Her Last Tomorrow Read online

  * * *

  When I get to the internet café, I push the door open and walk inside. There’s no-one in here other than the man, who I presume to be the owner, sitting at a desk at the back of the shop. I’m not particularly surprised – who uses internet cafés when everyone has a computer and smartphone these days?

  I walk up to the man and ask if I can book some time on the computers. I hand over my money, and he points me in the direction of a terminal.

  I wait an age for Internet Explorer to actually open – this is why I use a Mac – and I eventually get around to being ready to type in my search terms. Fortunately for me, my screen faces the wall, so I don’t have to worry about the prying eyes of the shop owner or anyone passing by on the street.

  I sit for a few moments, not actually entirely sure what it is I want to search for. My brain feels like it’s full of fuzz, unable to formulate any clear thoughts. I try to think back to the mindfulness exercises I’ve done in the past and remember some of the techniques, but no matter how hard I try I just can’t shift the fog.

  I pull a notepad out of my bag and start to doodle. A few minutes later I’ve still typed nothing into the computer but have created a brainstorm, with the word MURDER in the middle and all manner of ways of killing someone stemming from it. So far I’ve covered strangulation, electrocution, blunt force trauma, stabbing and ‘accident’, complete with inverted commas.

  Although I’ve spent years writing about people dying in all sorts of horrible and gruesome ways, when it comes down to it I can’t shake the thought that I’m not going to be able to do it myself. The ideas I seem to be favouring are what one might call the indirect methods: ‘accident’ seeming particularly enticing.

  I turn a page on my notebook and continue scribbling. It’s mostly just a stream of semi-connected words and thoughts.

  Car problem? Staged disappearance. Note or letter – would need to be foolproof or could tell forgery. Long-term plan?

  The words seem to make sense as I write them, but they very quickly become nonsensical. One thing I do know from my writing career is that the perfect murder requires one thing above all others: meticulous planning. No aspect can be left unthought of. The way my mind is right now, I’m in no state to commit the perfect murder. Not on my own, anyway.

  30

  Nick

  The long walk home gives me plenty of thinking time. My new way out might seem like the easiest option but it’s fraught with its own difficulties. If I’m going to get someone else to do my dirty work, the obvious first question is who. The how, I can leave up to them.

  A thought has been rattling around at the back of my mind for a little while now, but I’ve been reluctant to address it. An old school friend of mine did time once. I say an old school friend because we’ve barely seen each other since then, but we used to be thick as thieves. Best mates. Neither of us was a model pupil, but Mark Crawford was something else. He was never violent or aggressive, but he had a real rebellious streak.

  Mark always used to have a way round anything. He wouldn’t do anything on the straight and narrow and had a good eye for a competitive advantage. If we were playing cricket in PE, he’d have a key tucked into the waistband of his shorts, perfect for carving ruts and divots in the ball to make it spin more unpredictably. And he was the only kid I knew who didn’t pay any attention in class and still managed to sail through exams. There had to be something dodgy about that, too. There was always something dodgy where Mark Crawford was involved. By the time he was twenty-two, he was banged up for organising an elaborate VAT money-laundering scheme involving a closed circle of limited companies he’d set up purely for that purpose.

  We’d not really met face-to-face much since school, but the joys of Facebook, which admittedly I only use very rarely, meant we were able to keep in touch. I’d never really told Tasha much about him. If she knew his history, she’d only judge him before she’d even met him, so I’d never bothered going into detail. All this was irrelevant right now, though. The only thing at the forefront of my mind was that Mark Crawford knew people. Bad people. People who might be able to help me out of this mess and get Ellie back.

  I’d love nothing more than to have faith in the police right now. But the problem is that I can also see things from their point of view. A young girl disappears, and no-one sees her go. Add to that the fact that the prime witness – a ‘reliable’ witness with no chequered past – says the dad never put her in the car to begin with. Who’s suspect number one going to be? Yours truly. I grind my teeth as I think about Derek.

  Anyway, where do you start looking when you don’t even know which way she went at the end of the driveway? The logical next step is to try to work out who might have taken her, and then to work out from that where they might be.

