Her Last Tomorrow (13 page)

‘Yeah?’

‘Geoff?’ I ask. It’s all I can think of to say.

‘Yeah,’ he replies.

‘It’s the guy who wanted the removal job done,’ I say.

‘I know who you are. I don’t reuse sim cards,’ he says. That both reassures me and puts me on edge. He seems like a serious, professional kind of guy.

‘Oh, okay. Good,’ I reply. ‘If you head to the woods by Huish Farm, just outside Medbury, there are signs for a public bridleway. Follow the path into the woods. You’ll see a tree on your left. That’ll get you to where you need to be.’ I try to keep it as vague as I can, not mentioning money or anything of the sort. I guess you can never be too careful.

‘Right. And what about the job?’ he asks, a man of few words.

‘Female, mid thirties. She’ll be walking east through Jubilee Park between eight and quarter past, wearing a cream-coloured coat with a fur-lined hood.’ It’s the only way I can think of to describe Tasha. I have no idea what she’ll be wearing and there’s no way I can try to dictate that to her, but I know which coat she’ll be wearing — the one she always wears.

‘Any preference on method?’

‘Something quick, but needs to look accidental.’

‘Will she be carrying a bag? Phone? Money?’ he asks.

‘Yes, all of them I should think.’

‘Right. Mugging gone wrong, then,’ he says.

It sounds daft saying it to a contract killer, but I start speaking before I’ve even realised. ‘Be careful, though,’ I say. ‘She’s pretty feisty. She’ll probably try fighting back.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried about that,’ he says. ‘Is that all I need to know?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ I reply. What else is there to say? This isn’t exactly something I tend to do every day.

‘Good. If the money’s where you say it is, we’re on. Either way, don’t call this number again.’

Before I can say anything, he’s hung up the phone. A lump forms in my throat as I now realise this whole thing is completely irreversible.

I sat in my car for longer than was natural, but it felt right. I couldn’t rush home as I needed to be out for an hour and a half or so — just in case McKenna was there again when I got home.

A thought crosses my mind. Would she want to check out all the local gyms to see if I was a member? Some were pay-as-you-go, but would she then want to know which one I’d been to and check up on me? I try to push the thought from my mind as I realise that I’ll be going home without my sports bag, too.

What explanation am I going to come up with? ‘I decided not to go to the gym in the end, and just drove for a bit’ is pretty plausible considering the situation we’re in. ‘I lost my bag too’ is probably pushing it. It feels mad having to explain something so seemingly unimportant, but in the eyes of the police I’m suspect number one and that’s only going to get a hell of a lot worse as the next couple of days pan out.

I guess I could say I left it at the gym. Perhaps I didn’t work up much of a sweat — couldn’t get myself motivated — so I decided that it’d be easier to just leave my stuff in a locker until the next time. That all sounds great until they want to know which gym I was at so they can check up.

Will they want to check up, though? Could I feasibly tell them to mind their own business? Things will change after tomorrow. Not cooperating with the police when my daughter’s gone missing and my wife’s just been killed isn’t going to look all that good. I guess my only option is to get another sports bag and put it in a locker at a gym. Can’t be too careful.

The drive back seems longer than I had expected. Time appears to have slowed. I wonder if my brain has warped its perception of the passing of time to try and allow it to process the thousands of thoughts and emotions going through it.

When I get home, I’m relieved to find that McKenna isn’t there. I know we’re meant to feel reassured by the police presence, but for some reason McKenna makes me feel uneasy. I know enough about police procedure to know that I’m bound to be their prime suspect. I also know that I’ve not exactly done myself any favours in their eyes over the past few days. But I still can’t shake that horrible sense of injustice that they seem to be concentrating more on trying to catch me out or make me feel uneasy than they are on trying to find Ellie.

That’s unfair on them. I know it is. I know they’ll be doing all they can to find her and that it’s not an easy job, but that instinctive, primal sense of desperation at wanting your child safe and with you is something only a parent will ever understand.

