The Choice Page 11
Eventually she had sent it to every agent and every publisher she could find. None of them were interested.
The only one she hadn’t tried was Guy. He had taken a job as an editorial assistant at a small agency in Oxford.
Why not ask him? Matt said.
It’s not fair. He’ll feel obliged. And it’s no good. No one wants it.
I love it, Matt said. I’m not just saying that. I really do.
Which was great to hear, but meant the same as your mum or dad saying they liked it.
That was, nothing.
3
She watched the copper-haired child leave and glanced at the clock. Another thirty minutes, then she was meeting Matt – and Kathryn and Andy and Rick and Jim – in the pub.
Her phone buzzed. She had a text. It was from Guy.
Can you call? Or are you at work?
She replied.
Working. But it’s quiet.
A few seconds later the phone rang.
‘Hi,’ Guy said. ‘I wanted to catch you before the office closes for the weekend. There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.’
‘Someone where?’
‘At the agency.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘She’s called Becky. She’s an agent. Kind of my boss.’
‘Why does she want to talk to me?’
‘I’ll put her on.’
There was a scratching noise and then a woman’s voice came on the line.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Is this Annabelle?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re the author of Still Waters?’
Annabelle froze. How did she know about her book? She’d deliberately not sent it to the agency where Guy worked.
‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘Well, I wanted to say congratulations. I loved it.’
‘I—’ Annabelle said. ‘I don’t understand. How did you read it?’
‘Guy gave it to me. He said it was by a friend so he didn’t feel he was able to be an impartial judge, but he thought it was good. So he asked me to read it. And I loved it.’
‘How did Guy get it?’
‘You didn’t send it to him?’
‘Erm …’ she hesitated. This could all wait. ‘Not exactly. But never mind. You liked it?’
‘I loved it. Now, tell me. Have you sent it to any other agents?’
‘One or two.’
‘And have any of them offered representation?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I’d like to offer to represent you. My agency, anyway. It would be Guy who would be your agent.’
‘Oh my God,’ Annabelle said. ‘This is incredible.’
‘I hope you’ll consider us. We’re a small agency, but a good one, I think. And Guy will be an excellent advocate for your book. He’s already shown that by giving it to me. So, think about the offer and let us know. Take all the time you want.’
All the time she wanted? That was about three seconds. ‘Can I accept now?’ Annabelle said.
‘Would you like to think about it?’ Becky asked.
She should. She really should.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I want to accept.’
Becky laughed. ‘Excellent. Then we’ll draw up the paperwork. It’ll be in the post next week. Congratulations, Annabelle. We look forward to working with you. Enjoy the weekend. I’ll hand you back to Guy.’
‘Well,’ Guy said. ‘You can see why I was so eager to reach you.’
‘Guy,’ she said. ‘What exactly happened? How did you get my book?’
‘I think you’d better ask Matt,’ he said. ‘He’s got a bit of explaining to do.’
‘Did he send it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I told him not to!’
‘He mentioned that. He made me promise not to say anything if I didn’t like it. But, as it turned out, I loved it. So maybe don’t be too angry with him.’
Angry? There was no room for angry.
Other than the day she had met Matt, this was the best day of her life.
Sunday, 8 March 2020, 6.45 a.m.
Annabelle
Matt was looking at her with an earnest expression. It was, to tell the truth, a little desperate.
‘So what is it?’ Annabelle said.
‘We track you. And when the kids are safe, we get you back.’
She nodded slowly. ‘How? They’re going to search me. I can’t imagine they’ll let me have my phone so you can look on the “where’s my phone” app?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Maybe a tracking device, something like that.’
She shook her head. A tracking device would easily be discovered, unless it was some James Bond type thing she ate or hid inside her body, and where would they get something like that?
‘How would I hide it?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. But there must be a way to keep track of you. And it doesn’t need to be for long. As soon as I have the kids, I can call the police.’
She pictured herself in a car with a faceless kidnapper, looking out of the window as her family receded from view. She knew it probably wouldn’t be like that, but that was the image that came to mind.’
‘I just wish there was a way you could follow me,’ she said. ‘I wish you could fly, so high that you were invisible, like an eagle, then swoop down and rescue me.’
He stared at her, his mouth slowly falling open.
‘Annie,’ he said. ‘There is a way I can do exactly that.’
‘How?’
‘A drone.’
She was about to dismiss the idea, but she paused. There was a problem, though. ‘Won’t it be obvious, buzzing up there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Matt said. ‘But maybe we can find one that flies high and quietly. And is fast.’ He held up his hands. ‘I don’t have all the details yet. But it could work, Annie. Someone could operate it from a distance and follow it as it follows you.’
‘What if they do see it?’ she said. ‘And think it’s the police? They might hurt the kids.’
‘We’ll make sure it can’t be seen.’
‘If it can, we’re not using it.’
‘But if it can’t? What do you think?’
She thought it might work. She doubted it, but it might. If it did, great. And if there was no risk of being spotted then they had nothing to lose. Either way, whoever was behind this was going to find out she was not a passive piece of meat to be traded. She was not going to let them take her family from her without doing everything in her power to stop them.
