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“Yes, I think I’d like it very much.”
A woman, dressed more casually than most of the other women I’d seen that evening, approached the table.
“Mr. Hawthorpe?”
Ned looked up. “Yes?”
“I’m Sally Webster, from theMail.”
Ned’s face hardened. “This is a private evening.”
The young woman took no notice. “Can I ask you about the Hawthorpe Foundation? Is it true that your father doesn’t want you to have anything to do with it? Can you confirm that you’re barely on speaking terms?”
But before she’d finished speaking, Ned’s security guard was propelling the journalist toward the door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PRESENT
Last night, when the man came with my evening tray, I wanted to ask him when he had removed my spoons. But acknowledging their disappearance would have given away something about me, it would have told him how much it had destabilized me to find them gone, and I preferred to let him think that it hadn’t bothered me at all. But it had bothered me so much that I forgot to listen to whether or not he’d left the key in the door. I need to listen carefully this morning.
At last, he comes. Pulling the blanket around me, I lay my head against the wall and close my eyes, wanting him to think I’m not quite awake when in reality, all my senses are on alert. I hold my breath, my ears desperate for any sound. But it’s difficult to hear if he pulled the key out of the lock before entering the room, or if he left it in.
He puts the new tray down, picks up the old one.
“Thank you,” I say. “Have a nice day.”
Why am I talking? I curse my nervousness, I need to stop, he’s moving toward the door—I’m right, he goes straight through it without pausing. The door closes and is swiftly followed by the sound of thekey turning in the lock. I fist-punch the air; it’s what I hoped. When he comes into the room, he leaves the key in the lock.
Today, it’s harder to eat the porridge because of the sameness. But I know what they’re doing. If they brought different food each day, it would give me something to look forward to. A certain kind of hopefulness. And hope is not something kidnappers want to instill in their prisoners.
I’m not sure if my ears are becoming more attuned to picking up sounds, or if Ned is speaking more loudly than he usually does, because I can hear him from where I’m sitting, not the actual words but the rise and fall of his voice. I push my tray out of the way, move my mattress away from the corner, lie on my stomach, and hang my head over the end of it.
“… not going to eat this crap every day!”
“Then starve,” a voice snaps back.
I wriggle farther forward.
“Or better still, pray that your father pays up, otherwise you’ll be here for a very long time.”
I close my eyes. Jethro Hawthorpe still hasn’t paid the ransom.
“And you really should stop moaning,” the man goes on.
“What do you expect?” Ned’s voice is plaintive. “You keep me here like an animal, bring me the same food day in, day out.”
“What were you expecting, a five-star hotel?”
“I wasn’t expecting anything, least of all to be kidnapped,” Ned says. “You’re not going to get away with it, you know. You have no real idea of who I am, the connections I have.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we know exactly who you are.” The man’s voice drops. A sharp crack makes me flinch.
Ned cries out, I draw up my knees, rest my head on them. I don’t want to listen anymore, but I have to, it might have an impact on my plan to escape.
“Who the fuck are you, anyway?” Ned is shouting now, trying to sound tough. But for all his bravado, I know he’s scared.
“Shut up and listen. It’s over a week since we first contacted your father and we’re beginning to lose our patience. So, we’re going to call him again and you better make him understand that this is his last chance. Tell him that if he refuses to cooperate, he’ll be getting something in the post. Something of yours.” There’s a pause. “Or hers.”
