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Even the police have admitted the only way Lottie will be found now is through a tip-off from someone either involved in her abduction or close to those who are. She’s too young to be able to escape on her own, unlike some kidnap victims who’ve hit the headlines. Natascha Kampusch, the Austrian girl who was snatched when she was ten, had to wait eight years before she got the chance to flee. In eight years, if Lottie is still alive, she won’t even remember me.
‘Did you trace the call?’ I ask. ‘Do you know where this Radomir is?’
‘It was a burner phone,’ Pitt says. ‘But he’s now called twice. The Italian police have given him the number of a mobile we’re going to give you. Radomir said he’d call at seven p.m., our time, so that’s’ – he checks his own phone – ‘three hours and ten minutes from now.’
Don’t hope. This is just another crank call. Even if it turns out to be genuine, there’s no guarantee it’ll lead to Lottie.
I lick dry lips. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘We’re going to be right here with you,’ Pitt says, and suddenly he doesn’t seem like a college kid any more. ‘We’re working with the Italian and Serbian police, which is why we brought you here, to the embassy. We’re going to be right beside you, Alex. This Radomir could be a whistle-blower or he could have a ransom demand. Or it could be nothing. All you need to do at this stage is establish contact. We’ll take it from there.’
Pitt talks me through what will happen next, but there’s a buzzing in my ears, and I’m finding it hard to concentrate. IfI get this wrong, Radomir could disappear and with him any chance of finding my daughter.
I can’t stop shaking. Gina tries to get me to eat the sandwiches the embassy staff have provided, but my stomach turns at the thought of food. I can barely keep down water. This is probably a false alarm. Another attention-seeking troll, getting kicks from my misery.
And yet.
Thirty minutes before Radomir is due to call, we’re joined by two Italian specialist kidnap officers, who confer with Pitt, Torres and James. The whole team radiates professionalism and experience, which sustains me as the final minutes slowly tick past. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for Gina, holding out this hope to me, however slim, while she waits, waits for her own miracle.
6.58 p.m.
6.59 p.m.
My hands are too clammy to hold the phone they’ve given me, so I set it on the coffee table in front of me, and wipe my palms on my skirt.
7.00 p.m.
7.01 p.m.
‘Are you sure you didn’t get the time wrong?’ I ask. ‘He said seven, you’re sure?’
‘Give him time,’ Gina says.
Five minutes turn into ten. Ten into fifteen. The phone screen stays resolutely dark.
Pitt murmurs something to one of the Italian officers, who nods and leaves the room. I suddenly wish Luca was here. We may have been lousy at marriage, but the one thing that united us was our love for Lottie. No matter how supportive my parents and Marc have been, there’s no one to share my agony in the bleakest hours when I awake in the middle of the night,flayed by guilt. I’m unmoored, clinging to near strangers for comfort.
‘You allowed for the time difference?’ I say. ‘Radomir didn’t mean—’
‘Vincenzo is checking that now,’ Pitt says.
The Italian returns a few minutes later. ‘Seven US Eastern time,’ he confirms, in accented English. ‘There is no doubt.’
Another ten minutes pass. I realise now how bright the hope inside me had burned, despite my best efforts. The heavy, dragging feeling in my chest intensifies. No one is going to call. There is no miracle. The descent back into hell is even worse this time.
And then, at 7.52, the phone buzzes.
