Deadline

Eight

Andrea ran outside into the darkness, desperate to put some distance between her and Jimmy as the mobile continued to vibrate. This wasn't a message. It was a call.

She pulled it from her pocket and said 'Hello?' breathlessly into the mouthpiece.

'Hello, Andrea.' It was the artificial voice of the kidnapper, his tone neutral.

'You've got the money. Now where's my daughter?'

'She's safe.'

'But where is she? I've given you the money, every penny of it. I've kept my side of the bargain—'

'But you haven't though, Andrea, have you? I told you to come alone, didn't I?' He paused, taking his time. 'And you didn't. You decided it would be better to bring someone along to spy on us. That was very stupid. I told you we were watching your every move.'

Andrea felt her heart lurch. 'Please, I'm so sorry. I just wasn't sure what to do. You've got your money. Please let my daughter go.'

'It's going to cost you.'

'For Christ's sake, I've got no more money. You've had everything.'

'There's always more.'

'Listen, please—'

'No, you listen, and you listen very carefully. You fucked up. You didn't follow the simple instructions you were given. So now it's going to cost you another half a million if you want to see your daughter alive again.'

'But I told you, I haven't got that sort of money.'

'You've got another forty-eight hours to find it. That's the deadline. Use the time wisely. And remember, do not tell anyone this time. No one at all. Or Emma dies.'

'Let me speak to my daughter. You've got to let me speak to her.'

'You'll speak to her again, but when we're ready. Not now.'

The line went dead while Andrea was still talking desperately into the mouthpiece, the knowledge that she had indeed totally screwed up ringing round her head. It was all Jimmy's fault. Even after all these years he still had the capacity to cause her pain. But this was pain like she'd never felt before.

Hold together, Andrea. You owe it to Emma. Hold together.

But God it was hard. It was so damn hard. Tears stung her eyes and she wiped them away angrily as she ran over to the car and jumped inside, switching on the engine. She lit a cigarette and took urgent drags, then drove down to the end of the track and turned round.

As she got back on the main road and drove back in the direction of London, she stared wide-eyed out of the windscreen, silently repeating the mantra over again: Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong. She knew she couldn't collapse under the pressure, because if she did she would never get up again, and right now she couldn't afford that, not while Emma remained in the clutches of those animals.

She thought about them now, the people she was up against. Jimmy Galante was no pushover. He was a hard man, a street fighter with the kind of low cunning that only the truest criminals possess, and yet he'd been discovered by the man or men he was supposed to be watching, and butchered like a dog. These people were ruthless. And worse, they knew exactly what they were doing. She couldn't fight them alone, she knew that. Yet involving others had already backfired. Which left what?

There was, of course, only one alternative. The police. At least they might know what to do. It was a huge risk, given how brutally efficient Emma's kidnappers were. If they found out that the police were involved, they might panic and kill her, but then they might well kill her anyway, especially if Andrea couldn't raise the new money fast enough. Once again she was being forced into a corner, knowing that the wrong move would have terrifying ramifications.

So intensely was she concentrating that she didn't notice that her car was veering into the centre of the road until she saw headlights rushing towards her and heard the sound of the other car's horn. She swung the wheel hard left and slammed on the brakes, going into a wild skid that whirled the car round a hundred and eighty degrees in a screech of tyres before she finally came to a halt, facing the wrong way down the empty road.

Except it wasn't empty. The car that had been coming towards her had now stopped about thirty yards ahead. As she watched, her hands gripping the steering wheel as if it was the edge of a cliff she was hanging from, it did a three-point turn and started driving back towards her, the lights on its roof flashing a bright blue against the night sky.

Andrea cursed. Of all the bad luck, she had to run into probably the only police patrol car in a ten-mile radius.

Act natural. For Christ's sake, act natural.

She glanced briefly in the rear-view mirror and was shocked by the face that stared back at her.

Her expression was tight and haunted, making her look a good five years older than she was, her hair a tangled mess.

Stay calm. Act natural.

The police car came to a halt five feet in front of her bumper, and its two occupants slowly clambered out of each side, donning their caps.

She wound down her window as the driver stopped beside it and leaned down. He was middle-aged, heavy-set but running to fat, with a thick moustache and a gruff expression that suggested whatever she said wasn't going to be enough to stop her getting booked for careless driving. But she had to try.

'I'm sorry, officer,' she announced before he had a chance to speak. 'I think I must just have lost concentration. I've had a very busy day at work.'

'I'm afraid that's not an excuse, madam,' he told her sternly. 'You really shouldn't be driving if you're tired.'

Typical copper, she thought. Always acting holier than thou. I bet he's driven knackered plenty of times. But she knew she couldn't say anything to antagonize him. Instead, she apologized for a second time.

'Where have you been this evening?' he asked, his expression unchanged.

Belatedly, she realized her hands were still gripping the steering wheel. She removed them, saw that they were shaking, put them in her lap.

'Work,' she answered.

'Where do you work?'

Her mind went blank. Completely. For a moment, she couldn't even remember where she was. 'Erm . . .' Her hesitation sounded ridiculous, she knew it. But she just couldn't think. 'Er . . .'

'Would you mind stepping out of the car, madam?' he asked, reaching in with a gloved hand and removing her keys from the ignition. 'I have to tell you that I've got reason to believe you've been drinking, so we're going to ask you to take a breath test. Do you understand?'

She nodded weakly. 'Sure.'

Stay calm, Andrea, stay calm. You haven't been drinking. One shot of brandy two hours ago, nowhere near enough to make you over the limit. The worst that can happen is they book you for dangerous driving. They'll issue you with a ticket, let you go, and you can go home and try to think of a way of finding another half a million pounds in cash by Saturday to save your fourteen-year-old daughter's life.

She stepped out of the car, unsteady on her feet as all the knocks of the past forty-eight hours rose up and battered her like winter waves on a sea wall. She was finally crumbling, and she knew it.

'Are you all right, madam?' It was the driver's colleague. He was a taller, younger guy, with the air of the college graduate about him, and he was holding a breathalyser under his arm.

'Yeah, thanks. I'm fine.' She tried to smile but didn't quite make it.

The young cop was staring at her chest. 'What's that?'

'What's what?'

She looked down, saw what he was staring at.

There was a thick patch of blood on her jacket where she'd grabbed hold of Jimmy. Jesus, how could she have missed that? There were further flecks of it lower down, as well as a single thumbsized spot on her T-shirt, which suddenly seemed to stick out a mile in the flashing lights.

The older cop stepped forward, staring too.

'Have you been hurt?' he asked.

She turned round quickly. 'No, I'm fine. Honestly.'

'This is blood,' he said. 'You'd better take your jacket off. You might have cut yourself.'

'I haven't.'

The two cops were watching her closely. The older one seemed to come to a decision.

'Take your jacket off, madam.'

She felt like asking why, but knew she was going to have to cooperate eventually, so she slipped it off and gave it to the older cop, who lifted it to his nose and sniffed it suspiciously.

'This is definitely blood,' he said.

Andrea stood there, her heart pounding. Now that they could see she wasn't hurt, one of them was going to ask the obvious question. It was the younger one who did.

'Care to explain how it got on your shirt and jacket, madam?'

Andrea took a deep breath. The decision about what her next move would be had finally been made for her.

'Yes,' she said, looking at them both in turn. 'I think I'd better.'