she said, her tone harsh. ‘Time to wake up.’

Anna did not reply. She kept perfectly still, keeping her breathing deep and even. A bead of sweat ran from her hairline to her eyebrow and along the curve of her cheek.

‘Come on.’

Anna’s eyes were now closed so she could not see what Edna was doing, but she could hear from her voice that she had moved closer.

‘Stupid child. Wake up.’

Anna remained limp. Her shoulder throbbed, her left hand was numb, her wrists stung where she had slashed them with the blade.

She did not move a muscle.

‘I know you’re awake.’ Her voice was little more than a hiss, the malevolence palpable. ‘Don’t make this difficult for me. Last chance, Anna.’

She concentrated on her breathing. In, out, calm, deep.

‘Very well. I understand what you are doing, Anna. I would do the same. You’re trying to establish some control of the situation.’ Edna chuckled. ‘But what can you control? Nothing. You are at my mercy. So, to teach you who actually is in charge here, I’m going to go inside and get young Oakley. Between you and me, Anna, I’m beginning to wonder whether he has more of his father in him than I was hoping. Maybe he’s of little use to me, after all, which makes him like you. So, unless you stop pretending to be unconscious, I’m going to sit him in a chair in this garage, and I’m going to gouge out one of his eyes. Then, if you still refuse to cooperate, I’ll take the other one.’

Anna didn’t move. She had no doubt her grandmother would do it – and if she did, Anna would make a move – but for now she needed Edna to think she was bound and helpless. It was her only advantage.

‘Grandma,’ she muttered.

‘So you are awake.’

‘Grandma, I don’t feel well.’

‘Of course you don’t. You must think I’m a fool.’

‘I’m hot,’ Anna mumbled. ‘I’m so hot.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Anna. Now you’re awake, let me tell you what’s going to happen. We’re going into the cottage – I’ll carry you, if I have to. And don’t try to resist, or I’ll take it out on Oakley and make you watch.’

Oakley. Anna felt awful that she had involved him in this. It was bad enough she had been so idiotic as to think she could take on Edna, but letting him get caught up in it all was unforgivable. To be fair, she had tried to persuade Edna that it was too risky to take him as well – which was true; it was more risky, and there was no upside from Anna’s perspective. All she was trying to do was lure Edna out, and she didn’t need Oakley and all the complications he would bring.

So she had argued, as they planned this, that it would be better to get him later, once they had got away.

Which would never happen, of course, although Edna was not aware of that.

Edna, however, had not been moved by her arguments. She wanted Oakley, and this was their only chance. If they didn’t do it now, Brian and Willow would never let him out of their sight again.

So she had agreed and now he was in danger.

‘Ready?’ Edna said. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I can’t,’ Anna said, making her voice as thick as she could. ‘I’m burning. And I’m bleeding. Something inside feels bad.’

‘What?’ Edna said. ‘What do you mean?’

Anna half-opened an eye. Edna was reaching onto a shelf to pick up a torch. She turned it on and pointed the beam of light into the back of the van.

It passed over her face and Anna scrunched her eyes up. When it moved on, she opened them again. Edna was pointing the torch at her midriff, her gaze fixed on the blood pooling on the floor of the van.

‘Where on earth is that coming from?’ Edna said.

‘I don’t know,’ Anna groaned. ‘It hurts. Somewhere near my back. Have a look.’

Edna leaned forward, her attention on Anna’s hips, her balance slightly off-centre. Anna braced herself.

There is pain. I am not in pain, but there is pain.

Then, when Edna’s gaze was on the blood, she bent at the waist and put her good hand on the floor of the van and launched herself at Edna. Her shoulder slammed into Edna’s bicep; the top of her head collided with Edna’s temple.

The impact sent Edna tumbling sideways out of the van. She thudded into the concrete floor. Anna scrambled to the back door of the van and dived on top of her, jamming her forearm into Edna’s throat and pinning her neck to the ground.

Edna stared up at her, eyes bulging. She grunted, and tried to twist away from Anna, but she pressed harder on her grandmother’s neck.

I did it, Anna thought, I did—

Edna’s eyes flickered to Anna’s injured shoulder, then, with the ghost of a smile, she raised her right knee and smashed it into Anna’s injured arm. The pain was sudden and unbearable, and Anna lessened the pressure on Edna’s neck; Edna kicked her arm again then wriggled out from under her.

