Twenty-three
From the moment the cruel one had run the blade of the knife across her face, smiling behind the balaclava at her fear, Emma knew there was no way he was ever going to let her go.
Afterwards, when he'd turned off the camera, he'd stared at her for a long time with his dead fish eyes. 'I think you're lying, you little bitch. You saw my face, didn't you?' He leaned forward so his face was almost touching hers, and sniffed loudly. 'I can smell the bullshit on you,' he whispered.
She promised him again that she wasn't lying, even sworn on her mum's life. Because it was true, she hadn't really seen anything – only that he had dark hair. But he didn't believe her, and just kept staring until finally she shut her eyes because she couldn't bear to see him looking at her like that any more.
'If you are lying, you little bitch, then you're going to fucking die,' he said as he headed towards the steps.
She shouted again that she wasn't, honestly, that he had to believe her, but he didn't reply and a few seconds later he was gone, locking the basement door behind him.
For a long time afterwards she sat hunched up on the bed, her knees pressed against her chest, too shocked and terrified to move, wondering why he wanted to kill her when it must have been obvious that she was telling the truth. Why did he have to be so cruel? She'd never done anything bad to him. She'd never done anything bad to anyone. Her mum called her a carer, and she was. She looked after people. There was a girl at school, Natalie, who was getting picked on by some of the Year 12 girls, and Emma had stepped in, even squared up to one of them to get them to stop (and they had: they'd backed off, even though they were bigger), because she didn't like people being bullied.
But now none of this counted for anything.
When she realized that this was it, that the cruel one really might kill her, the fear was like nothing she'd ever experienced before, far worse than the previous days when she'd at least had some kind of hope that the nightmare might end with her being reunited with her mum. Now she was sure this wasn't going to be the case. As soon as she was no longer needed, that'd be it. The cruel one would get rid of her, and there'd be nothing she could do about it, because she was totally helpless down here.
She wondered how they were going to do it. With a gun, or a pillow over her head? Or maybe with that knife of his? She couldn't bear that. To be stabbed to death. It would be slow, horrible, and there'd be blood everywhere. She couldn't bear the idea of her mum having to identify her in some morgue somewhere when they finally discovered her body. If they ever did find it, of course. She might end up missing for ever, like one of those kids who disappear and are never heard from again. If they had to do it, she hoped they'd give her pills so she could just go to sleep, and that would be the end of everything. It would be awful, and she'd miss her mum and her friends, and even her teachers – well, a couple of them – but at least it would be painless.
But she didn't want to die. God, she didn't. And just thinking about it made her cry again.
And then, as she sat there all alone, something within her changed. She realized that she couldn't just lie there weeping. She had to do something, anything. There was a topic they'd covered in history when she was in Year 9. It was about British prisoners in Germany during the Second World War and how they were always trying to escape. How often they weren't successful, and got punished for it, but how they kept on trying, and some – quite a few – even managed it.
It was hard, but once the thought of escape was in her head, she got this weird burst of hope. She stood up and tugged frantically at her handcuffs. In the days since they were first put on she'd lost weight, and with a lot of effort she was able to pull the cuff a half inch or so up over her left hand. It wasn't nearly enough to release her, but at least it was a start. Another half inch and she'd be in with a chance. She decided not to eat again. It would make her feel sick and weak, but it had to be worth a try.
Then she pulled at the chain attached to her ankle, trying to yank it free from the wall. It didn't budge the first few times, but then she gave it a huge tug, leaning back and putting all her weight into it as if she was doing a tug of war, and she was sure she heard something give. The metal plate attaching the chain to the wall was brand new and had obviously been put there just for her, but it felt very slightly loose in her hands, and because the wall itself was so old, she felt sure she could get it out somehow. It would still leave her handcuffed, and trailing a chain, but at least she'd be mobile.
She started scraping at the brickwork round the plate with her fingernails, breaking most of them in the process. Some flakes came away, but the plate didn't get any looser. She needed a tool of some kind, so she scoured the floor all over, hunting in every nook and cranny, until she found an old rusty nail in the corner just beneath the bed frame. Slowly, carefully, she began cutting away at the brickwork with the nail, methodically chipping away at it. It was a slow, painful job, but every time more brick dust fell to the floor she knew she was getting that little bit closer.
She just had to keep praying she had enough time.
Twenty-four
'So, Pat Phelan might be in the frame after all?' said Mo Khan as he and Bolt drove to Andrea's house.
'Well, he's certainly got a motive. He owes a lot of money to a very dangerous man who's likely to use some pretty extreme violence to get it back. He also called that man two days before the kidnapping to ask him for a few more days to get the money he owed him. That's a pretty big coincidence if he wasn't involved, isn't it?'
Mo nodded. 'And he's not exactly the most upstanding citizen. A layabout and petty criminal who's sleeping with his wife's business partner. The problem is, it doesn't lead us to Emma, and if Phelan is involved, and she knows he's involved, he's not going to want to let her go.'
'I don't know,' said Bolt slowly. 'I would hope that it would mean he's less likely to hurt her because of the personal relationship they have.'
'That's assuming he's got a conscience. Anyone who can kidnap their own stepdaughter and put her through a living hell that's going to scar her for life just to pay off a gambling debt is capable of most things in my book.'
Bolt's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. 'But what I still can't work out is that if he is involved, why did he disappear too? Why not set everything up, make sure he's got an alibi for the time Emma's snatched, and simply stay behind and act innocent, advise Andrea not to go to the police, and wait for his money? Why implicate yourself?'