  I have to make them see that Derek is lying. That they’re wasting so much precious time looking at me when they could be finding her.

  The sum of it all is that the best the police can do is wander around cursorily looking in bushes and putting up posters. There’s been talk of putting on more pressure through the media, but they’re worried this might scare whoever has Ellie into panicking and harming her. When they put this point to me, I strongly agreed. After all, I know someone has her and that that person might well panic, as they suggested. I couldn’t tell them that, though.

  I’m not going to lie – I’ve often wondered what life would be like without Tasha. I’ve always said that if I hadn’t settled down and got married I’d probably be out travelling the Far East or Australia right now. I certainly wouldn’t be mortgaged up to the eyeballs in the same bloody town I grew up in with no hope of ever getting out. In so many ways, things would be a lot easier if Tasha wasn’t around.

  We couldn’t go off travelling now. Not now we’re married with a kid and a mortgage, not to mention the rest of the baggage that goes with it. Tasha’s not exactly likely to want to give up her precious career, either. But me and Ellie, just the two of us? Yes, that’d work. Especially if we had nothing left to stay for.

  Another thought crosses my mind. Tasha’s insured. That was something she’d insisted on when we first got married and bought the house. We even made sure to include provision for any children we had, with extra money being provided for their care if one of us were to die. Do insurance companies pay out in cases of murder? After all, I’ve got to assume that might be the verdict if I can’t make it look like an accident. No. I push this thought from my head. I have to make it look like an accident. Either that or a murder I couldn’t possibly have committed. I could sell the house, add the insurance money in, and Ellie and I would be able to live fairly easily roaming the world. I could even hire a tutor for Ellie to come with us.

  These thoughts seem fantastical because they’re so far removed from what we’re used to, but when you sit down and work it out on paper you realise just what simple things you’d have to do to change your life completely. If you want to, that is. Up until Ellie went missing, I’d probably have done the same as most other people and just carried on as I was. The easy option, I guess. But now there’s absolutely no question. I’m in no position to let things carry on as they are. Now, things have to change. I need Ellie back.

  Mark once told me about a local guy who’d befriended him in prison who claimed he could do him ‘a favour’ if ever he needed it. My fingers grip tightly around my phone in my jeans pocket as I walk, knowing that as soon as I take it out and dial Mark’s number, I’ll have made a serious move. Right now, though, to me, it doesn’t seem serious. What seems serious is the fact that my young daughter is missing and in the arms of some crazed psychopath. To get her back, all I need to do is make a phone call and have my sham of a marriage ended, leaving me free to live my life as I want to, with my daughter back with me. Free to be without cares or worries.

  Would I really be free, though? What happens when Tasha dies? The police would suspect me, surely, but I could prove that I didn’t do it. They’d definitel
y suspect that I was involved somehow, and they’d probably know that I organised it. But they’d need to prove it without reasonable doubt. They’d need evidence. If I’m careful, I can make sure they’ve got no evidence.

  I think about the best way to call Mark. The safest option would be to go to a phone box or use someone else’s phone, but I decide against it. If the police really wanted to, they’d be able to find out I called him. And how then would I explain calling him from a phone box? On the face of it, there’s nothing suspicious in me calling him. We went to school together, we’re linked on Facebook and I’ve got nothing to justify. The police would have to prove something, whereas I could simply say I was phoning a friend. I don’t have many, so why not Mark? Going to a phone box would just look more suspicious. Besides, it’s not going to be Mark who does it, anyway.

  Before I realise it, I’m scrolling through my contacts to M and tapping Mark’s name. I bring the phone to my ear and wait for the familiar tone of the call to start buzzing. Mark picks up after four rings.

  ‘Nick! How’s it going, mate?’

  ‘Yeah, good,’ I lie. ‘Well, not great actually. Listen, are you in town? I can’t really talk on the phone.’

  ‘Christ, mate. I don’t think you’ve phoned me for about six years, and now you phone to say you can’t talk on the phone?’ He laughs.