Anna crouched, one arm dangling, the other supporting her weight, her palm flat on the cold floor. Opposite her, Edna too was on all fours. They stared at each other.

Edna was panting, her eyes sharp and focused and devoid of any emotion. It was like looking into the eyes of a wild animal.

It was like looking into a mirror.

Greenie on the Beat

PC Daniel Green – Greenie to his friends – biked along the canal towpath. It was the quickest way to the first house he was supposed to check. His partner, PC Charlotte Clark – CeCe to her friends, Sexy CeCe to some of the male officers – had been at a Victim Support meeting and was heading there by road. Normally they’d have gone together, but the detective who called had told him to get there as quick as possible.

And make that fucking quick, he’d added.

Old school. Like Gene Hunt from the TV show. Greenie wished he’d been around then. They could have called Sexy CeCe that to her face – they could have pinched her arse and grabbed her tits, if they wanted – and no one would have batted an eyelid. Nowadays they’d be sacked.

Fucking women’s lib. Yeah, he got it – people were equal. Everyone got the same rights. The problem was, you only got rights at someone else’s expense. So if the women were equal now, that was fair, for sure – but it meant men had lost something. It might have been unfair on the birds when men had the money and jobs and status and a bit of slap and tickle in the office was seen for what it was – some fun and games – but it was better back then.

If you were a man, that was.

And he was a man. So it would have been better, and he wished it was still like that. Because, at the end of the day, fuck the women. Fuck how they felt. If he got to feel someone’s tits, then that was good enough for him.

It was all Europe as far as he was concerned. All that lefty bullshit came from there. Maybe now they had – finally – got Brexit done, they could get rid of the equality nonsense as well. Leave that to the Europeans. Let them worry about human rights and crap like that. It had no place in England, that was for sure. No place in the England he wanted to live in, at any rate.

He pedalled hard, as much to minimize his time in the public eye as to get to his destination quickly. It was embarrassing to be on a bike. Would Gene Hunt have ridden a bike? No – he’d have been in a fucking V6 Cortina. Not on a shitty bike.

He veered to his right. There was a snicket running up to the road. The bike bumped along it, then, when he hit the road, he turned left.

The house was up ahead. He turned into the drive and stopped.

A garage, a house.

No van.

But the garage door was closed.

He dismounted, and laid the bike quietly on the gravel driveway.

Look Into Your Soul and See Who You Are

i

A mirror.

Not literally, of course. Edna was many years older than her, and she was truly on all fours. Anna was wounded, one injured limb no more use in the coming fight – and a fight was coming – than an encumbrance.

But it was a mirror in many ways. Both of them were locked in a final struggle, both were prepared to do whatever it took to win.

Anna had dislocated her own shoulder.

She was her grandmother’s granddaughter after all.

She felt a surge of strength. A narrowing of her consciousness, a laser focus on the task at hand. Survive. Kill. Nothing else mattered.

She could see the same in Edna’s eyes. They were one and the same. Edna knew Anna would fight to the death; Anna knew Edna would too. It was a test of strength.

At least, Edna thought she knew that. She thought she knew that because that was what she would do. That was all she could do. Edna would always fight, and so Anna would too.

Anna was, after all, like her.

But she wasn’t, not quite. There was one important difference, and that was her real advantage.

So she used it. She did what Edna never would have done.

She quit.

ii

She sat back on her haunches and put her hand – her one working hand – over her face. She let the tears come; it was easy after what she had been through.

The emails, the stress of knowing Edna was alive and wondering what to do, Dale’s departure and the decision to trick Edna so she could put a final stop to this, the flight and Oakley and the worry about her parents and the phone message not working and now this, a dislocated shoulder and a shredded hand and who knew what next.

After all that, the tears came easily and they flowed freely. She didn’t have to fake them; they were real.

They were accompanied by loud, racking sobs. Huge heaves of Anna’s body, uncontrollable sounds of pain and distress.

These too were real. These too needed no faking.

She saw Edna smile a smile of triumph. Her opponent was weak.

But Edna was wrong. Anna’s tears were not a sign of weakness. They were not a sign of strength, either. They were a sign of humanity.

And Edna would never understand that. She knew everything about strength and weakness and fight and struggle. She knew what it was to be ruthless; she saw the vulnerable as prey and the powerful as rivals.

