Lost - Michael Robotham [98]
She nods.
Again, I deliver the most important message. “What are you going to ask?”
“To see Mickey.”
“When are you going to hand over the ransom?”
“When I have Mickey.”
“That’s right. They want you to follow blindly but you have to keep insisting on assurances that Mickey is alive. Keep asking for proof—”
“They’ll say the hair and bikini prove it.”
“And you’ll say they prove nothing. You just want to be sure.”
“What if they want me to drop the ransom somewhere?”
“Don’t do it. Demand a straight exchange—Mickey for the diamonds.”
“And if they don’t agree?”
“It’s no deal.”
At 11:37 p.m. the phone rings again. The caller is male but a voice-changing device has digitally altered his vowels and flattened the pitch. He instructs Rachel to drive to the Hanger Lane Roundabout on the A40. She holds the cell phone in both hands, nodding rather than answering. She doesn’t hesitate. She picks up the pizza box and walks to the door.
Aleksei follows, looking suddenly concerned. I don’t know whether he wants to wish her luck or take her place. Maybe he’s just worried about his diamonds. Farther down the street he opens a car door and I see the Russian behind the wheel.
Lying on the floor of Rachel’s car, my shoulders are braced against the dashboard panel and my legs concertinaed toward the backseat. I can only see one side of her face. She looks straight ahead, with both hands on the wheel, as though retaking her driving test.
The caller has hung up.
“Just relax. We could put on some music.”
She taps the steering wheel once.
I flip open the vinyl case of her CD collection. “I’m fairly easy to please—anything except Neil Diamond or Barry Manilow. I have a theory that ninety percent of deaths in nursing homes are caused by Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow.”
She smiles.
I have a walkie-talkie clipped to my top pocket and a Glock 17 self-loading pistol in a holster under my left arm. The radio receiver tucked into my right ear is tuned to the same frequency as a handset in Aleksei’s car.
I also have a dark blanket I can drag over myself at traffic lights or when vehicles pull alongside us.
“Remember not to look at me. If you have to park somewhere, try to avoid streetlights. Choose somewhere darker.”
She taps the steering wheel once.
The cell phone rings again. She reaches down and presses the speaker button.
In the background a girl is crying. The male voice, still heavily distorted, screams at her to be quiet. Rachel flinches.
“You called the police, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me. Never lie to me. A detective visited you at work five days ago.”
“Yes but I didn’t invite him. I told him to leave.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’m telling the truth. I swear. I have the ransom.” Rachel’s voice is shaking but she doesn’t waver.
If this were a police operation we would be tracing the call, narrowing down the signal to the nearest transmitting tower. Then again, he’s probably moving and he won’t stay on the line for more than a few minutes at a time.
“I just need some assurance. I want to see Mickey,” says Rachel. “I need to know she’s OK, otherwise I don’t think I can get through this—”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! Don’t try to bargain, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“I’m not trying to be unreasonable. I just need to know she’s—”
“Alive? Can’t you hear her?”
“Yes, but … how do I know … ?”
“Well, let me see, I could cut out one of her big brown eyes and post it to you. Then again, maybe I should just run a knife across her pale pretty throat and send her head in a box. Then you can put it on the mantelpiece as a reminder of what a STUPID COW YOU ARE!”
Everything reels. I can see Rachel’s chest heaving. For a long while she can’t speak.
“Mrs. Carlyle?”
“I’m here.”
“Are we clear?”
“Yes. Just don’t hurt