No Way Out Read Free Page B

was had the guts to pick up. They didn’t.
    Marcus raised his hand holding the phone, red with rage, as if to hurl it across the garage. But he checked himself just in time.
    Two and a half minutes
, came the text a few seconds later.
    Marcus touched the wing of the Aston. He’d had it valeted earlier in the week, all ready to pick up Molly in that night. And what had been her excuse? Some fucking fundraising dinner with Larry. He raised the hammer above the DB9’s windscreen.
    He couldn’t do it. Not the bloody Aston.
    The police are coming
, he texted back, and slumped down on the brick step that led back through to the house. He cradled his head in his hands, knowing it was all likely to be a hoax.
    *
    Tom drops down into a wooden chair beside the fire, chucking on another log. Sparks rain upwards, and a puff of black smoke floods the room.
    ‘Are you left- or right-handed?’ Tom says, crouching down next to Ellie.
    ‘Right,’ she whispers, lying.
    Tom takes hold of her right hand and brings it to his mouth. Plump, youthful lips press down on her forefinger, bringing it inside his mouth. I swipe him round the head.
    ‘Get
off
her!’
    He shoves me back down onto the sofa.
    Tom checks his phone before retreating to his chair beside the fire. He shakes his head. ‘Naughty Daddy,’ he says. ‘Not sending any pictures.’
    ‘What fucking pictures?’
    ‘Do you play the piano?’ he asks Ellie, ignoring me.
    She nods nervously. You insisted she have both piano and drama lessons from the age of five, insisting they would come in useful. Just like you insisted on sending her to that private school. ‘She needs a well-rounded education,’ you’d said. ‘And to mix with the right people.’ I could tell you were disappointed that she wasn’t turning into a child prodigy, but I’d gone along with it like I always did. Anything to keep the peace.
    ‘Bet you hate practising, right?’ Tom suggests.
    ‘Yeah,’ Ellie says, with a barely-perceptible laugh. She looks down, her eyelashes curling almost up to her brows.
    ‘What … bloody …
pictures
?’ I shout, shivering, even though the fire is belting out heat.
    Tom turns slowly to me, taking a tin of tobacco and a packet of Rizlas from the pocket of his donkey jacket. ‘No need to get arsey.’
    Angry, I pull a face – scrunching up my nose, frowning, baring my teeth – but Tom must think it’s funny because he’s smirking, deftly making his roll-up. I spot the poker beside the grate, trying not to stare at it.
    ‘Let’s see how far he’ll go to save his family.’
    Truth is, you’re stubborn as hell. I can’t see you being told to do anything you don’t want to, whether it’s to save our lives or not. Frankly, I don’t think you’ll even believe this is real.
    ‘Your Marcus has a chap come in to clean his precious cars, doesn’t he?’
    Your Marcus
, I think. You’d hate that.
    ‘How do you know?’ I ask, eyeing him suspiciously. He’s right, of course, but I don’t tell him that. Even if you don’t take out the Aston, you still get it valeted once a week. Forty-five pounds it costs, and thirty for the Mercedes, which frankly seems a bargain given the time the poor man spends on them. But then you do drive the Mercedes daily, so perhaps it’s justified. To and from the station for your commute to London, only you don’t always make it as far as the train, do you?
    I followed you once, you see. Inadvertently, of course, while on my way somewhere else. I left the house shortly after you, but you’d been held up at the lights on Bridge Lane where the water main had burst. They spent days repairing it. Even country lanes have traffic jams occasionally.
    You had no idea I was three or four cars behind you; no idea that I saw you turn away from the station, following you on to Halleswell town centre, watching you hop out of the car – hazards flashing on double yellows – and dash into the chemist, then the florist. You emerged gripping a