The Choice Read online

  ‘Mate, you should lock your car.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘I mean, it’s easy to nick ’em if you can get in. Just plug a laptop into the data port and boom, job done. I heard it takes about fifteen seconds. You can’t leave a car unlocked.’

  ‘I only left it unlocked because—’

  ‘There’s no excuse, mate. You—’

  ‘Listen to me!’ Matt shouted. ‘I left it unlocked because my kids were in there.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Fuck me,’ the man said. ‘You need to call the filth. Get the cops on this as soon as.’

  ‘I know.’ Matt took his phone from his pocket and unlocked the screen.

  He was about to dial 999 when the phone buzzed. A message appeared.

  Do not call the police.

  He stared at it, his eyes wide. Dots scrolled under the message, and another appeared.

  I repeat: tell no one and do not inform the authorities. I will know if you do and you will never see your children again.

  More dots scrolled, then another message appeared.

  My instructions will follow. Await them.

  3

  Matt stared at his phone. The man from the shop walked over to his side.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  Matt did not want to answer. ‘It’s OK. I’m fine.’

  The man tilted his head and looked at him sideways. ‘You don’t seem fine.’

  ‘I am. It’s just – I’m fine.’

  ‘Someone took your car with your kids in it, and you’re fine?’ He nodded at the phone. ‘What was that?’

  Matt had no intention of telling him, because if he told him the man might take it upon himself to call the police, which Matt was not yet ready to do – he might be, soon, but he needed to think this through.

  Which meant being alone.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I appreciate the concern, but I promise. It’s all OK. That was their mum. She has them.’

  The man shrugged. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t believe a word Matt was saying, but Matt didn’t care.

  ‘OK, mate,’ he said. ‘Whatever you say.’

  He turned and walked back into the shop. Matt headed for a bus shelter a few yards up the road and sat on the bench.

  He read the messages again.

  Do not call the police.

  I repeat: tell no one and do not inform the authorities. I will know if you do and you will never see your children again.

  My instructions will follow. Await them.

  He tried to think through what all this meant. If the car wasn’t nearby then it wasn’t a prank – none of his friends would have gone this far, and besides, none of them knew how to steal a car. What had the man said? Fifteen seconds with a laptop plugged into a data port in the car? Sounded simple but so did loads of computer things, yet they were still way beyond the capabilities of him and his friends.

  So someone had come to the car while he was in the shop, climbed in, started it somehow, and driven away.

  With his children in the back seat. His stomach clenched and a cold sweat broke out on his head and neck.

  It was crazy – the one time he had left his kids in the car and some random car thief had chosen that moment to steal it.

  And then text him.

  Which meant it wasn’t a random car thief at all. If they had his number, they must have been targeting him – and his kids – specifically. But who the hell would do that?

  He had no idea, but he did know one thing. This was planned. Someone had been watching, waiting for this opportunity.

  The panic thickened, and his legs weakened. He let out a low groan. If this was planned, that meant there was a reason. Someone wanted his kids.

  But the kids weren’t all they wanted, or the person behind it would not have sent him a message. They would just have disappeared.

  So there was something else. But what? Was someone trying to punish him? He thought through all the areas of his life: family, friends, the law firm where he was a partner, any parents of the kids’ friends or classmates that they had fallen out with. Was there someone he had slighted? Or who the kids had upset?

  It was possible, but he couldn’t think of anything, and surely anything sufficient to provoke this would have been obvious.

  So what the fuck was going on?

  In his hand, his phone buzzed.

  I have his kids and his car. Easy to steal. Especially when you have the key. His spare, taken from the jar above the fridge in his kitchen, one day last summer when they were off on their family holiday. Too easy.

  It’s time to let him know what’s happening.

  Time to tear up everything he thought he knew and send him into a world of pain and confusion and fear.

  I can’t wait. He’s had it coming for a long time.

  I can’t use the same phone, though. Hopefully he’s not foolish enough to call the police, but there are no guarantees. The fucking idiot left his kids in an unlocked car, after all.

  He assumed, like people do, that the world is safe. He assumed that what he sees around him every day – polite people, organized into nice little groups at work or at home, following the rules, saying please and thank you and worrying they might have upset someone – he assumed that this is how things are.

  And he’s right. Most people are like that.

  But not all. Some of us see the truth. Some of us see that other people are mere tools to be used to get what you want. The idea you might deny yourself something because it could hurt someone’s feelings is absurd. Why would you care about feelings? You either get what you want or you don’t. To let other people’s arbitrary emotional states obstruct you is foolishness. Worse, it is weakness.

  And I am not weak. I was, once, and I learned my lesson. I suffered at the hands of someone who took what they wanted from me without a thought for what it did to me.

  It made me who I am. Showed me the way I should live my life. I made sure to explain that to them before they died.