Anna had started to understand those things as well. She had never wanted to – and she would never get them in the way Edna did, because she would never be Edna – but she understood them enough to know that they made you vulnerable in your turn, because they discounted the power of humanity. Of caring for someone else. Of loving them. Of wanting something as simple as to see them again.

That was what Anna wanted. To see her mum. To see her dad. To hug them, go for dinner, empty the dishwasher.

Do normal, human things. Not grandiose Edna things. Not things that were part of some scheme to dominate the world, or whatever crazy shit Edna had in her head, but simple, normal, human things.

But Edna did not understand that.

To her Anna’s tears meant Anna was weak. Anna’s sobs meant Anna was vulnerable. Together they meant Anna had given up.

But Anna was merely getting started.

iii

Her sobs reverberated around the garage.

‘Well,’ Edna said. ‘It seems I may have overestimated you.’ She stood up. ‘I was going to have some fun breaking you, but I won’t bother. You’re already broken. You’re of no interest to me.’

She reached behind her and grabbed the shovel. It was new and unused, the blade sharp and clean.

‘Life can be so disappointing,’ she said. ‘Even your own family lets you down.’

There was a noise from the kitchen. Edna paused and tilted her head to the side as though listening.

Anna smiled, her head hanging down.

‘Grandma?’ Oakley’s voice floated into the garage. He sounded scared and uncertain. ‘Are you there? Who’s crying?’

Anna tensed. On the face of it this was a hopeless situation. Her arm was mangled and useless, Edna was armed and she was entirely at Edna’s mercy. And Edna had no mercy.

But it wasn’t hopeless, because she had Oakley. More specifically, she had Oakley’s emotions. She had his anxiety.

He suffered from chronic anxiety. It was tragic, in a way, but it was not unusual. She had seen it at her dad’s house, seen Willow’s moods change, seen her stepmum fly into a rage and then melt into tears when she was drunk or hungover or upset.

And she had watched Oakley’s eyes follow his mother, watched as he listened to her crying and his six-year-old heart broke.

She felt bad using that. More than bad. Awful. Disgusting. Inhuman.

But it took inhuman to beat inhuman. And one day she would explain that to him. One day she would make amends. She would be the best older sister there had ever been.

Right now, though, she had no choice. It was life or death for her and Oakley, and he had to play his part.

‘Grandma? Who’s crying?’

His worry broke her heart. His worry gave her a chance.

The Power of None

Here she was. Sexy CeCe. Sweet Tits herself. He had called her that once, when she was a recent recruit. He was a few years older and he had said – in a welcoming way, he thought – Hi, Sweet Tits, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.

He still remembered her reply. It was hard to forget.

Call me that again, dipshit, and I’ll break your fucking balls.

Don’t talk dirty, he’d replied.

She had kneed him in the testicles, then, when he bent over in agony, grabbed him by the neck and pinned him to the station wall.

That’s for starters, shit for brains.

These days when he saw her he thought to himself hello Sweet Tits. It made him feel better. But he didn’t say it. He’d learned his lesson.

He enjoyed thinking it, though. Made him feel good, like he was getting a bit of private revenge over the woke brigade.

The car pulled up and PC Charlotte Clark got out. She looked at the house and garage and PC Green.

‘Nice bike,’ she said. ‘So – potentially – the missing kids are here?’

‘That’s what they told me.’ He looked at her. ‘What do we do?’

PC Clark shook her head. ‘You do nothing,’ she said. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and have a look.’

‘No. I’m coming with you.’

PC Clark held up her finger. ‘Stay,’ she said. ‘We need someone to secure the borders. Our best man. So you stay here.’

‘I don’t think there’s any risk out here,’ he said. ‘We need all our forces inside.’

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘Which is why you need to stay out here. Guard your bike. It’s a valuable piece of equipment.’

PC Green – Greenie to his friends, and he had loads of friends, he didn’t need to take any shit from this bitch, she was clearly someone who valued hard work and character and career progression over having a laugh – was not going to take this from her or anyone. He had been told to come here and search the house so he was going to do his duty.

‘No,’ he said, proud of his resolution. ‘We go together.’

PC Clark looked at him. Her expression was hard and contemptuous.

‘Do I have a choice?’ she said.

