‘At work. She’ll be home soon.’
I watch Gil on the veranda, smoking her cigarette. She dabs at her eyes frequently. When she returns, I grab my car keys.
‘Promise me you won’t phone the police, Gil. I don’t want anything to happen to Jo.’
‘I won’t,’ she assures me. ‘You’d better go.’
Chapter Eight
The drive to Donald and Julia’s house feels endless. Twenty minutes stretch into a lifetime as I wrestle with how to tell them their daughter, their only child, has been kidnapped.
Jo has always seemed untouchable. Everyone adores her. But maybe this isn’t really about Jo. Perhaps it’s about her parents. Donald Beckett’s reputation as a ruthless businessman is well known. He must have made enemies along the way. I shiver, remembering the night a recently fired employee rammed his car into their garden wall.
Donald and I have never clicked. He thinks I’m not good enough for Jo. Even since things have started to go well for me, he’s never acknowledged it.
I hated having to thank him for the deposit on the flat. It led to one of the very few arguments between Jo and I.
‘He belittles me,’ I said.
‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean to,’ she replied. ‘And we probably would have lost the flat if we’d waited much longer.’
‘With both our salaries, we could have made it work. Maybe not that flat, but something else.’
‘But we love this one,’ she said, hugging me.
So he’d won. Again. And even now, he intimidates me. But today, I need him. I need him to say yes to the ransom. If he refuses, I have no idea what I’ll do.
I turn into Hawthorn Lodge’s long, tree-lined driveway. The house looks as imposing as ever. A devoted Daphne du Maurier fan, Julia modelled it on Manderley. The main gates are open, as if they are expecting me. I drive past the tennis courts, pushing aside memories of playing summer matches with Jo, and focus on what’s ahead.
The house is elegant but not cold. It’s warm and lived-in. Julia keeps the gardens blooming with bursts of colour, and inside the house is always immaculate, inviting and alive.
Julia answers the door in an apron that saysCook of the House. My stomach churns.God, are they having a dinner party?
‘Daniel,’ she says, clearly surprised. ‘I thought you and Jo were out celebrating tonight?’
They’ve never called me Danny. Always the formal version, Daniel. She glances past me. Looking for Jo.
‘We were,’ I say. ‘Are you expecting guests?’
Her light, floral perfume drifts towards me. She always smells like a fresh bouquet. Jo told me she has never seen her mother without lipstick or pearls. She is wearing both now.
‘No. Where is Joanna?’ There’s a thread of anxiety in her voice.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I say, trying to sound normal.
Her tone sharpens. ‘Something’s wrong. I can see it in your face.’
‘Is Donald here?’
I can’t face breaking the news to her alone.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘You’re scaring me, Daniel. Has Joanna been in an accident?’
My mouth opens, but no words come.
‘Donald,’ she calls, panic rising in her voice.
He enters from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. It is a calm, domestic moment. ‘Daniel, this is a surprise,’ he says, smiling.