I’m finding it hard to look at Tasha. She’s there when I get back and it’s impossible to describe the feeling I have towards her. It’s almost completely empty. It sounds so strange to be so matter-of-fact about it, but I think my brain has already accepted the fact that she won’t be around much longer. It feels strange saying that after so long together, but I’m now starting to realise how unhappy I’ve been in the relationship. I don’t know how long I’ve felt like that, but I can only imagine it must have been years. Why else would I feel absolutely nothing, knowing that tomorrow night she’ll be dead? Maybe it’s because it pales into insignificance in my mind, compared to the possibility that Ellie might come to some harm.

I start to wonder what might have happened if we’d never been put in this situation. Would we just have carried on as normal, me continuing to be unhappy in the marriage? Or would we have eventually drifted apart and got divorced? What effect would that have had on Ellie? They say the divorce of parents can have a hugely detrimental effect on children. I wouldn’t want that for Ellie.

That’s not to say that the death of a parent wouldn’t have the same effect, of course, but at least there’s some closure there. With a divorce there’s always a permanent reminder. The flitting between two houses, weekly schedules, visitation orders, deciding who’s going where for Christmas and birthdays... At least death is final. You can move on.

I don’t know why I’m trying to justify myself. There’s no justification needed. I just want Ellie back.

Tasha’s sitting at the kitchen table, browsing through Facebook. Personally, I don’t see the point. I’ve got more than enough going on in my own life right now without having to find out what someone I went to school with had for lunch.

‘Everything alright?’ I ask. Ever the dutiful husband.

‘Just trying to take my mind off things,’ she says, emotionless. ‘How was the gym?’

‘Not great. Couldn’t get motivated,’ I say, sticking to the plan. ‘I feel bad just sitting around here waiting for news, but I feel guilty doing something else instead.’

Tasha just nods. I notice that she’s stopped scrolling down the page. She doesn’t appear to be reading anything, either. I stand beside the table and notice a stray tear running down her cheek. I put a reassuring arm around her.

‘They’ll find her,’ I say. Tasha throws her arms around me and sobs heavily onto my shoulder. She’s clinging onto me like a mountain climber who’s lost his harness.

‘Nick, I’m so scared,’ she cries through fitful sobs.

‘I know, honey, I know. But they’ll find her. I know they will.’

‘What if they don’t? What if... What if she’s dead?’ Now she’s looking me in the eye, willing me to say something.

‘She isn’t. I can tell. I can feel it,’ I say, knowing I can say this with a fair amount of certainty. Tasha seems to pick up on my confidence and it looks as though it’s given her some sort of assurance.

‘Thank you,’ she says, almost a whisper. ‘I love you, Nick.’

She looks pained, broken. And all of a sudden I’m feeling very, very unsure of myself.

I was awake for most of last night. Tasha opening up to me had thrown me somewhat. She’d always been cold and aloof, but last night I saw a different side to her. I saw her vulnerability, her pained soul. And I saw a different side to myself, too. I saw my conscience.

In any other marriage, it would have been a beautiful, poignant moment. It would’ve been in this marriage, too, had it not come at this point. I tried telling myself that I was just being tested, that I couldn’t possibly fall for it. I had to stick with the plan, no matter what. After all, it was the only way I was ever going to get Ellie back.

But try as I might, I couldn’t quite get over the fact that I actually felt something last night. Something new.

The morning has gone slowly. Tasha’s been out with the police on their searches. They’ve been scouring the local fields and woodland — fortunately for me, nowhere near Medbury. She said she had to at least feel as though she was doing something. It’s been a bit of a blessing for me, because although I’m just sitting at home by the phone, waiting for news I know isn’t going to come, at least I’ve been left alone by the journalists. They’re all out trying to get the exclusive shot of Tasha joining the police in the search for Ellie.

