Martin Hayes awoke with a start. It took him a few seconds to realise where he was. He was in the sitting room, sprawled on the sofa. He rubbed his face. He was exhausted. How long had he been asleep? He looked at his watch. It was just after seven. 'Andy?' No answer.
He stood up and his knees cracked. He felt stiff and his shoulders ached. He didn't remember coming down to the sitting room. He'd been upstairs with Andy, lying on their bed, propped up with pillows, hoping that the phone would ring. Martin went upstairs. Their bedroom was empty. Martin was still half asleep. Part of him didn't want to wake up, didn't want to accept the reality of his situation. At least when he was asleep he didn't have to think about Katie and what she was going through. Martin just wanted it all to be over, for the kidnappers to tell him how much they wanted and for them to give him back his little girl.
Andy wasn't in the bathroom, either. The door to Katie's room was closed, and even before Martin pushed it open he knew that he'd find his wife sitting on their daughter's bed. She didn't look up as he went over to her. She was clutching a pillow to her chest and was resting her chin on top of it, her eyes closed. Martin sat down next to her.
'They've taken Garfield,' she said.
'What?'
'Garfield. They've kidnapped Garfield, too.'
Andy kept her eyes closed. Tears glistened on her cheeks. Martin looked around the room. Katie's collection of soft toys lined the shelves on the wall that faced the end of the bed, and others were crammed on to the windowsill. Martin knew that Katie had given them all names, but he knew only a few of them. Bunny. Babe. Foxy. Wilkinson the badger. Andy was right. There was no Garfield, and Garfield was the favourite of late – he was the one she cuddled when she went to sleep. There were two gaps on the windowsill, too, but he wasn't able to remember which toys, if any, were missing.
Martin knelt down beside the single bed and peered under it. No Garfield.
'There's a teddy bear missing, too. The one my father got her two Christmasses ago. And the monkey. The one we got at Regent's Park Zoo. In April. The one with the silly grin and the banana.' Andy's voice was flat and emotionless.
'That's a good sign, Andy,' said Martin.
She looked up at him and opened her eyes. They were as devoid of emotion as her voice. 'A good sign?' she repeated.
He sat down on the bed and put his arm around her. 'They wouldn't have taken her toys if they were going to hurt her,' he said. 'They want her to be happy so they took along some toys. Trust me, it's a good sign. We'll have her back soon.'
She nodded but her eyes were still vacant. She was in shock, Martin realised. 'Come on downstairs, you need a cup of tea,' he said.
Andy nodded. 'I guess,' she said, but she made no move to stand up.
– «»-«»-«»Mick Canning was breaking eggs into a frying pan when Katie started shouting and banging on the basement door. 'Help!' she yelled. 'Let me out!' George McEvoy looked up from his copy of the Irish Times and scowled at the door. 'Her ladyship's awake,' he said.
'I'll see to her,' said Canning, handing a spatula to McEvoy. 'You look after the eggs, yeah?'
'Don't forget your…'
'Balaclava, yeah, I know,' interrupted Canning. He picked up his rucksack and went down the hall. From the pocket of his track-suit top he pulled out a rolled-up ski mask and put it on before unbolting the door. 'Katie, stand away from the door,' he said.
There was a short silence. 'Who is that? I want my mummy.'
'Your mummy's not here, Katie. I'm a friend of hers. Look, I'm opening the door now, be careful.'
Katie was standing four steps down, staring wide-eyed up at Canning. The basement was in darkness. Canning unfastened the neck of the rucksack and took out the Garfield toy. 'I brought this for you,' he said, holding it out to her.
She looked at the soft toy, then back at him. 'I want to go home,' she said.
'You can't. Not right now.'
She glared at him and put her hands on her hips, her chin thrust up defiantly. 'You can't tell me what to do.'
'Yes I can,' he said patiently. 'And I'm telling you that you have to stay here for a few days.' He held out the soft toy again.
Katie looked as if she was going to argue, then she reached for Garfield. 'Thank you,' she said.
Canning was about to say 'You're welcome' when she hurled the toy at his face and scrambled up the stairs, slipping by his legs before he had the chance to stop her. Canning cursed and tried to grab her, but she was too quick for him. Her bare feet padded down the hallway towards the kitchen.
Canning ran after her, cursing. He caught up with her in three strides and grabbed her by the scruff of her nightie. He yanked her off her feet, then scooped her up. She began to wriggle and scream.
