His Kidnapper's Shoes (23 page)

He’d insisted on getting his father to call him a cab for the journey home, despite his mother’s pleas for him to sleep off the booze upstairs. Katie’s perfume still hung in his nostrils and he remembered the warmth of her breath against his ear. Better to suffer the inevitable hangover at home.

In bed the next morning, his head pounding, he thought how surreal the last few weeks had been. The reunion with his family had been an experience beyond words. He’d spent most time with his mother, and he’d let her spoil him and cook for him, loving her delight in doing so. He’d always hated Laura Bateman fussing over him. He’d watched his father as he sawed and planed in his workshop, getting to know the man who was as solid as the furniture he created. His grandparents had been over frequently as well. It had all been damn good, no denying that.

Only two obstacles prevented him from being happy.

One was Katie, and she was leaving the country the following week; he’d be able to move on with his life then. Her loss was raw, but he’d deal with it.

The other was the resentment that seared through him as he watched his mother turn silver and stones into jewellery and his father carve wood into furniture.

He knew he’d sounded childish when he’d mouthed off at Tim. He was human, though, with all the flaws that entailed and, God, the loss of his art pissed him off. He had no doubt he’d have done an art degree if he’d never been taken from his family.

OK, so Tim had a point; college might not have guaranteed him a successful career as an artist.

Hell, though, he’d have had a lot better chance than what he’d had in the past.

He’d not painted anything for weeks. He knew the reason; he'd never been one to lie to himself. Every time he looked at his paints, at the canvasses stacked against the wall, bitterness overwhelmed him and he couldn’t bring himself to pick up a brush. He didn't see the potential in a blank canvas anymore; he saw the barrenness of his life with Laura and Ian Bateman.

His stepfather's contemptuous voice rang in his head frequently during those weeks.

Sex, fast and rough, with any half-decent man he could find, had helped him forget. He’d not touched a woman since Katie.

He’d go out tonight and bag himself a hot lay. A good hard shag of a good hard man was what he needed. Sunday nights were quiet for pick-ups, but hey, he’d find someone. He’d been meaning to try a new bar nearby; a mixed place, so he’d heard, gay, straight and lesbian, and he was tired of his usual hard-core male meat markets. Something more low-key was called for tonight.

In the meantime, he’d sleep off his hangover.

He arrived at the bar just after ten that night; the place was almost empty when he entered. He glanced around. A couple of good-looking guys were playing pool at one end. Two women held hands on one of the sofas. An older guy, mid-thirties, dark, toned, caught his eye with an obvious come-on, but the man had dominant top written all over him, which didn’t gel with Daniel’s preference when it came to men. He turned to the bar. He’d stay for one drink and see if anyone half-decent came in; if not, well, there were plenty of other places.

‘Scotch on the rocks.’ He stared at the barmaid. Not his type at all. Early thirties. Mousy hair, decent enough eyes, nose what someone kind would call interesting and what someone who wasn't would call hooked. She had good skin, but was otherwise unremarkable.

No, she wasn’t his type.

Something about her held his interest, though. A haunted look lurked in her eyes, as if happiness hadn’t come her way in a long time. Her expression reminded him, in a way he didn’t need, of Laura Bateman during one of her depressive phases.

Shit. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of that bitch; the whole point of picking up a hot lay tonight had been to forget the crap into which she’d dragged him. He almost walked out. He didn’t, though, because the barmaid’s haunted face echoed his own bleakness, the hollow space inside him where his artistic ambitions had been.

For that, he stayed. He didn’t know how or why, but they were the same, he and this beak-nosed woman. Life had damaged both of them.

Force of habit led him to give her ass the once over as she stood with her back to him, glass held tight against the optic. Not bad, he thought, and the black trousers she wore hugged the curves underneath well. She turned with his drink, and clocked he’d been staring at her. She didn’t seem offended.

