56
TUESDAY
Fatigue weighs down my limbs the next morning. I drink three cups of strong coffee and do the school run on autopilot, while Jess sleeps in, dosed up on paracetamol. She’s canceled her early meeting and will work from home today.
There is still no reply from either Sergeant Okoro or DC Rubin to the message I sent last night with the photo of the number plate and information about the car.I’m assuming you can trace the owner?I’d written in the email.Let me know what you find out.The AirTag had been a bust but we still had the plate number to go on—so Jess’s efforts had not been in vain.
My phone is charging in the kitchen when I hear the familiar buzz of it vibrating against the counter as new messages drop in. But they’re not replies from Okoro or Rubin. Instead, I see a string of messages from the unknown number, stacked one on top of the other.
You made a serious mistake last night.
It was also your last chance.
Thought you were a man of your word but obviously you can’t be trusted.
Rolex is a fake and the wallet too. Thought you could fool me?
Know what happens when you play with fire?
My stomach lurches as I read down the thread, trying to think of a response that will end this nightmare. But my sleep-deprived brain can’t come up with anything convincing.
We got your photo and number plate, have given to the police.
Stay away from my family.
As I’m rereading all the messages from the past week, a final reply drops in.
Time for you to learn a lesson, Adam.
Fear kicks beneath my skin as I stare at the screen. I’m jittery, nerves jangling from too much caffeine. But at the same time I feel shattered, wrung out from last night as I go outside to check the front and back gardens, the garage, the street, walking around the house to check that all the doors and windows are locked. I text Dom with an update then go upstairs to check on Jess. She’s sleeping, the curtains still drawn, and I lie down on the covers next to her.
But sleep will not come. Instead, all I can see when I close my eyes is the image of my wife sitting in the back of an ambulance last night—because ofme. Because of somethingIhad set in motion. The intruder in my house had been bad enough, but last night had taken things to a whole new level.
Time for you to learn a lesson.
Finally, I drift off into a fitful sleep.
I have no idea how long I’ve been down—it only feels like minutes—when a distant thudding reaches me. At first, I imagine it’s Jess, trapped and bloody in a mangled car, desperatelyhammering on the window to be let out. The thudding continues but I can’t seem to pull her free. I’m on the outside looking at her through the window but there is no handle, nothing to grip, no way to open the car door…
The distant thudding seems to get louder.
I sit up, suddenly awake, and stumble groggily downstairs where a heavy shape looms beyond the colored glass of the front door, another solid knock rattling it against the frame. The big wall clock says it’s almost 11 a.m. Perhaps DC Rubin has sent a colleague already?
I pull the door open and blink into the mid-morning sunlight, my eyes still gritty with sleep.
The man, in his late fifties, greets me before I can even open my mouth.
“Good morning, sir.”
I blink again, sizing him up. He’s heavily built and wearing a gray three-quarter-length overcoat, with a solid gut straining against the waistband of dark suit trousers. A taut white shirt flares open at his bull-like neck, below a neatly trimmed beard flecked with gray.
I recognize him instantly.
“You’ve been following me,” I say. “At the cemetery on Saturday. The car park yesterday, in town.”
His face is expressionless. There is an angular black briefcase gripped in his left hand.
“Have I caught you at a bad time, sir?”