‘No.’ Green smiled. ‘I don’t think you do.’

He was not sure if her sneer was grudging respect or utter contempt. He decided to think it was the former.

She seemed not to agree. ‘Follow me, you fucking idiot,’ she said. ‘And do what I say.’

Weakness Is Strength

‘Grandma?’ Oakley said, his voice querulous. ‘Where are you?’

‘Stay there,’ Edna snapped. ‘I’m coming in a moment.’

‘I’m scared,’ he said. ‘Where’s Anna?’

His footsteps approached the door to the kitchen. Edna glanced in that direction, her gaze away from Anna for a moment.

A moment – Thank you, Oakley, she thought. Thank you and thank God you are here, after all was all Anna needed.

In that moment, she closed the gap between her and Edna. Not all of it, but enough that when Edna turned back Anna was almost on her.

Edna’s face twisted into a snarl. She swung the shovel hard into Anna’s bad arm. Anna let it hit her – she could have tried to dodge away, but that would have taken her further from Edna – and allowed Edna room to swing and stab with the shovel again.

So she took the blow, let the pain rip through her body. It was a monstrous agony, a shocking, miserable torment so intense her vision momentarily darkened.

But she took it, and, when the shovel hit her arm, she grabbed the shaft with her good hand and yanked it towards her. The blade scraped against her, tearing a chunk of flesh from her hip. Edna came tumbling towards her, her grip on the shovel unweakened.

Anna bent her good elbow, her hand still on the shaft of the shovel, and smashed it into Edna’s cheek. She heard something crack and saw surprise, then pain bloom in her grandmother’s eyes.

She yanked again on the shovel, and it snapped free from Edna’s grasp.

Anna punched the handle into Edna’s neck, once, twice, three times. Edna’s mouth flopped open, her breath laboured. Anna wondered whether she had broken something in her neck – her windpipe, maybe.

She hoped so.

Edna clutched her neck with both hands, her mouth opening and closing, gasping for air like a fish out of water. She sank to her knees. Anna grabbed her hair and pulled her to the ground, rolling her onto her back. She put her knee on Edna’s sternum and the blade of the shovel against the skin of her neck.

‘If you try anything, I’ll slice your fucking head off,’ Anna said.

Edna shook her head, still struggling to get her breath. She caught Anna’s eyes, her gaze malevolent.

‘Don’t swear,’ she croaked. ‘It’s unbecoming of a young lady.’

‘I might do it anyway,’ Anna said. ‘To shut you up.’

‘Please do,’ Edna whispered. She smiled. ‘Kill me. You know you want to. And I deserve it, after what I’ve done to you and your family.’

Anna increased the pressure. Edna’s skin puckered under the blade.

‘And if you don’t, you know I’ll get my revenge, one way or another,’ Edna said. ‘So kill me now.’ She peered at Anna. ‘You hate me, don’t you? So kill me. Administer the ultimate punishment. I deserve it, after all. You’d be doing the right thing, Anna.’

The blade broke the skin. A thin red line of blood ran down onto the garage floor. Anna wanted nothing more than to silence Edna forever.

‘You won’t get into trouble,’ Edna said. ‘Who’ll care? You can say it was self-defence. Kill me, Anna.’

She pushed the blade deeper, the flesh shockingly resistant. Edna grinned. ‘I knew you were like me,’ she gasped. ‘It’s a shame it had to end like this, but I’ll die knowing I live on in you.’

Anna leaned forward. It would take one hard lunge and Edna would be history.

Edna would live on in her.

She took the pressure off the blade. Edna’s eyes widened.

‘I’m nothing like you,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all. You’re going to rot in prison, Edna, with all the other common criminals. That’s the ultimate punishment for you. To know that you lost, and to a fifteen-year-old, and the rest of your life will be in a cell. You were right about one thing though. I am special. But not in the way you thought. And there’s nothing special about you, Grandma. Not any more.’

‘Anna?’ Anna looked up. Oakley was in the door frame, staring at her. ‘There are some people here.’

On a Rural Beat

Fucking hell. It was an actual crime scene. The little boy let them in the back door and they walked into the garage to find a teenager in the process of murdering an old woman.

That was his first thought, that some local yob was robbing the place. But then the girl looked up at PC Clark.