‘I guess I should ask if you come here often, but on the one hand such a question would be clichéd, and on the other, seeing as I’ve worked here all three nights since this place opened, I know you’ve not been in before.’ Her voice didn’t match the plainness of her face; low, melting and distinctive, it would have earned her a fortune on a sex chat line. Daniel thought whoever owned this place had probably turned her down for the job the minute they saw her, and seconds later changed their mind after hearing those husky tones.

She poured salted peanuts into a bowl and pushed them towards Daniel. ‘Enough ice in that Scotch for you?’

‘It’s fine.’ Daniel downed a mouthful. He decided to play along with the situation and make small talk with her. It would help pass the time until anyone promising came along. He shifted his stool in order to survey the door better. It was still early; he’d give it half an hour, or until he’d finished chatting to the barmaid. She grinned at him.

‘You've picked a good spot there. What are you after tonight? The guy in the leather trousers keeps giving you the eye. Not sure you’re his type, though.’ She laughed. ‘Think he needs someone a little more, shall we say, pliant.’

Daniel should have resented her plain speaking, but he didn’t. He drained his glass. ‘I’ll have another of those when you’re ready.’ He checked out her ass again as she refilled his glass. Yep, nice and tight. He had no intention of coming on to her, though, and he doubted whether she’d go for him anyway. Something about her haunted look told him this woman had walled herself off emotionally, although as he knew from experience, that didn’t necessarily include physically as well.

He decided to carry on the small talk. ‘So how do you like working here?’

‘It’s a job. Pays me a wage, which was what I needed. Wasn’t fussy what I did.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll stick with it. For now.’ She had that clouded expression on her face again.

‘Going to tell me your name?’

‘Annie.’

‘My name’s Daniel.’

‘Daniel.’ She gave an approving quirk of her lips. ‘Good old-fashioned Biblical name. The way you’re sinking your Scotch makes me think you’ve spent some time in the lion’s den lately.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Am I right, Daniel?’

This woman was definitely smart. Maybe she’d clocked the same thing about him as he had about her. Like recognising like on some underlying primitive level. He drained his second glass. ‘Yeah. Just about sums the last few weeks up.’

‘Want to share?’

‘Yes. No. Hell, I don't know. Can I buy you a drink?’

She shook her head. ‘Manager’s rule. We’re not allowed to accept drinks off the customers.’

‘Is the manager around? Is he going to find out? Go on. Join me in a lemonade and lime. I need to ease off the hard stuff, anyway. It’s not as if I’m tempting you to anything alcoholic and therefore sinful.’

‘I will, then. We’re hardly madly busy in here tonight; I’ve time to spare.’ She occupied herself pouring her drink. ‘Go on. I’m curious. Tell me about life in the lion’s den.’

‘You read the papers?’

‘I get one of the tabloids for an elderly neighbour who can’t get out. Always check the lurid headlines before I hand it in to her.’ She laughed. ‘So do I have a media celebrity sitting at my bar?’

Daniel pulled out his wallet and fished for his driving licence, handing it to her. Her expression turned into one of bemusement. ‘Daniel Cordwell. Why do I recognise that name?’

‘Kidnap case with a rare happy ending. Splashed all over the news a few weeks back.’

She whistled under her breath. ‘And you’re really him?’ She stared down at the photograph. ‘Guess you are.’

‘Definitely feels like I’ve been in the lion’s den.’

‘I'll bet. So what are your family like? I take it you’ve met them by now?’

‘They’re great. Spend as much time as I can with them. We’ve got twenty-two years to catch up on, remember.’ Daniel laughed. ‘My mother doesn’t really ever let go of me. Keeps calling me her miracle reborn.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ She leaned in towards him. ‘Because don't tell me there isn’t one. Something’s brought you in here tonight, angling for a pick-up and looking like someone pissed on your pizza.’

‘Sheesh. Are you always this blunt?’ Daniel drained his drink. ‘You’re right. There’s a catch. I feel so damned furious about the whole thing. Part of it is the fact my family’s so great. The woman who kidnapped me deprived me of twenty-two years of being with them. My mother went through hell because of what happened. And the life I got thrust into – well, let’s say it wasn’t always the proverbial rose bed.’