McEvoy opened the kitchen door with the frying pan in his hand. Canning span around so that Katie couldn't see McEvoy's face. 'What the fuck are you playing at?' McEvoy shouted.
'Nothing,' said Canning. 'It's not a problem.'
'It looks like a fucking problem to me,' said McEvoy. 'Put her in the basement and make sure she shuts up.' He slammed the kitchen door.
Katie continued to struggle as Canning carried her down the basement steps. 'I want my mummy!' she screamed. 'I want my mummy and I want my dad.'
'Please, be quiet,' hissed Canning.
'I'll be quiet if you let me go,' she said.
'I can't let you go…' Canning began, but he'd barely got the words out of his mouth before she began screaming again. He dropped her down on the camp bed and put his hand over her mouth. It smothered her screams, but Canning had a sudden flash about what he was doing and jerked his hand away as if he'd been burnt. Jesus Christ. He'd had his hand over a child's mouth. He could have killed her. Smothered her. He took a step back, his hands up as if surrendering. Katie seemed as shocked as he was.
'What?' she said.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to… you know…'
'What?'
'I didn't mean to put my hand over your mouth. I wasn't trying to… I wasn't trying to hurt you.'
Katie swung her legs over the side of the camp bed and sat looking at him curiously. 'Why are you wearing a mask?' she asked.
'So you won't know who I am,' he said. 'That way, when we send you back to your parents, you won't be able to tell the police what I look like.' Canning crouched down so that his head was on a level with hers. 'Look, I'm sorry if I scared you. But you have to do as we say, okay? You have to stay down here for a few days, then you can go home.'
'You promise?'
Canning made the sign of the cross on his chest. 'Swear to die.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy Hayes put down the phone. 'They'll hold the ticket for me at the airport,' she said.
Martin nodded. 'I'll drive you.'
'You can't,' she said. 'You have to carry on as normal, that's what the letter said. You have to go to work.' She looked at her watch.
'I think I should stay by the phone. They might call.'
Andy shook her head fiercely. 'They said you had to carry out your normal routine. That means going to work, Martin. We mustn't do anything that makes them think we're not co-operating.'
Martin shrugged. 'I guess so.'
Andy's face hardened. 'No, there's no I-guess-so about this. I want you to promise me that you won't call the police.'
'Oh, come on, do you think I'd do anything that would put Katie in danger?'
'Promise me, Martin. Promise me that you won't do anything out of the ordinary.'
Martin took her in his arms and kissed her hair. 'I promise.'
She hugged him tightly. 'I'll call you from London. They didn't say that I couldn't do that.'
Martin stroked the back of her neck. 'It's going to be all right, Andy. I promise.'
– «»-«»-«»McEvoy put on his ski mask and picked up the tray. On it was a paper plate of spaghetti hoops, a slice of bread, and a plastic fork.
'I'll take it,' said Canning. He was sitting at the table working on the crossword in the Irish Times. Like McEvoy he'd changed out of his track suit and was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.
'That's all right, Mick. I'll handle it. Where are the scissors?'
Canning gestured with his chin. 'By the sink. You should give her some milk.'
'Milk?'
'To drink. She'll need something to drink.'
McEvoy put the tray down. He picked up the scissors and slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans.
'You haven't got kids, have you, George?' said Canning, looking up from his crossword.
'Not that I know of,' said McEvoy. 'Your point being?'
He chuckled, went over to the fridge, opened it and took out a carton of milk. He poured some into a plastic cup and then put the carton back in the fridge. 'Anything else I should take her ladyship?' he asked.
Canning ignored him and concentrated on the crossword.
McEvoy went over to the door that led to the basement and juggled the tray as he slipped the bolts. He eased the door open with his foot and peered down the stairs. Katie was sitting on the camp bed, her Garfield in her lap. She looked up and watched him walk down the stairs. He put the tray on the bed next to her and she looked at it disdainfully. 'Spaghetti hoops?'
'Leave it if you don't want it,' said McEvoy curtly.
'What else is there to eat?'
'Nothing. It's spaghetti hoops or nothing.'
Katie sniffed and rested her head on top of Garfield.
McEvoy took the scissors from his back pocket. Katie looked at him fearfully.
'Please don't,' said Katie, clasping Garfield tightly.
'It won't hurt if you don't move,' said McEvoy.