But that was for later.
‘Where would you get a drone?’ she said.
‘I was thinking of asking that guy, Rob. He might know where we could start. You OK with that?’
‘Let’s do it,’ she said.
Matt
1
Matt held the phone up so they could all hear.
‘This is Rob.’
Matt cleared his throat. ‘We spoke earlier. About the kidnapping.’
‘I remember,’ Rob said. ‘Something come up?’
‘Well,’ Matt said. He glanced at Annabelle. ‘There was something we didn’t mention.’
‘Oh yeah?’ The welcoming note in his voice was gone, replaced by a guarded tone. ‘What was that?’
‘It’s the ransom. It’s not money they want.’
‘You said it was. Lots of money.’
‘I know. We didn’t want to tell you the truth.’
‘Why not?’
Annabelle leaned towards the phone. ‘You’ll understand when we tell you.’
‘Go on,’ Rob said. ‘What do they want?’
‘It’s me,’ Annabelle said. ‘They want me.’
‘Come again, love. I don’t think I caught that.’
‘It’s my wife, Annabelle,’ Matt said. ‘She’s the ransom. They want her in exchange for the kids.’
‘What the fuck?’ Rob said. ‘So what do you need from me?’
‘Yeah,’ Rob said. ‘But this is different.’
‘Not really,’ Annabelle said. ‘It’s just that the price isn’t money. Nothing else changes. We still can’t involve the police, we still can’t refuse the demands.’
‘It’s your call,’ Rob said. ‘But this is a very fucked-up situation.’
‘I know,’ Matt said. ‘So we need to have a plan. And we do.’
‘What is it?’ Rob said.
‘It might sound crazy,’ Matt said. ‘But we’re thinking of a drone.’
‘That doesn’t sound crazy at all,’ Rob said. ‘Not easy, but not crazy.’
‘You think it’ll work?’ Matt said.
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think more about it.’
‘How soon can you get here?’ Annabelle said. ‘We have to reply to the kidnapper in the next twenty minutes.’
‘Where do you live?’
Annabelle gave their address.
‘I’ll be there in ten,’ Rob said. ‘Hang tight.’
2
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. Matt went to open it. There was a tall, heavily built man in his mid-forties standing outside. He had close-cropped hair and hard grey eyes. He held out his hand.
‘Rob Carter,’ he said. ‘I assume you’re Matt?’
‘Come in.’ Matt ushered him through to the living room. ‘Take a seat. This is Annabelle. My sister, Tessa. My brother-in-law, Mike.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Rob sat in an armchair. ‘So, you have quite the situation.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘Yes,’ Annabelle said. ‘We do.’
‘And you’re definitely going to pay the— do what they’re asking?’ Rob said.
‘We are,’ Annabelle said.
‘And you want to track Annabelle after the handover?’ Rob said. ‘On the way here I considered a tracking device, but I think a drone makes sense. The kidnapper could find the tracking device easily, and I suspect they’ll look. They’ll be expecting it. So yes, a drone.’
‘Do you think it’s possible to follow me with a drone?’ Annabelle said.
‘It certainly is,’ Rob said. ‘There’s some pretty sophisticated kit out there. A lot of criminals use drones for exactly this purpose.’
‘In kidnappings?’ Matt said.
‘No. To follow cars they want to steal. Expensive ones. They follow them from the drone and watch the owner walk away, then they move in.’ He took off his jacket. ‘The drones are impressive. They can do around forty miles per hour, with a control range of three to five miles, depending on the terrain. Either way, you can control them from a distance, so no one would know you were there. And they can live-stream what they see.’
‘So you think we could make this work?’ Matt said.
‘Yes, with one caveat,’ Rob said. ‘They don’t fly for that long. Maybe thirty minutes. Forty max. So you have to hope that’s all you need.’
‘It will be,’ Matt said. ‘We’ll call the cops as soon as we have the kids. They can pick up Annabelle.’
‘It could work,’ Rob said. ‘But there are no guarantees.’
‘It’s all we have,’ Matt said.
‘How do we get one,’ Tessa said. ‘Can you buy them?’
‘Not these ones,’ Rob replied. ‘These are commercial drones. They’re also regulated; you have to register them with the Civil Aviation Authority. And you can’t just fly them anywhere. They’re geofenced – which means they won’t go into certain areas, such as near airports or prisons or other sensitive sites. You might need it to, if you’re following someone.’
‘So what do we do?’ Mike said.
‘Get hold of one,’ Rob said. ‘As well as someone who can operate it. They’re not the kind of things you can start using without any experience.’
‘Any ideas where?’ Tessa said.
‘I might know someone,’ Rob said, ‘who has unregistered drones which have been modified so they can go wherever their operator wants.’ He folded his arms. ‘She might let you rent a drone, and provide an operator. It won’t be cheap though.’