‘She treated you badly? The woman who took you?’

‘No. She didn’t. My stepfather was a total prick, however. Plus, I lost my girlfriend when the truth came out.’

‘Listen.’ Annie’s tone was firm. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I have no idea what happened between you and your stepfather and I’m sorry you broke up with your girlfriend. I’m not going to mince words here, though. Girlfriends come and go. If you split up over this…’ She shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. As for your stepfather, well, all the Scotch and screwing around in the world can’t change that. It’s in the past, and you have to find a way to deal with things.’

‘Ouch.’ Daniel gave her a pained smile. ‘You were right. You don’t mince your words, do you?’

Annie slammed her glass down. ‘You had something precious taken from you. Now you have it back. So don’t dwell on the other stuff. Focus on what you do have.’ She leaned in closer. ‘Some people get what matters most to them taken away, and they don't ever get a chance to get it back. You’re one of the lucky ones, believe me.’

25

MUMMY’S HERE

The walk up to Clifton took less time than I’d anticipated; in my desperation to take Daniel, I walked much faster than usual, arriving hot and sweating outside the flat. I held on to the wall, taking deep breaths. All the saliva had drained from my mouth, leaving it desert dry, and I yearned for some water.

I walked off around the block to regain some measure of control, doing my best to avoid other people. I crossed the road if I saw anybody and I stuck to darker, tree-lined streets. I didn’t hurry; I wanted to appear calm in case anyone did see me. In my jeans and hooded jacket, I looked nondescript anyway; no one would be able to give an accurate description of me, or so I hoped.

By the time I arrived back at the flat, I’d managed to get a grip on myself. My mouth was still dry, but my legs didn’t shake as much; I felt better inside my head about what I intended to do. I walked slowly past and round the corner, where I could see the door of the flat through the trees overhanging the passageway.

I stood for a while, waiting, and then I got handed my chance.

The door opened, and the nanny came out, shutting it behind her. She walked up the passageway and turned right, towards the rank of shops.

To my amazement, she didn’t have Daniel with her.

She must have left my little boy all alone in the flat, whilst she went out for God knows what. Wrong, so wrong. My duty was clear; taking Daniel from such a neglectful environment would be the right thing, the only thing, to do. The nanny’s negligence had dispelled all fear, all worries. My nerves had never been steadier, all tension gone. I was ready.

I was sure no one else would be in the flat; she’d never mentioned bringing a friend along when she babysat and I knew from things she’d said she didn’t have a boyfriend. Besides, I’d do what I’d already planned. I’d open the door a fraction, and check out the flat before I entered, in case anyone was still there.

I figured the nanny had probably gone to get a takeaway or something and that I didn’t have much time. I went round to the steps leading down to the passageway, slipped off my shoes, and put on the cheap ones I'd bought. I daren’t risk any footprints from my trainers; I’d switch shoes later and ditch the other ones. I padded softly down the steps, taking the rucksack with me and leaving the pushchair hidden behind the dustbin.

I walked to the front door, keys in hand. I took a final deep breath, and inserted the Chubb key in the lock, carefully turning it.

Next, the Yale one. I edged the door open, slowly and just enough to look inside the flat.

All the doors were closed, and the flat had an empty atmosphere to it. Nobody was there, except for my Daniel. I went inside.

I pushed open the door to Daniel’s room, and there he was, asleep and looking adorable, and I moved swiftly to the side of the bed. I didn’t want to frighten him in any way and had to count on my face already being familiar to him. I dug under the duvet, scooping my hands underneath him and lifting him up as he started to come awake, and wrapped the blanket from the rucksack around him.

‘Everything’s all right, darling. Mummy’s here,’ I whispered in his ear, his hair soft and wonderful against my cheek. He smelled of bubble bath, shampoo and sleep and I held him to me, revelling in being able to cuddle him for the very first time.