– «»-«»-«»Andy opened the suitcase and stared at its interior. What was she supposed to pack? She didn't even know how long she was going to be away. She closed the suitcase again and went over to the wardrobe. The front was mirrored and she stared at her reflection. Fly to London and wait, the letter said. Wait for further instructions. Did that mean they would send her somewhere else? Or would she collect Katie in London? Should she pack for Katie, too? She opened the wardrobe and ran a hand along the dresses and jackets hanging there. Maybe she shouldn't take anything with her. If anyone saw her leaving the house with a suitcase, they'd wonder where she was going. What would she say? That she was going away for a holiday? On her own? What if she met anyone she knew at the airport?
She heard Martin climbing the stairs, a heavy footfall as if every step was an effort. He walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. 'I don't know what to take with me,' she said.
'Pack for a couple of days,' he said.
'Pack what?'
'Jeans. Shirts. Underwear. Hell, Andy, I don't know.' His fingers moved around her neck and he massaged her slowly.
'Why me, Martin? Why do they want me in London and you here? Why haven't they told us what they want?'
She felt her husband shrug. 'Maybe Katie's already in London. Maybe they took her over the water and that's where they'll give her back to us.'
Andy turned to face him. 'Do you think that's it?'
'It's possible. Dublin's a small city – it'd be easier to hide her in London. They could have taken her over on the ferry, in a car. Hidden her in the boot or…' His mouth snapped shut when he saw the look of horror on her face.
'Boot? Oh my God…' Tears welled up in her eyes and Martin hugged her.
'Oh, Jesus, Andy, I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just guessing. I don't know where she is or what they're doing. Don't get upset. Please.' He wiped away her tears with his thumbs, smearing them across her cheeks. 'I'll drive you to the airport.'
Andy shook her head. 'You can't,' she said. 'You have to go to work.'
'The airport's on the way.'
Andy reached up and held his wrists. 'We talked about this last night. You have to do everything as normal, Martin.'
'This is different,' said Martin. 'They know you're going to the airport – they'll expect me to take you.'
'I don't know
'I want to,' said Martin.
Andy sat down on the bed, too tired to argue. She'd barely slept, and it was as if she was thinking in slow motion. 'Okay,' she said.
Martin sat next to her and put his arm around her. 'Look, I'll drop you at the airport, then I'll go straight to the office. I'll talk to the bank, see how much we've got on deposit.'
'I hope it's enough,' she said.
'If it isn't, we can raise more,' said Martin. 'We've got the cash flow, we've got assets. The house alone is worth twice the mortgage. We can raise a hundred grand on a phone call.'
Tears began to stream down Andy's cheeks. 'Why us, Martin?' she asked. 'Why our Katie?'
'I don't know. I really don't know.'
She put her arms around his waist and buried her face in his neck, her body racked by silent sobs. Martin held her, feeling more helpless than he'd ever felt in his life.
– «»-«»-«»Canning walked through the arrivals area, tapping the copy of the Irish Times against his leg. He bought a coffee, sat on a stool and surveyed the terminal. Eager faces watched the sliding doors that kept opening and closing, disgorging a stream of passengers. Canning cast his eyes over the paper's headlines. Government figures showing the Irish economy was booming. Rumours that the American President might make a flying visit to Dublin during his trip to Europe. A supermodel overdosed on heroin. Canning sipped his coffee. He flicked through the pages to the crossword. Only six clues to finish.
A woman pulled out the stool on the other side of his table. 'Do you mind?' she asked. She was slim in a pale grey business suit, carrying a burgundy briefcase and a mobile telephone. Her shoulder-length hair was blond, but the dark roots suggested that it had been dyed. There was something unnatural about her eyes, too. They were almost too green, as if she were wearing contact lenses.
Canning waved at the stool. 'Help yourself,' he said. He took a small padded envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and slipped it between the pages of the newspaper, which he then folded and placed on the table.
The woman ripped the corner off a pack of sweetener and poured it into her coffee. Canning slid off his stool, nodded at the woman, and walked away. He didn't see her take the newspaper and put it in her briefcase.
– «»-«»-«»Andy couldn't bear to say goodbye to her husband. She forced a smile and then walked away from the car. She could feel Martin watching her but she didn't turn around. She walked through the doors into the departure area. There was a queue of half a dozen people ahead of her having their luggage checked. A uniformed policeman ran some sort of detector over her suitcase. He was in his fifties with the sunburned skin and broken veins of a sailor. He smiled at her and waved her through. Andy wondered what he'd been checking for. Guns? Explosives? Drugs? The check had seemed cursory at best, as if he wasn't expecting to find anything.