‘I’m Anna Miller,’ she said. ‘And that’s Oakley Crowne. I guess people have been looking for us.’

PC Clark nodded. ‘They sure have. Who’s that?’

‘My grandmother.’

‘And why is she on the floor of the garage?’

‘It’s a long story. She did this. She kidnapped us.’

‘What’s her name?’ Clark asked.

‘Edna Crowne.’

‘Oh,’ PC Clark said. ‘I see.’ She took her handcuffs from her belt. ‘Step aside, Anna. I’ll take it from here.’

The girl stood up and PC Clark grabbed the old woman’s hands. She cuffed them in front of her, and then examined the wound on her neck and listened to her breathing.

‘She’ll live,’ she said, then looked up at Green. ‘You’d better call this in.’

It’s Over

They pulled into the driveway. There was a pretty, honeysuckle-covered cottage, with a garage to the left. DI Wynne had called to tell them that the local police had found Anna and Oakley, and had taken Edna into custody.

It was over.

She could hardly believe it. It had been so hopeless and now it was finished. And Edna was in custody.

They had Edna. She was supposed to be dead; Julia had started to think of her as indestructible, had assumed she would have somehow got away, but it turned out she was human after all.

Wynne’s car stopped in front of them and she and Blunt climbed out.

The door to the cottage opened. A female officer stepped out and gestured to Wynne.

And then Anna appeared in the doorway, Oakley at her side.

Julia sprinted up the drive and and opened her arms to scoop Anna into a hug. Anna turned away, her face a mask of pain.

‘I hurt my shoulder,’ she said.

Her arm was hanging at an odd angle. God knew what Edna had done to her, to her own granddaughter.

‘My baby,’ Julia said. ‘My poor baby.’ Anna put her good arm around Julia and buried her face in her hair. She was there, safe, her daughter. Her only child, the light of her life.

She breathed in Anna’s scent, inhaled the fact that she was alive and back in her arms.

‘Anna,’ she said. ‘Anna.’ Tears ran down her face. ‘I was so worried.’

‘I’m OK, Mum,’ Anna said. ‘I missed you. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ She clasped Anna’s cheeks between her palms and stared into her eyes. ‘But what on earth were you doing?’

‘I don’t know,’ Anna said. ‘I don’t really know. But it’s all right now.’

To Julia’s left, Willow was on her knees, sobbing, Oakley clutched to her chest. Brian was kneeling next to her, his arms around them both. He broke free and held out his arms for Anna. She hugged him with her one good arm, then beckoned to Julia to join them. Julia wrapped her arms around them both, careful to avoid her daughter’s broken shoulder.

‘Thank God,’ Brian said. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

There was the sound of dragging feet, and they looked up. Wynne was emerging from the front door, her face set in a grim, hard expression.

Behind her, held up by the two officers, was Edna Crowne.

Edna looked at Julia, then Brian, then, for a long time, she stared at Anna. She was older than Julia remembered, and thinner, her hair greyer and shorter, her clothes dirty and her neck black with bruises and red with fresh blood.

But she was Edna. It was shocking beyond words to see her.

She sneered, then laughed a dry, humourless laugh.

‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘The happy reunion. Enjoy it. It won’t last.’

Julia started towards her, but Brian put a restraining hand on her forearm.

‘Don’t let him hold you back, dear. He’s done enough of that.’ She nodded at Julia. ‘Come and get me. I’m all yours. And this is the only chance you’ll get.’ She bent her head forward. ‘Next time we meet, I won’t be in this situation.’

Julia relaxed. She looked at Brian. His face was drained of colour, his lips pressed thin.

‘Anything to say, Brian?’ Edna taunted. ‘Your mother’s alive. Aren’t you glad to see her? Some words for your mummy?’

Brian’s eyes filled with tears. He bit his lip and studied his mother. The first time he had realized what she was he had been devastated. His marriage to Julia was over, his relationship with his daughter was in need of serious repair, and his mother had turned out to be a monster. He had felt bereft, alone, stripped of everything.

Now, though, he felt nothing other than a sensation of growing freedom.

‘You may be alive,’ he said. ‘But to me you died a long time ago.’

The expression that formed on her face was one of surprise, and, almost, fear. He smiled and turned to his family. He hugged Anna, and held out his arms for Willow and Oakley. They had some work to do to rebuild their family, but they would do it, slowly and patiently.

