‘I’m so sorry, Gil. I know you’re upset, but I have to ask you some questions.’
She wipes her nose with a tissue and nods.
‘When did you receive the photo?’ I ask.
‘Today. You can see it was hand-delivered. It wasn’t there when I got home yesterday.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
She shakes her head. ‘I was vacuuming.’
‘There was nothing else in your envelope?’
‘No. Do you think it’s some sick joke? You can take people’s faces and do things with photo apps, can’t you?’ she asks, her eyes pleading with me.
‘We believe it’s real, Gil. I’m sorry.’
She exhales heavily. ‘I should have made her get into my car.’
I lay a hand on her arm. ‘We received a flash drive with the photo. It’s a message from the kidnapper to Daniel. We need both you and Danny to hear it. Although he has disguised his voice, see if there is anything about it that you recognise. See if he uses any phrases that seem familiar to you. Anything at all will help us.’
Gil’s body starts to tremble. ‘Can we wait a bit? I need a cigarette.’
I nod.
‘Do you think if we’d called the police earlier, she—’
‘She tried to escape. She saw his face.’
Gil shakes her head from side to side. ‘Oh God. We left it too long.’
***
Neal’s reaction to the news that the photograph genuinely is of his wife is intense, and suggests deep emotional turmoil. He refuses to look at the photo and now fixes his unwavering gaze on the speaker, as the kidnapper’s message plays. The only movement he makes is a rapid fluttering of his eyelids. Then, abruptly, he scrapes his chair back and rises, shaking his head in violent denial.
Gil gasps. ‘It can’t be.’
‘No,’ Neal says firmly. ‘No way. 13 Millwall Lane is our new house. She can’t be there.’
Gil, trembling, nods. ‘That’s the house Danny and Jo are – were – having renovated.’
I glance at Dario. Of course, it was the one place we never thought to search. Why would we?
Already halfway out the door, Roy bellows, ’Let’s move. We need everyone on this.’
Neal steps forward. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I tell him, but he gives me a scathing look.
‘I don’t give a damn what you think.’
***
With a convoy of officers, we head towards Millwall Lane in Wootton. The Neal residence sits back from the road, accessible via a long driveway. We screech to a halt, sirens wailing. The house looms; it’s a grand house, with white pillars framing the front. An old-fashioned bell hangs beside the door; ornamental, not functional.
A flicker of envy stirs in me, quickly replaced by guilt.This was a dead woman’s home.
Neal bolts from his car.