The ticket was ready for her at the Aer Lingus sales counter. She took it over to the check-in counter and a young man in shirtsleeves checked her in. He asked her about her case – had she packed it herself, had it been out of her sight, did it contain electrical items? Andy barely listened to the questions. They seemed naive. If she hadn't packed it herself, would they open it and go through her belongings? If it contained a bomb, would she tell them? The security precautions seemed as ridiculous as the middle-aged policeman with his detector. Her daughter had been kidnapped, for God's sake. Taken from her bed in the middle of the night, and she was being asked if she had batteries in her luggage. She had to fight to stop herself from screaming.
– «»-«»-«»McEvoy tensed as he heard the car pull up outside. He looked at his watch. It was too soon for Canning to have got back from the airport. He picked up his Smith amp; Wesson, cocked the hammer, and moved on tiptoe to the back door. Outside, a car door opened and then slammed shut. Footsteps crunched along the path, towards the cottage. McEvoy flattened himself against the kitchen wall, the gun at the ready. The footsteps stopped. McEvoy breathed heavily, his mouth half open, his ears straining to hear what was going on outside. Someone knocked on the door. Three short raps. Then silence.
'Who is it?' McEvoy called, his finger tense on the trigger. There was no reply. 'Who's there?' he repeated. No answer. McEvoy took the door key from his jeans pocket and slid it into the lock. He turned it, wincing at the loud metallic click, then pulled his hand away. Far off in the distance, a dog barked. Then another, closer. Not police dogs, McEvoy decided. Besides, if it was the police, and if it was a raid, they wouldn't knock first.
He eased closer to the door, grabbed the handle, and pulled it open. There was no one there. He slowly moved across the threshold, the gun still raised. Whoever it was, they weren't there any more. Why hadn't he heard them walk away? A black Ford Scorpio was parked where the Mondeo had been.
'Is there anybody there?' he called. The only sound was the wind whistling through the conifers at the end of the garden. McEvoy held the gun at his side as he walked towards the car. The rear of the cottage wasn't overlooked, but he didn't want to risk waving the gun around in the open. The Scorpio was a rental, and it was locked. McEvoy looked around, the wind tugging at his unkempt black hair. He shivered. He was wearing only a thin denim shirt and cotton trousers and he had no shoes on his feet.
He padded back to the cottage and locked the kitchen door. As he went through to the sitting room, something hard was rammed against the side of his neck. 'Surprise!'
'Fuck,' said McEvoy. 'How the hell did you get in?'
The gun Was taken away from his neck. 'That's for me to know,' said Egan, tucking the gun back into the waistband of his jeans.
'You couldn't have got in through the back door,' said McEvoy, flicking the safety catch of the.38 into place. 'You were lucky I didn't blow your fucking head off.'
Egan raised a disbelieving eyebrow and McEvoy felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He knew that if it had been for real it would have been his brains and not Egan's that were splattered across the carpet. 'Canning's at the airport?' asked Egan. He zipped up his leather bomber jacket and looked around the room. There was a half-empty bottle of Bushmills on the coffee table and dirty plates left over from the previous night's meal, a cardboard box on the floor, and a video camera and a stack of videotapes on the sofa. Egan picked up the camera and checked it. He was wearing black leather gloves.
McEvoy nodded. 'Should be back in an hour or so.'
'How are you getting on with him?'
McEvoy shrugged indifferently. 'He'll do.'
'And the girl?'
'No problems.' He jerked a thumb at the basement door. 'Quiet as a lamb.'
Egan put the camera down. 'Good job, George. Couldn't have done it better myself.' He reached into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and took out an envelope. He handed it to McEvoy. 'Bonus for you.'
McEvoy took the envelope and slid it unopened into his back pocket. 'Cheers.'
'Split it with Canning if you want, but I'll leave it up to you.' He nodded at the video camera and the cassettes. 'Get them done as soon as you can, yeah? Then get Canning to take them over to McCracken.'
They walked outside together. 'Make sure you torch the cottage afterwards,' said Egan. 'Burn it to the ground. Forensic scientists these days, all they need is one hair. The car, too.'
'And the rest of the money?' McEvoy had been paid twenty thousand pounds in advance and had been promised a further eighty thousand pounds, not counting the bonus in his pocket.
Egan patted him on the back. 'It'll be in the account within ten days,' he said. He climbed into the Scorpio and McEvoy watched him drive away.
