‘Please let Charlie go. I did what you asked.’
‘Nakedness isn’t enough, Julianne.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not enough. Charlie can give me more.’
‘But you said-’
‘Surely you can’t expect me to give up a prize like this one. Do you know what I want to do, Julianne? Now that I’ve cut off your daughter’s clothes, I want to open up her flesh. I want to unzip her from her throat to her cunt so I can climb inside her. Then I’m going to hold her heart in my hands and feel it beating as I fuck her from the inside out.’
The long slow scream is like a mortar shell detonating in my ears.
Another pin has fallen.
The lock is almost open.
Her mind is giving way.
Memory feels like substance now. Memory is the only thing that’s real. I am running down Mill Hill, across the bridge, up the next rise between the hedgerows.
I talked to Charlie twenty minutes ago. Her friend Abbie lives about a mile along Norton Lane. How long does it take her to ride a mile? Any moment she’ll come around the corner, legs pumping, head down, tail up, imagining that she’s in the Tour de France.
I keep trying her mobile. My mobile. I gave it to her. We swapped so I could talk to Darcy. It’s engaged. Who is she talking to?
Norton Lane is a narrow strip of twisting bitumen, hugged by hedgerows, hawthorn bushes and fences. Vehicles have to reverse or pull into culverts to allow other cars or tractors to pass. In some sections the hedges are high and unruly, turning the lane into a green gorge, broken occasionally by farm gates leading to fields.
I see a flash of colour between the twisting branches. It’s a woman walking her dog. Mrs Aymes. She cleans houses in the village.
‘Have you seen Charlie?’ I yell.
Angry at being startled, she shakes her head.
‘Did she come along here? She was riding her bike.’
‘Ain’t seen no bike,’ she says, in a thick accent.
I keep moving, crossing a small bridge above a stream, which drops away over rapids.
Gideon doesn’t have her. Gideon only pretends to abduct children. Physical confrontation isn’t his style. Manipulation. Exploitation. He’s probably watching me now, laughing. Or he’s watching Julianne. He’s talking to her.
On the brow of the hill I look back at the village. I call Veronica Cray. Words tumble out between snatched breaths.
‘Tyler says he has my daughter. He says he’s going to rape and kill her. He’s on the phone to my wife. You have to stop him.’
‘Where are you?’ asks the DI.
‘Looking for Charlie. She should be home by now.’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
I can’t think straight. ‘Thirty minutes ago.’
DI Cray tries to calm me down. She wants me to think rationally. Tyler has bluffed people before; it’s what he does.
‘He must be somewhere close,’ I say. ‘He’s probably been watching the house. You should seal off the village. Close the roads.’
‘I can’t seal off a village unless I’m sure a child has been taken.’
‘Trace his signal.’
‘I’m sending cars. Go back to your wife.’
‘I have to find Charlie.’
‘Go back home, Joe.’
‘What if he’s not bluffing?’
‘Don’t leave Julianne alone.’
The farm buildings are silhouetted against the sky on the crest of the next ridge. A half-dozen barns and machinery sheds made of tin, brick and wood squat in the centre of muddy tracks. Old farm machinery lies abandoned in one corner of the yard with weeds growing beneath the rusting chassis. I have no idea what most of these machines do. The main house is nearest the road. Dogs bark excitedly from kennels.
Abbie opens the door.
‘Is Charlie here?’
‘No.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘Which way did she go?’
She looks at me oddly. ‘There’s only one way.’
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Was there anyone else on the road?’
She shakes her head. I’m frightening her. Already I’m turning, running back across the yard to the lane. I couldn’t have missed her. Where else would she go? It’s two miles to Norton St Philip. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have ridden in the opposite direction to home.
I call her mobile again. Why is she still on the phone?
The return journey is mostly downhill. I stop at farm gates, hoisting myself on the metal rail to get a better view of the fields.
Crossing the bridge again, I peer into the ditches on either side of the road. In some sections the brambles and nettles are thigh high. There are tyre tracks at the side of the asphalt. A vehicle must have pulled over to let another one pass.
That’s when I see a bicycle, half-hidden by weeds. I wanted to buy Charlie an aluminium frame, but she chose the matt black steel, with fireballs on the crossbar and shock absorbers on the front forks.
I wade into the nettles and thorns, dragging the bike free. The front wheel is twisted and buckled by an impact. I scream her name. Crows explode from the trees in a flurry of beating wings.
My arm is shaking. My leg. My chest. My head. I take a step and almost collapse. I take another and fall. I try to get up. I can’t. Swallowing hard, I let the bike fall and climb back to the road. Then I sprint down the asphalt like a madman. The horrors of hindsight and regret have stolen my oxygen and I can’t get Charlie’s name out any more.
Climbing Mill Hill my left leg suddenly locks as it swings forward and I land on my face. I don’t feel the pain. Dragging myself onto my feet, I start running again with a strange stumbling goosestep.
Two girls on horseback are clip-clopping towards me. One of them I recognise. She knows Charlie. I wave my arms. One of the horses grows skittish. I yell at them to look for Charlie, angry they don’t instantly obey.
I can’t stay. I have to get home. I have tried to phone Julianne. The number is engaged. Gideon is talking to her.
I reach the High Street and cross over, scanning the footpaths. Charlie might have fallen off her bike. Someone might have picked her up. Not Gideon; someone else- a good Samaritan.
I’m nearing the cottage. I look up and see Julianne naked in the bedroom window, her mouth smeared with lipstick. I take the stairs two at a time, flinging open the door, pulling her away from the window. I take the quilt and wrap it around her shoulders, taking the phone from her fingers. Gideon is still on the line.
‘Hello, Joe, did you find Charlie? Still think I’m bluffing? I hate to say I told you so.’
‘Where is she?’
‘With me, of course, I wouldn’t lie to you.’
‘Prove it.’
‘I’m sorry?’
