Chapter Eight
The drive to Donald and Julia’s house feels endless. Twenty minutes stretch into a lifetime as I wrestle with how to tell them their daughter, their only child, has been kidnapped.
Jo has always seemed untouchable. Everyone adores her.
But maybe this isn’t really about Jo. Perhaps it’s about her parents.
Donald Beckett’s reputation as a ruthless businessman is well known.
He must have made enemies along the way.
I shiver, remembering the night a recently fired employee rammed his car into their garden wall.
Donald and I have never clicked. He thinks I’m not good enough for Jo. Even since things have started to go well for me, he’s never acknowledged it.
I hated having to thank him for the deposit on the flat. It led to one of the very few arguments between Jo and I.
‘He belittles me,’ I said.
‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean to,’ she replied. ‘And we probably would have lost the flat if we’d waited much longer.’
‘With both our salaries, we could have made it work. Maybe not that flat, but something else.’
‘But we love this one,’ she said, hugging me.
So he’d won. Again. And even now, he intimidates me. But today, I need him. I need him to say yes to the ransom. If he refuses, I have no idea what I’ll do.
I turn into Hawthorn Lodge’s long, tree-lined driveway.
The house looks as imposing as ever. A devoted Daphne du Maurier fan, Julia modelled it on Manderley.
The main gates are open, as if they are expecting me.
I drive past the tennis courts, pushing aside memories of playing summer matches with Jo, and focus on what’s ahead.
The house is elegant but not cold. It’s warm and lived-in. Julia keeps the gardens blooming with bursts of colour, and inside the house is always immaculate, inviting and alive.
Julia answers the door in an apron that says Cook of the House. My stomach churns. God, are they having a dinner party?
‘Daniel,’ she says, clearly surprised. ‘I thought you and Jo were out celebrating tonight?’
They’ve never called me Danny. Always the formal version, Daniel. She glances past me. Looking for Jo.
‘We were,’ I say. ‘Are you expecting guests?’
Her light, floral perfume drifts towards me. She always smells like a fresh bouquet. Jo told me she has never seen her mother without lipstick or pearls. She is wearing both now.
‘No. Where is Joanna?’ There’s a thread of anxiety in her voice.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I say, trying to sound normal.
Her tone sharpens. ‘Something’s wrong. I can see it in your face.’
‘Is Donald here?’
I can’t face breaking the news to her alone.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘You’re scaring me, Daniel. Has Joanna been in an accident?’
My mouth opens, but no words come.
‘Donald,’ she calls, panic rising in her voice.
He enters from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. It is a calm, domestic moment. ‘Daniel, this is a surprise,’ he says, smiling.
How do you tell a man his daughter has been kidnapped? How do you ask for two million pounds?
‘Do you have a whisky or something?' I ask.
‘Oh God,’ Julia groans. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
We move into the lounge. My eyes land on the photo on the wall above the mantel: me, Jo and Joel. It was taken just after Joel was born. We’re smiling, holding hands, in a perfect moment frozen for all time.
Julia says, her voice cracking, ‘Please, Daniel, just tell us.’
Donald pours three whiskies in silence. His eyes, always sharp and judging, are softer now. His expression suggests concern but is otherwise unreadable. ‘Spit it out,’ he says.
I grip the glass. ‘Jo’s been kidnapped.’
Julia gasps, sinking into a chair as if the words have knocked her off her feet. ‘Oh God. I’ve always been afraid of something like this.’
I explain everything: the gym, her walk home, the unanswered calls and the voice on the phone demanding money.
‘That’s why you called us,’ Donald says, more to himself than to me.
I nod. ‘He wants two million. Half this week. Half next. Then he’ll let her go.’
Julia stands, reaching for the phone. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘No!’ I snap. ‘He said no police. He said he was watching me. I don’t know how many of them there are, or if Jo is even still…’ I can’t finish the sentence.
Julia drops her head into her hands. ‘My worst nightmare,’ she whispers.
I steady my voice. ‘I’ve got money, but it’s all tied up. The flat. The house. Even with a remortgage…’
‘I’m calling them,’ she says again, picking up the phone.
Donald takes it from her gently. ‘We need to think, Julia.’
‘He’s watching,’ I say again. The whisky burns on the way down, but it helps.
‘Joel?’ Julia asks suddenly. ‘Who’s with him?’
‘Gil. He’s fine. He doesn’t know.’
She exhales hard, her shoulders sagging. ‘Thank God.’
Donald sets down his glass. ‘We need proof that Jo’s alive.’
Julia turns on him. ‘She’s our daughter. This is not one of your business deals.’
‘We can’t risk losing her and the money.’
I should have known. With Donald, it was never going to be easy.
‘Just pay them,’ Julia says. Her voice trembles with anger.
Donald opens a drawer and pulls out a notepad.
‘It’s not a new contract,’ Julia snaps.
‘You want her back?’ he says flatly. ‘Then let’s get it right. Daniel could make a mistake. It’s best he keeps notes.’
I ignore the sting in his words.
‘You’ll need to tell the hospital she’s unwell,’ Donald continues. ‘Buy some time. We don’t want anyone else knowing.’
I nod.
‘When the kidnapper calls again, tell him the money’s coming, but that you need proof Jo’s alive. No proof means no deal.’
‘Got it.’
‘Keep acting normal. We stay calm and play along. When she’s back, then we go to the police.’
Julia stares at the floor. Her hands are shaking. ‘How the hell do we pretend everything’s normal?’ she says.
‘Because we have no choice,’ Donald replies.
He’s right. We’re in their hands now. I take the notepad. It feels heavier than it should.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say, heading for the door.