McEvoy went back into the cottage and locked the kitchen door. He took out the envelope and riffled through the notes. Five thousand pounds. New notes. McEvoy stuffed the envelope back into his pocket. Egan was a true professional. When he had first approached him, McEvoy had been suspicious. Kidnapping, especially kidnapping a child, wasn't something that could be done lightly. Egan seemed to know everything about McEvoy, from the state of his bank account to his record with the Provisional Irish Republican Army. He seemed to know where all McEvoy's bodies were buried, figuratively and literally. Some of the information Egan had could only have come from the IRA's Army Council. Other details had obviously been obtained from government computers. McEvoy, however, knew next to nothing about Egan. He was an American, that was clear from his accent, and he had a military bearing that suggested he'd been in the armed forces, but he remained tight-lipped about his background. He was equally reticent about what he was up to, and would only give McEvoy and Canning the information they needed to carry out the kidnapping. It was for their own protection, he insisted. The less they knew, the less they could tell the authorities in the event of them being captured. Egan had assured McEvoy and Canning that the same level of secrecy applied over in England. If anything went wrong there, the two men wouldn't be implicated.
McEvoy went through to the sitting room and poured himself a measure of Bushmills. He sat down and put his feet up on the coffee table. It wasn't the first kidnapping that McEvoy had been involved in, but this was the first time he was doing it purely for financial reasons. It was the first time he'd been involved with the kidnapping of a child, too. Not that the fact that the victim was a seven-year-old girl worried McEvoy. The victim was meat, nothing more. A means to an end. He sipped his whiskey and brooded.
– «»-«»-«» Martin's company was based on an industrial estate twenty miles north of Dublin. The offices were in an H-shaped brick building with a flat roof, with a storage yard for heavy equipment behind and car parking spaces in front. When business was slow the yard would be full of earth movers, trucks and cement mixers, but for the past two years the company had been busier than ever and the yard was virtually empty. He parked and walked through reception to the management offices. His secretary looked up from her word-processor. 'Coffee?' Jill Gannon had been with the company for more than a decade. She was in her fifties, with a matronly figure that defeated all dieting and a kindly face that always seemed to be smiling. Martin had never seen her depressed, or without a chocolate bar on her desk.
'No thanks, Jill. And don't put any calls through for the next half an hour or so.' He went inside his office and closed the door. He telephoned his bank and asked for the balance of his accounts. There was a little over ten thousand in his current account, another thirty thousand in a deposit account. Martin wrote the numbers down and then called a building society in the Channel Islands. He had a further ninety thousand pounds there, out of the reach of the Irish taxman. He arranged to have it transferred to his current account in Dublin, though he was told that they wouldn't be able to carry out the transfer until they received written confirmation. Martin promised to send a letter by courier.
His next call was to his stockbroker, Jamie O'Connor. Jamie was an old friend – they'd been at school together and lived less than a mile from each other. According to Jamie, Martin's stock portfolio was worth just under a quarter of a million pounds.
'How long would it take to turn it into cash?' Martin asked.
'Cash? You want to sell them all? Jesus, Martin, I wouldn't recommend that. The market here might be getting a bit toppy, but you've got a worldwide portfolio, and besides, you're taking a long-term view, right?'
'Things change, Jamie.' The shares and bonds had been acquired over a ten-year period and had been intended as Martin's pension fund. It would be easier to liquidate the portfolio than to arrange an overdraft or remortgage the house. He could always buy more shares. The company was flourishing, and if they went public as planned the shares he'd be placing would be worth millions. 'Could you sell everything by close of business today?'
'I could, sure. But I wouldn't recommend it. The Irish shares, okay, but your Far Eastern exposure has taken a bit of a tumble recently. I'd suggest you hang on to them. And there's a couple of your holdings that are due to pay their annual dividends next month – you'd be better off keeping them until they've gone ex-dividend.'
'Everything, Jamie.'
'Martin, are you okay? Has something happened?'
'Everything's fine. I just need some cash, that's all. Andy's got her heart set on a villa in Portugal and like a fool I agreed to buy it for her. We can afford it, what with the flotation and all.'
'Well, it's your decision, of course. All I can do is offer my professional advice, and I wouldn't recommend liquidating a perfectly decent portfolio of shares to buy a villa in Portugal.'
'Advice noted, Jamie. Close of business today, right?'
There was a slight hesitation from the broker, as if he was about to argue but then decided not to press the point. 'Consider it done.'
