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leaned back against one of the kitchen's
spotless worktops. This house had been Andrea's
dream home when she bought it five years earlier
for close to a million cash, which was most of the
proceeds of the 40 per cent stake she'd sold to her
current business partner. It had character, space,
land, everything that had been missing in the tiny
flat in which she'd grown up with her two sisters
and mother. It was her and Emma's safe and
private haven, where they could relax and spend
time together. Yet tonight it felt alien, like a place
she'd just stepped into for the very first time.
Normally at this time there'd be noise: music
playing in Emma's room; the tinny blare of the
TV; the sounds of life. Tonight her home was
dead, and she wondered whether it would ever
feel the same again.
    She went into the lounge and over to the drinks
cabinet, avoiding turning on the lights. There
were photos in here, of her and Emma – Emma as
a toddler; her first day at school; at the beach. She
didn't want to see them. Not now. She averted her
eyes and poured herself a large brandy in the
gloom, taking a big hit of it. It didn't make her
feel any better, but at the moment nothing was
going to.
    With the drink in one hand and a succession of
cigarettes in the other, she paced the darkening
house, upstairs and down, walking fast but
heading nowhere, eyes straight ahead so she
didn't have to see any reminder of Emma.
Thinking, worrying, trying to keep a lid on the
terror and frustration that infected every ounce of
her being. She wondered where they'd snatched
Emma, and how. There were no signs of a struggle
anywhere in the house, and besides, the alarm
had been on when she came in.
    But they have her, Andrea , said a voice in her
head. That's the only thing that matters. They have her.
    Half an hour passed. In that time she stopped
walking only once, to refill her brandy tumbler,
and to look out of the French windows and into
the darkness beyond, wondering if even now
there was someone out there watching her,
checking her reactions. She drew the curtains and
resumed her pacing. She knew now she wouldn't
be able to sleep until Emma was safe, and in her
arms. In the meantime, all she could do was pace
the prison of her house alone.
    Where was Pat?
    An hour passed. She called him again. Still no
answer. This time she didn't bother leaving a
message.
    She was getting a bad feeling about this. It
wasn't like him not to answer his mobile. He
carried it with him everywhere. It finally occurred
to her that he might be at the Eagle, a pub he
often liked to drink in on his evenings out.
She didn't know the number, so she looked
it up in the Yellow Pages and gave them a call.
    A young woman with a foreign accent
answered. In the background Andrea could hear
the buzz of conversation, and immediately felt a
pang of jealousy. Sounding as casual as possible,
she asked if Pat Phelan was in tonight.
    'I'll ask,' the girl replied. 'Hold on, please.'
    Andrea waited, the phone clutched tight to her
ear.
    Thirty seconds later the girl came back on the
line. 'I'm afraid no one has seen him for a long
time,' she said politely.
    Andrea's jaw tightened. Tonight was Tuesday.
Pat had told her he'd been at the Eagle the
previous Friday night, and last Wednesday.
    'Is that everything?' asked the girl.
    'Yes,' said Andrea quickly. 'Thank you.'
    She hung up and stared at the phone. So Pat
had been lying about his whereabouts. But why?
    An unpleasant thought began to form in her
mind. Could he possibly be involved in this? It
was difficult to believe. After all, they'd been
together nearly two and a half years, and
although, if she was honest, she didn't entirely
trust him, particularly where other women were
concerned, he'd always got on all right with
Emma. They hadn't been the best of friends, and
Emma had certainly not welcomed his arrival into
their close family unit, but she'd come round in
the end. If anything, their relations had been
improving in recent months. It was