  I also learned from them that you have to be careful. You cannot let people know you think of them as nothing but ways and means to get what you want. You have to learn to resemble them. Most of the time a smile and a question and an interested look is all it takes.

  It’s ironic: people love me. They think I’m kind and helpful, because that’s what I want them to think. They trust me.

  Which is very useful. Once you have earned somebody’s trust it is the easiest thing in the world to abuse it.

  Occasionally someone figures it out. My mother did, when she realized what I had done. Poor woman. It broke her heart.

  I know what you are, she said, her eyes wide with shock. I’ve known it all along. I just didn’t admit it to myself.

  So I was putting her out of her misery, I suppose. It didn’t have to be such a painful death, but there had to be something in it for me, didn’t there?

  Anyway, it’s time to give Matt the next piece of the puzzle. It’ll answer a few of his questions, inform him about the situation he’s in, clear some things up.

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

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

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

  A new phone, booted up.

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

  Four words.

  Four shocking words.

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

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

  Better safe than sorry.

  Words Matt Westbrook should have paid more attention to.

  Matt

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

  It was just four words.

  Four shocking words.

  This is a kidnapping.

  He stared at the screen and read them again.

  This is a kidnapping.

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

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

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

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

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

  The ransom demand will follow.

  Ransom? They were being held for ransom?

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

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

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

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

  ‘Are you OK?’

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

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

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

  Another buzz, another message:

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

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

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

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

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

  And then he started running.

  Annabelle

  1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You need me?’

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

  He sounded alarmed and her concern grew.

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

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

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

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

  She noticed he had not answered the question. ‘You sound like you’re out of breath.’

  ‘I’m running.’

  She looked up at her reflection in the window. She was frowning.

  ‘You’re running? Why are you running?’

  ‘I’ll explain when I’m back.’ He paused. His voice was tense and serious. ‘I’ll be there any minute. I need to know you’re OK.’

  ‘I’m fine. But it doesn’t sound like you are. What’s going—’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he interrupted.

  The phone went dead. Annabelle leaned on the table. Matt was running? Why wasn’t he in the car? And why did he think she might not be OK?

  What the hell was going on?

  She held one hand to her stomach. Sweat prickled on her brow. The sick feeling was back.

  Although this time it was not only the cold. It was worry.

  2

  She heard footsteps outside the front door a few minutes later and went to open it. He was standing on the step, a shopping bag in each hand, a packet of pasta poking out of a hole in one of them. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily.

  Her chest tightened in alarm. He had sounded terrible on the phone, but he looked worse.

  And not only was he not in the car. He was alone.

  ‘Matt,’ she said. ‘Where are the kids?’

  He stepped into the house. His expression was rigid, but there was a wild look in his eyes. She realized with a start that it was fear.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘You need to sit down.’

  ‘I don’t need to sit down,’ she said. ‘Where are the kids? Tell me where the kids are!’

  He took her elbow and guided her into the living room and onto the sofa. Her tea was still on the carpet beside it.

  Matt sat next to her. He was no longer breathing heavily; now he was taking short, shallow breaths. It could have been the running, but it looked more like he was trying not to panic.

  ‘Matt,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

  He blinked, his expression almost puzzled. He opened his mouth to speak, but
nothing came out.

  ‘Matt! Where are the children? Tell me!’

  ‘They’re gone,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘The children are gone.’

  Matt

  She didn’t react for a few seconds, then, as the words registered, her mouth fell slightly open.

  ‘Gone?’ she said. ‘What do you mean gone?’

  He swallowed. His heart was racing and his mouth was dry and it was hard to speak. Annabelle was staring at him, her eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown.

  ‘I …’ he started, ‘I went into the shop to get the stuff. I left the kids in the car—’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Matt. What happened?’

  ‘I wasn’t gone long, maybe only a few minutes. I checked out of the window and they were OK, but—’

  ‘Matt, what are you saying? Tell me what happened?’

  ‘—after I paid and went outside the car was gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ He could see his words were not fully sinking in. ‘How could the car be gone?’

  ‘Somebody took it. But – Annabelle. The kids were in it. They took the kids too.’

  His wife didn’t answer. She folded her arms, then lifted one hand to her mouth, then put her hands in her lap.

  ‘What?’ she said, a barely controlled panic in her voice belying her attempts to compose herself. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The car was gone. With the kids.’

  ‘Maybe they took off the handbrake and it rolled away.’

  ‘No. I checked.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t check in the right place.’ She stood up. ‘We need to look for them. We can take my car. Maybe they drove it off somehow. Or the police moved it. If it was parked illegally the police may have moved it. Did you call them?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t? Why not? We have to call them, now!’

  ‘We can’t.’

  She was staring at him, her eyes wide, her nostrils flared. ‘Why not? Of course we can call the police. Our children are missing!’

  ‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘There’s more. And it’s worse.’