‘Where are we going?’ Nina knew it was important to keep talking to Paul. She had read that you shouldn’t show fear when you were being bullied, and this was much more than bullying. What was he going to do to her, this man she’d thought she could trust? Bile rose in her throat.
‘Paul - ’ She started to speak, but he cut her off.
‘Keep the shit quiet, can’t you,’ he said, his voice tight. The engine screamed as he accelerated up the road.
Horrified beyond words, Nina closed her eyes. A picture came into her mind. Arran. Home. The Firth of Clyde sparkling in the sunlight, the Holy Isle dark against the blueness of the sky. Tears burned behind Nina’s eyelids. What wouldn’t she give to be back there today, as penniless as she’d been at the start of the summer. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Claire’s story – The Isle of Arran
Claire jogged along the uneven track, then slowed to a walk as she came to the pathway that sloped steeply across the field back up to the farmhouse. Morag, Beth’s mother, had laughed when she’d taken up jogging at her age after avoiding gyms like the plague all her life. Claire laughed back but kept right on jogging. She had to make sure she was as fit as possible. Fit people lived longer.
She knew it was irrational, this fear that she too would die and leave Nina helpless at the hands of the authorities. But having seen both parents die at a relatively young age, Claire’s confidence that life automatically went on until you were eighty-something was more than shaken. In spite of her best efforts to be positive, the carefree days of trust in the future had been gone for a very long time.
But – she had almost made it; Nina was eighteen next week. Her daughter was a student in far-away Glasgow now, doing secretarial studies. She was living in a hostel connected to the college, sharing a unit with three other girls, and she was having a ball. It was a heady time, first freedom… but Nina had a sensible head on her shoulders, and it was right she should enjoy herself while she was young.
Claire smiled, thinking about her girl, then frowned. As of next week Nina was an adult and wouldn’t have to go and live with Robert if Claire ‘popped her clogs’, as Lily had called it, but there was no guarantee that Robert would help Nina financially when – if – he did get in touch. Claire’s death would be followed by hurt and disappointed for Nina when she discovered that her father was alive and Claire had lied about it. Would Nina hate her for the lie? Oh God, she loved her girl so much, and no matter what she did, one day Nina would resent it. Claire couldn’t even revoke the clause about him being contacted in the event of her death because Rob had signed it too. It was a lose-lose situation and there was no way on earth that she could put it right. The only good ending would be if Robert died first – but if he did, they might never hear of it.
Claire panted into the farmhouse kitchen, where Jan, the live-in helper, was making lentil soup. As well as breakfasts, they now gave guests the option of a simple meal at night too. Business was booming.
Claire poured a glass of orange juice and took it upstairs with her. Maybe the best thing would be to write Nina a letter, one of the ‘to be opened after my death’ kind. She could explain everything and apologise for leaving her daughter in ignorance. That way at least Nina would know the truth, because Robert couldn’t be trusted to be honest. Yes, a letter was a very good idea. And it wouldn’t hurt to check if Robert was still at the same address – in fact she would call him right now while she was feeling brave. Claire searched through her handbag for her address book; she no longer knew the number by heart and the code had changed since she’d lived there anyway.
Slowly, she punched out the number and listened as the ring tone pringed in her ear. Seven, eight, nine times. Twenty times. There was nobody there. Tired tears of frustration filled her eyes and she slammed down the receiver, then on the spur of the moment she ripped the page with Robert’s number from her address book and tore it into tiny pieces. He was gone from her life. Forget him, Claire.
Easier said than done.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Helplessness. The sensation fluttered round Nina’s head while nausea dragged at her gut. She was stuck in a car with her newly-found cousin, who was in the middle of a major breakdown – what the shit was she going to do? Her stomach cramping, she tried to steady herself, clutching the door and the side of her seat and hardly daring to breathe as Paul drove on, swerving round corners and flooring the accelerator on the straight. The engine howled and Nina was thrown from left to right, the seatbelt tearing repeatedly into the tender skin of her neck. They were in another housing estate now, quite a long way from the first one, and she hadn’t recognised any of the places they’d passed through. The streets became progressively dingier and more litter-strewn, and Nina breathed out as Paul was forced to slow down. At last he pulled up in front of a neglected semi, beer cans scattered across the pavement in front of the house. A fresh wave of dread broke over Nina as he switched the engine off and turned to her.
‘This isn’t a nice place, Nina, and I’m sorry. But no one’s going to think of looking for us here so it’s the best place to be.’
His voice was pitched higher than normal and it cracked on the last word. Nina’s throat closed in terror. She’d heard that voice before… The blackmailer on the phone was Paul. Shit, hell… Paul had taunted her and threatened Naomi… What on earth was he trying to do? She clenched her fists to stop her hands shaking.
With growing horror she realised there had never been a bomb, or a phone call from the police. It had been Paul, getting her – and the supposed money – out of the house and away with him. He must have made the call to John Moore’s phone from his mobile, right in front of her stupid nose while she was sitting on the sofa texting bloody smilies to Naomi. And then he’d gone out when Sabine answered the call… Nina bit back a moan. He must have hurt Sabine, knocked her out, or worse. And oh God – no one knew where they were… What a gullible cow she was, she’d believed every word he told her. But why was he doing this?
Paul undid both their seatbelts. ‘We’re going inside – and you’d better be quiet about it. Remember my gun.’
Nina said nothing, concentrating for the moment on not having hysterics. She had to get a grip; be in control – but how impossible that seemed now. Paul was waiting by the passenger seat door, and Nina was unable to prevent the shudder when he grasped her elbow and steered her towards the house. She stared round wildly, but no help was at hand. Apart from a little gang of hooded teenagers lingering raucously at the corner about thirty yards away, the street was empty of people.
‘Paul, please. Let’s talk. I’m sure can work something out.’ She tried her best to sound understanding and firm but it was impossible, her voice was shaking. He must know how afraid she was – hell, look at the expression on his face. What a bastard; he was enjoying her fear. That was what those madmen who abducted people got off on, wasn’t it? – the feeling of power over their victim.
He didn’t answer, and all she could do was stand and watch as he opened the shabby front door, revealing a narrow hallway. A stained and smelly carpet covered the floor and the walls were painted what had probably started out magnolia, but time and touch and cigarette smoke had transformed them into patchy grey and beige. Stairs, the carpeting worn bare in the centre of each tread, rose into darkness on the left, and the stench of poverty and squalor was rife.