Behind him, reflected in the window, he saw his mother disappear into a police car.

Back in the Pub

Julia sat at the table, two double gin and tonics in front of her. She pushed one towards Gill.

‘I’m never letting her out of my sight again,’ she said. ‘I can’t take any more of this.’

‘Thank God she’s back,’ Gill said. ‘And Edna’s in the hands of the police.’

‘Poor police,’ Julia said. ‘But yes, at least Anna’s back.’

‘She’s with Brian now?’

‘Yeah. I’ll take her home to Oxford tomorrow.’ She put her hand on Gill’s. ‘Thanks for coming. I needed you.’

‘Anytime.’

On the table, Julia’s phone began to buzz.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘It’s Zach.’

Gill’s eyes widened. ‘Pick it up, then.’

‘Hi,’ Julia said. ‘Long time.’

‘I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’ He was rushing his words. ‘I hope it didn’t ruin your weekend.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Something came up. I was quite busy, as it happens. But where were you?’

‘Normandy. And there’s a good reason I didn’t call.’

‘There’d better be.’

‘I lost my phone. Well – my wife—’

‘Your what?’ Gill stared at her. Julia raised an eyebrow.

‘Ex-wife. My ex-wife. I’m sorry, I’m not doing a good job of explaining myself.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I was married, to a woman in France. Celine. We have a son, Matthieu. He’s the main reason I went to France. Celine never wanted to get divorced. She’s – she’s a bit of a handful. And when she saw your messages she took my phone and did something with it. She also took my passport, so I couldn’t get home, which is why I was delayed. I couldn’t call you because I didn’t have your number, and—’ he stopped. ‘You get the picture.’

‘I do,’ Julia said.

‘So do you forgive me?’

She smiled. After what she’d been though it didn’t seem like there wasn’t much to forgive. ‘I do.’

‘Dinner, maybe?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t forgive you that much.’

‘Is it because I was married? And I have a son?’

‘Not at all.’ She looked at Gill. ‘It’s because you hid it from me. I’ve had enough of secrets to last the rest of my life. I don’t need any more. Bye, Zach.’

She ended the call and put her phone on the table.

‘Zach?’ Gill said. ‘Lies and secrets? Fill me in.’

‘I will,’ Julia said. ‘But first, another drink.’

San Francisco

Anna gazed up at the Golden Gate Bridge. It was, of course, the first thing you looked for when you arrived in San Francisco, like the Eiffel Tower in Paris or Big Ben in London or the Empire State Building in New York. It was kind of weird, if she was honest: she wasn’t sure what she would have thought if she had never heard of it – probably that it was a pretty nice bridge? But would she have felt the sense of awe she did now? It was impossible to know, because it was the Golden Gate Bridge, with capital letters and all the expectation that came with seeing something so famous. You couldn’t simply experience it; it came with too much expectation.

It was impressive, though.

Dale put his hand around her waist. It had been eighteen months since they last saw each other, but, now she was sixteen, her mum had agreed to let her come to the US – to San-fucking-Francisco – on her own. It had been hard to leave her, after everything, but her mum had said it would be fine, and that she had some hot dates lined up.

Really? Anna said.

No. But I do have plenty of work to keep me occupied.

Her mum had been made a senior partner of her law firm, which kept her busy. Anna thought she could have used some hot dates, but still, it was something.

And all she really cared about was being together with Dale again.

It was as if they had never been apart. She had worried that it wouldn’t be the same, but from the moment she saw him at the airport she knew they would pick up right where they had left off.

They had sat in the back seat of his mum’s car, scrunched together, holding hands. She had been entranced by the warmth of his body, enthralled by his presence.

She loved him, and he loved her. Still.

It was real.

After all they had been through, it was real.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘I love you.’ He smiled. ‘I keep thinking it. So I guess I should keep saying it?’

She leaned over and kissed him. He kissed her back; it was a while before they separated. ‘Say it as much as you want,’ she muttered. ‘I love you, too.’

‘We going to Alcatraz today?’

‘Whatever. We should, right? Can’t come to San Francisco and not see Alcatraz.’

‘That’s what they say.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s go. We can walk along the Embarcadero.’

Her phone buzzed. Her mum had insisted she get international roaming; she regretted it, a little, since she still got all the group messages from her friends, which made her feel like she hadn’t really got away.

