With his voice cut off, the silence in the old hangar is even more profound. A deep, dull nothingness that seems to absorb sound and light, deadening even the faint sound of traffic from the A52 over the hill.
I check my watch. Five past four.
My phone buzzes with a new message from the unknown number.
Didn’t really think I’d be there, did you?
I’ve always loved the smell of petrol.
I reply to tell them that I’m here at the meeting place, I’ve got everything they asked for. I open the gray backpack and take a picture of the Rolex inside, send it. But they don’t even acknowledge it. Instead, another three messages land one after the other.
Change of plan.
You were going to double-cross me.
So now I’m going to make you pay.
The horrible realization of what I’ve done lands with a sick jolt in the pit of my stomach. We thought we were setting a trap, but the wolf had seen us coming from a mile away.
I’ve always loved the smell of petrol.
My house isn’t safe anymore. I call Dom but his phone rings out without being answered. Jess’s goes straight to voicemail and I leave her a message telling her not to go back to the house when she’s picked Callum up.
“Go anywhere,” I say breathlessly into the phone. “Next door, to your brother’s place, anywhere—just don’t go home.”
I stab at Leah’s number next, shouting at her to pick up.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Leah! I need you to take your sister and get out of the house, OK? Go next door, stay with Mrs. Evans, and don’t let anyone in, all right? No one.”
“Dad, what are you talking—”
“Just do it!” I’m shouting now, but I can’t help myself. “You’re in danger. Get out and don’t go back until I’ve told you it’s safe. Do it now.”
I ring off and sprint for my car.
68
My phone rings as I’m weaving through stop-start traffic on the dual carriageway back into town. The display shows it’s Mr. Sedgewick, the teacher who oversees tag rugby after school.
“Just checking on pickup arrangements for young Callum,” he says, failing to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “He’s the last one.”
“My wife’s picking him up today.”
“Any chance you can do it? She doesn’t seem to be here. Must be a crossed wire somewhere.”
“One of us will be there, very soon. Sorry.”
“As I said, Mr. Wylie, all the other parents have already collected—”
I hit “end call” to cut him off and ring Jess but she doesn’t pick up.
She must be running late, but it’s not like her to be out of contact. And however annoyed she was after what I said last night, she would never take it out on the kids.
Another call to Jess’s mobile goes unanswered, and a cold wash of dread starts to turn in my stomach.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes with another text and I jab the screen with a sudden lurch of hope that is instantly dashed.
