“It’ll be fine.” She puts an AirPod into her right ear, checks that the small white device is connecting to her iPhone, and pulls her hoodie up over it. “I’ll be in touch.”
I pull her in for a hug. “Be careful.”
“You’re a fine one to talk about being careful, Adam Wylie.”
“You know what I mean.”
She kisses me, her lips soft against mine.
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
54
Dom and I set up camp in the little den next to the lounge where the Wi-Fi signal is strongest, a tense silence between us.
“We shouldn’t have let her go,” he says finally. “We know what these people are capable of.”
“You know what she’s like,” I say. “Good luck getting her to change her mind once she’s set on something.”
“Hmm.”
“Are Daisy and Cal asleep?”
He nods. “Leah’s doing homework in her room.”
While Jess has been driving to Wollaton Park, I’ve been busy studying maps on my iPad. I’ve been there with the kids dozens of times over the years but have never seen it as a place of danger before, a place to hide, to observe, to pursue. It was 500 acres in all, including a lake, a golf course, multiple buildings around the main old house, and areas of thick woodland here and there, the whole park crisscrossed with footpaths and trails. It was a lot of ground to cover; an easy place to hide. An easy place to lose yourself in.
My phone rings and I stab the screen to answer it, putting it on loudspeaker so Dom can listen in.
“I’m here.” My wife’s voice is quiet at the other end of the line. “In the main car park. Can’t see a gray Volvo.”
I check my watch: five minutes to eight.
“Is it busy?”
“Maybe three or four dozen other cars, but the light’s fading and there aren’t many street lights.”
Keeping the phone line open to Jess, I send a message to the unknown number to let them know we’re ready to hand over the backpack.
There is no response.
Eight o’clock comes and goes. My wife gives an intermittent running commentary on what she can see from the car park, from her position—down the hill from the imposing Elizabethan mansion with its high windows and ornate stone balustrades. The natural history museum inside would have shut several hours ago but it seemed there were still a few dog walkers and late picnickers enjoying the warm spring evening.
“I’m going to get out and have a walk around, see what I—”
“No,” I say. “Not yet. Stay in the car for now and stay on the line.”
At ten past eight, my phone buzzes with another message.
Green roller bin, back of the courtyard café. Drop the bag in there and leave the park immediately. We are watching.
I forward it straight on to Jess, wishing more than anything that I could be there with her, that I could see for myself what was going on. To protect her.
“Talk to me, Jess.”
A rustle of static and the muffledcrumpof a car door closing.
“OK,” she says. “I’m heading up there with the backpack now.”