'And put the money straight into my current account with Allied Irish, will you?'
'Oh, now that's just being silly, Martin. You'll be throwing away the interest.'
'I'm going to need it in a hurry. Do you need written confirmation?'
'No need. All the firm's conversations are recorded. Look, are you sure about this?'
'Dead sure, Jamie. Look, I've got another call. I'll talk to you again soon.'
Martin put down the phone. A quarter of a million pounds, plus the money already in the bank, gave him a total of three hundred and eighty thousand pounds. Surely that would be enough? He sat at his desk with his head in his hands. What if it wasn't? What if they wanted more? What would he do then?
– «»-«»-«»'Something to drink?' asked the stewardess.
The voice jolted Andy out of her daydream. 'Sorry?' The plastic smile was a little less friendly, as if the stewardess resented having to ask twice. 'Would you like a drink?'
Andy shook her head. The stewardess served the elderly couple who were sitting next to Andy and pushed her trolley down the aisle. Andy closed her eyes. Images of Katie filled her mind. Katie laughing at cartoons on the television, Katie smiling in her sleep, Katie holding her arms out to be lifted up and hugged. Andy breathed in through her nose. She could almost imagine that she was inhaling the fragrance of her daughter's hair, sweet and clean. She wondered how Katie was feeling. Would she be scared? Crying for her mother? Would the men holding her be taking good care of her? Andy pictured her crouching tearfully in the corner of a dark room, with a menacing figure standing over her. She shivered and opened her eyes. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. What had Katie ever done to deserve this? Katie, who'd never harmed anyone, never shown anything but love to everyone around her, to strangers even. Katie, who was forever asking her parents to give money to the beggars in St Stephen's Green, to adopt stray cats and to send money to each and every charitable appeal featured on television. Katie was a little angel, and whoever was putting her through this ordeal would burn in hell. Andy promised herself that whatever happened she would get her revenge on the men who'd kidnapped Katie. If it took her for ever, she'd make them pay.
She looked out of the window. Through the wispy clouds below she could make out the English coastline. It had been six months since she'd last been in London, a surprise weekend trip to celebrate her birthday. Martin had arranged everything – tickets for Cats, two nights in the Savoy and a rose on her pillow. Her parents had looked after Katie, but Andy had phoned every night. She'd always hated to be away from her daughter.
The captain announced that they were starting their descent and that they'd be landing within twenty minutes. Andy checked her seat belt. At the rear of the plane, the woman with dyed blond hair and unnaturally green eyes slid her burgundy briefcase under the seat in front of her.
– «»-«»-«»Martin looked up as the quick double knock was followed almost immediately by the office door opening. It was his partner, Padraig, his coat on and carrying his briefcase. 'Are you up for a drink?' he asked. Padraig was red-haired with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, broad-shouldered from long sessions in the gym.
'Nah, I want to get back,' said Martin.
'What about you and Andy coming around for dinner tomorrow? Louise wants to try out her fondue set. Upmarket cheese dip.'
'Tomorrow's not good, mate. Maybe next week. I'll check with Andy and let you know, okay?'
Padraig gave him a thumbs-up. 'Okay, I'm off, then. I'm sure I'll find somebody to drink with at the golf club.'
The telephone rang as Padraig closed the door. It was Jamie O'Connor, confirming that the entire portfolio had been sold. A total of two hundred and sixty-eight thousand pounds, which had been wired to Martin's current account in Dublin.
Martin thanked him and put the phone down. He had the money, but why hadn't he heard from the kidnappers? He'd checked with Jill several times but there had been no calls that she hadn't put through. Maybe they were going to phone him at home. Maybe they'd already phoned Andy in London.
Martin had called directory enquiries and asked for the telephone number of the Strand Palace Hotel. He hadn't called, though several times he'd started to dial the number. He was supposed to behave as normal, but did that mean that it was okay to telephone his wife?
The intercom on his desk buzzed, startling him. It was Jill, telling him that she was going home. He said goodnight. It was six o'clock. What was he supposed to do now? He was normally in the office until seven, but did the kidnappers know that the switchboard closed when Jill went home? Would they try to phone the office number? What would they do if they couldn't get through?
He stood up and paced around the office. It was the not knowing that was driving him crazy. Not knowing the timescale, not knowing how much they wanted, not knowing how they intended to collect the money. And worst of all, not knowing what they had done to his dear, darling daughter. He kicked the door to his office and then punched it, so hard that he bruised his knuckles. He licked the bleeding flesh as tears pricked his eyes.