The worst thing about the silence and loneliness is that it leaves you to think. I spent all night thinking, and right now I just want to be able to sleep. Even leaning back in the enveloping armchair, deprived of sleep and in the company of only the ticking clock on the mantelpiece, I’m still unable to stop the express train of thoughts and doubts running through my mind.

I’d always heard people saying that these sorts of situations are both physically and mentally draining. I’d never really understood how extreme stress could make you physically tired, but now I do. I’m more than tired; I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve been through twelve rounds with Mike Tyson.

And this is all bearing in mind that I know Ellie will be safe. That she’ll be coming home very soon. How must Tasha feel, with the added uncertainty?

Now that everything’s arranged, I need only wait for time. I’m trying to force through logical, coherent thoughts. I try to focus on the positives. Ellie will be home soon. This will all be over. Tasha will be gone. It’ll be Ellie and her daddy. Just the two of us.

I still don’t know who it is that wants Tasha dead, or why. I can only presume that she’s upset someone. Badly. That’s certainly not beyond the realms of possibility, but I fail to see what she could’ve done to have made someone want her gone.

I’m still numb about the whole thing. Should I not be feeling something more? I wonder if perhaps my writing has numbed me. Can reading and writing about murder and death make it all seem completely normal? It seems bizarre that one could ever become so completely desensitised to death, but I suppose it’s possible.

As the day continues, I start to philosophise more and more. I realise I’m starting to get political and philosophical about the whole situation. Is it right to take a life to save a life? What if the lives are the wife you no longer love — or even like — and the daughter you love desperately? When it comes down to the simple point of having to choose one to die and one to live, there’s no choice to be made.

But I still can’t shake the nagging feeling at the back of my mind. If I was so sure of myself and my decision, why am I analysing it constantly? Why can I not just let the decision go and look forward to the fact that in just a few hours I’ll have Ellie back?

How will she return? Will she just be left on the driveway in the same manner in which she was taken? How will the kidnapper do that without being seen? What will Ellie say? I’m pretty sure she must have seen her kidnapper and will be able to describe where she’s been since she was taken. The kidnapper will know this, too. Ellie’s a smart girl. You only need to spend a few minutes with her to realise that. The kidnapper will sure as hell have spotted it. They’d be identified sooner or later.

What if that was the intention the whole time? What if they never let Ellie go? What if this whole plan was to have Tasha killed and then ensure they could never be found by keeping hold of Ellie — or worse? If they’re the sort of person who can kidnap a young girl and demand a husband murder his wife, what’s to say they won’t kill Ellie too?

I’m jolted out of my thought process by Tasha arriving home. She tells me she’s going to shower, change and head out to Emma’s. The whole day has disappeared in a blur and all of a sudden I realise this is about to happen. It’s actually going ahead. Within minutes, Tasha will come downstairs and head out the door and it’ll be the last time I ever see her until I have to identify her body on a mortuary slab.

I pace the room, alternating between blind panic and trying to assure myself that I’ve made a decision and I need to stick to it. Last minute nerves are understandable.

The time goes quickly and Tasha comes into the living room to say goodbye. I try to act normally, push it all to the back of my mind. Out of sight, out of mind. When I hear the latch on the front door click and her heels clip-clopping up the driveway, I panic.

I run into the kitchen and pick up the phone. I know it’s not wise to use my own phone, but right now I don’t care. It’s got to be done. I dial the number, my hands shaking as I try not to press the wrong buttons. After what seems like an age, it rings.

‘Yeah?’ comes the answer, eventually.

‘Geoff? There’s been a change of plan,’ I say. ‘Can you—‘

He cuts me off before I can say anything. ‘I told you not to call. It’s too risky,’ he says.

‘I know, but—‘

‘No buts,’ he replies, interrupting me again. Before I can say another word, he’s disconnected the call. I swear and call back. It goes straight through to answerphone. I try again, twice, three times, four times. He’s switched his phone off.