‘Who is she?’ Matt said. ‘Is she a—’
‘Don’t ask,’ Rob said. ‘Because I won’t say. It’s someone I know from when I was in the police. Tell me if you’re interested and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘How much?’ Matt said.
‘Let’s start with ten thousand. Can you pay that? And it needs to be cash.’
‘Yes,’ Matt said. He looked at Tessa, Mike and Annabelle.
Tessa nodded. ‘I can go to the bank and get some of it.’
‘Banks are closed,’ Mike said. ‘It’s Sunday. I’ve got the cash in my account. I’ll give you a cheque.’
‘No,’ Rob said. ‘No cheques.’
‘Then what do we do?’ Annabelle said.
‘I’m not sure,’ Rob replied. ‘But she’ll need cash.’
‘We’ll figure it out,’ Tessa said. She looked at her watch. ‘Five minutes to go.’
Matt glanced at his wife. ‘Annabelle?’
‘Tell him we accept,’ she said.
Matt typed the message. He stared at it for a long time, then pressed send.
Chester, 2011
1
She walked, hand in hand with Matt, through the shopping mall.
It was her first book reading, at an independent bookshop in Chester. The owner had sent a message to Guy saying she’d read Still Waters, loved it, and would Annabelle like to do a reading? Would she like to? She’d have killed for it.
A book reading.
Her book.
Still Waters by Annabelle Anderson. They were engaged and she had considered writing as Annabelle Westbrook, but it felt premature. If there were further books she would write under her maiden name; she liked the anonymity, as well as the alliteration of the name.
Plus, Matt had said it was best to have a surname starting with ‘A’ as most people browsed from the start of the shelves, and that was where the A’s got put.
She had chosen three key passages to read, one from the start, and two from the middle. She knew what she was going to say, and had tried to anticipate the questions she might get. She pictured the scene: her, sitting by a table with a stack of copies of Still Waters on it, her book in her hand. Rows of people sitting in chairs brought from a storeroom at the back. Would there be enough? How many chairs did a bookshop typically have? If people had to stand, that was fine. She’d make a joke about it. Modest and self-deprecating, of course.
They turned a corner, and there it was. The site of her first reading.
There was a sign in the window:
AUTHOR EVENT
BOOK SIGNING
Annabelle Anderson, reading from her debut novel
Still Waters
6 p.m., 30 October 2011
Matt made an excited face. That was the great thing about him; she knew he truly wanted the best for her. His excitement was genuine; with friends there was sometimes the sense that they secretly wanted you to fail, that they saw themselves as competitors. But not Matt. They were a partnership.
And in a year they’d be married.
‘OK,’ Matt said. ‘Here we go. Are you nervous?’
‘A bit,’ she said. ‘Excited, mainly.’
They walked into the shop. To the right was the counter; to the left there was a table in an area that someone had cleared. There were four rows of chairs; Annabelle counted them quickly. Eight in each row, so thirty-two in total. That would almost certainly not be enough.
A woman walked over. She had short blond hair and a muscular build. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Nicole. You must be Annabelle?’
‘Yes. Thanks for having me.’
‘My pleasure. Thanks for coming.’ Nicole gestured at the chairs. ‘Still fifteen minutes to go, yet. People tend to arri
ve at the last second. Would you like a drink? We have water. That’s it, I’m afraid.’
‘Thanks. I’m OK for now.’
Annabelle’s pulse sped up. Nicole had sounded like she was apologizing for the lack of people, like she was trying to make Annabelle feel better.
Should she feel bad? Was this a poor turnout?
No. People would come. People arrived at gigs and football games at the last second, so why would a book reading be any different? She could start a few minutes late to give them an opportunity to get here.
She walked over to the fiction section. Ever since the book was published two weeks back she had been unable to pass a bookshop without going in to see whether her book was on the shelves. And there it was, two copies, side by side. She fought the urge to take it and put it cover outwards – she had succumbed more than once in other shops, but it would be a bit embarrassing here.
‘Here for the reading?’
She turned to the door. Nicole was smiling at two women in their fifties. They were standing in the doorway. One of them shook her head.
‘We were looking for the latest Diary of a Wimpy Kid. For my grandson.’
‘We have that. Come in.’
The two women walked inside. They looked at the empty chairs.
‘Who’s doing the reading?’ the woman who had asked for the Diary of a Wimpy Kid said.
‘Annabelle Anderson,’ Nicole replied. She pointed at Annabelle. ‘She’s a local author.’
A local author? Was that why she was doing this reading? Because she was a local author? Annabelle had been thinking it was because she was a good author.
‘Hi,’ Annabelle said. ‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman said. ‘What time does it start?’
‘At six,’ Annabelle replied. ‘Just a few minutes.’
‘Will it last long?’ the woman said.
‘Not too long,’ Annabelle said. ‘I’ll try to keep it brief.’
‘Well,’ the woman said. ‘I suppose we can stay.’
2
With a minute to go, there were five in the audience; the two women looking for Wimpy Kid, Matt, a man in his sixties who was staring at his phone, and a woman in her mid-fifties who sat, clutching a copy of Still Waters against her midriff.