– «»-«»-«»Andy sat on the hotel bed, staring at the telephone. All she had to do was to pick it up and within seconds she could be talking to her husband. Or the police. She shook her head. What could the police do?
She heard a whispering sound at the door and she went over to it. There was a white envelope on the floor. She picked it up and reached for the door handle, then hesitated. What would happen if she opened the door and saw whoever had delivered the envelope? What if she saw his face? She felt helpless – she didn't know how she was supposed to react or what she was supposed to do. All control had been taken from her. She went back to the bed and sat down again. The envelope had been sealed and she used a fingernail to slit it open. Her mind was whirling. Forensic evidence, she thought. Fingerprints. Saliva. DNA. She had to keep the envelope – the police would be able to get information about the kidnappers from it.
There was a single sheet of paper inside. Andy unfolded it. It was hotel notepaper and the letter was typed. Capital letters again. Andy read it with shaking hands.
YOUR DAUGHTER IS QUITE SAFE AND SO LONG AS YOU FOLLOW OUR INSTRUCTIONS SHE WILL NOT BE HARMED. AT NINE O'CLOCK TOMORROW MORNING YOU ARE TO CHECK OUT. TAKE ALL YOUR THINGS WITH YOU. TURN RIGHT OUT OF THE HOTEL AND WALK DOWN THE STRAND. TURN RIGHT INTO BEDFORD STREET, AND LEFT INTO BEDFORD COURT. YOU WILL SEE A MULTISTOREY CARPARK ON YOUR LEFT. GO INSIDE THE CARPARK. GO UP TO THE THIRD FLOOR. THERE YOU WILL SEE A DARK BLUE TRANSIT VAN. ON THE SIDE OF THE VAN IS THE NAME OF A LANDSCAPING FIRM. MAKE SURE NO ONE IS WATCHING YOU. OPEN THE REAR DOOR OF THE VAN AND GET IN. CLOSE THE DOOR BEHIND YOU. INSIDE THE VAN YOU WILL FIND A BLACK HOOD. PUT IT OVER YOUR HEAD AND WAIT. WE DO NOT INTEND TO CAUSE YOU ANY HARM. BUT MAKE NO MISTAKE. IF YOU DISOBEY OR IF YOU MAKE ANY ATTEMPT TO CONTACT THE POLICE, YOUR DAUGHTER WILL DIE.
Andy reread the letter several times. A van? A hood? What did these people want from her? She looked at her watch. It was six o'clock in the evening. Fifteen hours before she was supposed to check out. What was she supposed to do for fifteen hours? She read the letter again. It didn't say. Why the delay? Was it because they were watching her, checking that she wasn't being followed?
She stood up and began pacing up and down the room. Was she allowed to contact Martin? The letter said only that she wasn't to talk to the police. Would they consider a phone call to Martin a breach of the conditions? Had they tapped the phone in Dublin? Could she risk it?
She stopped at the window and looked out on to the busy street below. Who was doing this to her? Who had turned her life upside down? And why?
– «»-«»-«»Martin Hayes lay staring up at the ceiling. There was no way he'd be able to sleep, but he knew he had to make the effort. It wouldn't help anyone if he collapsed from exhaustion.
He'd got back home just after seven and had sat next to the telephone for most of the evening, willing it to ring. It had, once, but it was only Padraig checking that Martin had seen a letter from one of their suppliers, raising prices by twenty per cent and blaming the strong pound. They'd chatted for a while, but Martin had been fairly abrupt with his partner, not wanting to tie up the phone line. He had the 'call waiting' facility, but he didn't want to do anything that might spook the kidnappers.
He rolled over and curled up into a ball. His stomach ached, but it wasn't hunger. He'd forced himself to eat a ham sandwich in the office, and he'd eaten a can of soup when he got home, though he hadn't tasted anything. What he really wanted was a drink, but the way he felt he doubted that he'd be able to stop at one. It would be so easy to use alcohol to take the edge off his panic, but he knew it'd be a big mistake. He had to keep a clear head, he had to remain totally focused on what he had to do.
The telephone rang and Martin sat bolt upright. He grabbed for the receiver. 'Yes?'
'Martin?' It was Andy, her voice little more than a whisper.
'Hiya, love. Are you okay?'
'Can't sleep. I'm just lying here. Martin…'
Martin could hear the despair in her voice. 'I'm still here, love.'
'Have they called you?'