This one was from her dad.

Hi. Hope you’re having fun. Wish I was with you! I got some news today, about Edna.

He never referred to her as his mum, or her grandmother.

She died yesterday. In prison. I know it’s a weird situation, but I thought you should know. Sorry if it ruined your day.

She typed a reply.

That’s fine. Sorry, Dad. I

know this is all messed up,

but I love you. And we’re

having a great time. SF is

awesome and I’m so happy

to see Dale. Life is good.

I can’t tell you how

happy it makes me to

hear that. Love you too.

How are Willow and

Oakley? Love to them.

Somehow her dad and Willow had reconciled. It hadn’t been easy; nothing was, in the aftermath of someone like Edna, but they were still together, and things seemed to be moving in the right direction, even if Anna still had her doubts about Willow.

They’re good. And say hi to Dale.

‘Everything cool?’ Dale said.

Anna puffed out her cheeks. ‘Edna died. In prison, yesterday.’

‘Whoa.’ He hugged her. ‘I’m sorry. Is that the right thing to say?’

‘Maybe. I’m not sad. I’m glad, actually. Glad she’s gone. Does that make me a bad person?’

‘It makes you a person,’ Dale said. ‘There’s no right way to feel about someone like Edna. Actually, there is. She was a monster, and you were a victim.’

‘She was my grandma, too.’

‘A grandma who killed your granddad, kidnapped you, and committed who knows what other crimes.’

Anna nodded. ‘You know, after she escaped – when I was five, that time – she lived in Thailand, Norway, Argentina, France. She had all these fake identities ready to go. She told me all about it.’

‘But she’s gone now.’

‘Yeah. Thank God.’

‘If she is,’ Dale said.

Anna paused, then reached into her back pocket. ‘By the way, I brought this.’

She held up the coin penknife. ‘Remember I told you? I used it to cut the rope she tied me up with. If you hadn’t given it to me, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be alive.’

‘Grandad’s knife,’ Dale said. ‘You kept it.’

‘Of course. And I promised to give it back,’ Anna said. ‘But I was keeping it, like a good luck charm. It saved me once, so I thought – you know – if Edna did somehow return, it’d save me again.’

She handed it to him and took a deep breath.

‘But Edna is gone,’ she said. ‘It sounds weird to say but I can feel it. So I don’t need it now. It’s all yours.’

He closed his hand around it, then got to his feet and took her hand in his. He led her to the water’s edge. The dark green Pacific Ocean swelled around the rocks.

He looked at her and smiled, then drew his hand back and threw the penknife in a glistening arc into the ocean.

‘Then it’s done its job,’ Dale said. ‘And it’s time to move on.’ He pulled her towards him and kissed her. ‘Let’s let the past be the past, and the future be’ – he paused – ‘whatever it will be. As long as it’s us. I love you, Anna Miller.’

Anna stared out over the water. In that moment everything was possible; with Edna gone she was free to choose whatever future she wanted.

But that was for later. All of it was for later. For now there was just – this. She turned to Dale and kissed him.

‘I love you too,’ she said, almost surprised at the truth of the words. ‘I really do.’

Acknowledgements

As always, thanks to Kathryn Cheshire and Angel Belsey – I’m so grateful for their expertise, guidance and wisdom.

Likewise to Becky Ritchie – it’s so important to have someone believe in what you are doing, provide support when that is needed, and a nudge in the right direction when that is what is called for.

A special thanks to Oli Munson for all he did – it was a real pleasure to work with him.

Thanks to Nick and Oscar for introducing the idea of flying as an ‘unaccompanied minor’. Without that this book may never have taken flight …

Fred – I’m glad you introduced me to Morgan Silver Dollars. Who knew they would come in so handy?

Alban – thank you for laughing at my jokes. Somebody has to, and I’m glad it’s you.

And 10-1: I guess sometimes you can beat the odds.

About the Author

Alex Lake is a British novelist who was born in the North West of England. After Anna, the author’s first novel written under this pseudonym, was a No.1 bestselling ebook sensation and a top-ten Sunday Times bestseller. The author now lives in the North East of the US.

@AlexLakeAuthor

Also by Alex Lake

After Anna

Killing Kate

Copycat

The Last Lie

Seven Days

The Choice

Ready or Not

Final Call

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