'No. Nothing. I've spoken to the bank, and I've sold our shares and stuff. The money's in the bank and there's no problem in raising more. All we need now is to know how much they want.'
'Martin…'
She was close to crying, and Martin wished with all his heart that she was in the bed with him and that he could reach over and cuddle her.
'Martin… I'm not sure if this is about money.'
'What do you mean?'
'They want me to go somewhere tomorrow.'
'Where?'
'A van. I have to go to a van in a carpark around the corner. I guess they're going to take me somewhere.' There was a long pause, and Martin thought they'd lost the connection until he heard her breathe. 'I'm not sure if we should even be talking,' she said. 'Maybe they're listening.'
'If they're listening, love, they know that we haven't gone to the police. They know that we're doing everything they've asked. They know that there's no reason not to give Katie back to us. Okay?'
'I suppose so,' she said, but he could tell from her tone that she wasn't convinced.
'It's going to be all right, love,' said Martin. 'Do you know where they want to take you?'
'They didn't say. It was a note, like before. They haven't called you?'
'No.'
'Martin, if it was money they wanted, they'd have called by now, wouldn't they?'
'I don't know what they're playing at, love.'
There was another long silence. 'It couldn't be to do with the business, could it?' she said eventually.
'In what way?'
'You haven't been doing business with anybody you shouldn't have? Have you?'
'Jesus, Andy, what a thing to say.' Martin was stunned. It was as if she were trying to find some way of blaming him for what had happened. 'What would make you think that?'
'Well, why else could this be happening? Why would anyone take Katie and then make me do this? Check into a hotel. Get into a van. It's as if they want you on your own. Isolated. That's why I thought maybe it wasn't about money.' There was another pause.
'We don't have any choice, Andy. We have to do what they say. They've obviously got something planned.'
'I know that. Look, are you sure it's not connected to the business, Martin? You haven't crossed somebody? Do you owe somebody money?'
'The company's never been better,' said Martin. 'Our overdraft is well under control, orders are coming in, we've a few problems with suppliers, but we're well ahead of where we were this time last year.'
'I know you've always kept problems from me,' said Andy. 'The times the business was going through a rough patch, you never let on. I knew, but you never told me. I just thought…'
'It's late at night and the demons are out, that's all. You're thinking too much. I'm the same. I've been lying here imagining all sorts of things, but that's all it is. Imagination. And if it was to do with the business, there'd have been some lead-up to it. They wouldn't just snatch Katie. There'd be threats, there'd be other pressures they'd apply. And Andy, love, the sort of people I do business with wouldn't dream of hurting a child. Or a wife. They're men and they behave like men.' There was no answer from his wife. 'Andy, did you hear what I said?'
'Yes.' There was a tearful sniff. 'I'm sorry, Martin. I just feel… alone, you know.'
'I know exactly what you mean, love. This bed has never felt so bloody big. What's your room like there?'
'It's okay. I wish I was there with you.'
'Mutual. Times a million.'
'I just wish it was over.'
'I know,' said Martin. 'It won't be much longer, I'm sure. They must want to get this over with as quickly as we do.'
'Oh God, I hope so.'
'Try to get some sleep, okay?'
'I'll try.' She sniffed again. 'I wonder how they're treating Katie. She'll be so scared.'
'I'm sure they'll be taking good care of her. They won't hurt her. Everything they're doing depends on us getting her back safely. Try not to worry. I know that's an impossible thing to ask, but try.'
'I'll try. I have to check out at nine. I'll try to call you later in the day.'
Martin said goodbye and replaced the receiver. A van? What the hell did they want her to get into a van for? Martin had been doing his best to keep his wife's spirits up, but he knew that she was right. This was about more than money. But what?
– «»-«»-«»Egan replayed the tape of the conversation between Andrea Hayes and her husband. He frowned as he listened, but by the time he had played it through to the end he was smiling to himself. Andrea had said nothing that could jeopardise the operation. If anything, the conversation would make the Hayes woman more compliant. Her husband had been reassuring. Soothing, even.
Egan had half expected the Hayes woman to call her husband. At this stage, he wanted their full co-operation, and that meant keeping their stress levels as low as possible. If the notes had insisted that there be no contact, there was a chance that one or the other might panic and call in the police. The phone call also gave Egan an insight into how they were thinking. They were scared for their daughter, but it was clear that they were going to do everything that was asked of them. They still believed that the kidnapping was money-motivated. By the time they realised what was really going on, it would be too late.