  ‘I know. I’ll explain it all in person. It’s just easier,’ I lie. Fact is, there’s a decent chance my phone’s being tapped into, especially if the police see me as a suspect in Ellie’s disappearance. It’ll be bad enough trying to explain why I’m phoning a convicted criminal for the first time in six years just after my daughter goes missing, but I’ve got an – admittedly weak – excuse for that. ‘I’m having a shit of a time at the moment and my head’s all over the place, so I’m trying to write as much as I can to keep myself sane. I need to pick your brains for some research. I’m writing something set in a prison, and, y’know . . .’

  ‘Hah, yeah, I know. No worries. I’m just heading back from the station at the mo. Can meet you in Jubilee Park in five if you like.’

  I smile. This is where we’d always go after school to feed the ducks in the pond.

  ‘Sure, see you then,’ I reply.

  31

  Nick

  Mark is already sitting on the bench overlooking the pond when I round the corner into Jubilee Park. He’s slouched against the slatted wooden back, eyes closed, face pointing up towards the warm sun.

  ‘Sorry, sir, we don’t allow vagrants to sleep here,’ I say as I walk up behind him and clap him on the shoulder. He chuckles, immediately recognising my voice.

  ‘How’s it going, mate?’ he says, extending his hand as I sit down beside him.

  ‘Been better,’ I reply.

  ‘Yeah, saw all the stuff on Facebook. Grim. Can’t imagine what you must be going through.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ I say.

  ‘Rozzers got any idea where she might be?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Not a bloody clue. Unsurprisingly.’

  ‘Some things never change. Your head must be all over the place.’

  I try to stop myself laughing. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘So what’s this research you’re doing?’ he asks, sensing that I want him to change the subject. I don’t.

  ‘To be honest, mate, I’m not doing any research. I kind of had to say that on the phone as I reckon the police might be tracing my calls.’

  ‘Shit, why? Ellie?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ve been asking me weird questions. I suppose the family are automatically the first suspects, but it doesn’t exactly make me feel much better.’

  ‘What kind of weird questions?’ Mark asks.

  ‘I don’t think they really believe what I’ve told them. Trouble is, the old bloke who lives across the road seems to have some sort of issue with me. He clearly saw me put Ellie in the car but he told the police he saw nothing. So it’s basically my word against his. And he’s some sort of pillar of the community it seems, while I . . . Well . . .’

  ‘The Angela thing?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, mate. They always try that route. If you’ve so much as had a copper knock on your door in your entire life they’ll try and hold it against you. Just rise above it.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ I reply, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. ‘Listen, mate, I know we haven’t really spoken for years but I can still trust you, right?’ I notice a look on Mark’s face. ‘Christ. Fuck, no. Nothing like that. Jesus. I can promise you now I had nothing to do with Ellie’s disappearance. But I received an email. A ransom note.’

  I tell Mark what the email said. I can remember every word, every punctuation mark.

  ‘Fuck,’ he replies.

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  ‘You reckon it’s genuine?’ he asks.

  ‘Put it this way. The person who sent it was outside my house. They made some comment about the policeman stood on my driveway.’

  ‘Wow,’ Mark says, looking out at the pond. A mallard duck bobs under the water for a couple of seconds, as if shielding his ears from our private conversation.

  ‘Yeah. Listen, I don’t need the lecture or the matey advice. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. If I have to choose between Tasha and Ellie, there’s no choice to make. Only . . . Well, you mentioned something a long time ago about a bloke you know who could do favours,’ I say, immediately regretting the daft gangster-movie language.

  Mark, quite rightly, laughs. ‘Wait, so you don’t speak to me for six years, you pop up days after your daughter goes missing and you’re suspect number one, and now you want me to put you in touch with a hitman so you can pop off your missus? You been smoking something, mate?’

  I swallow hard. ‘I know it sounds mad. But I know deep down that whoever has Ellie won’t get her back to me unless I do this. They’ll kill Ellie unless I do what I need to do. The police haven’t got a hope in hell of finding her. The only evidence is the email and if I give them that, whoever’s got Ellie will kill her. I can’t risk that. How can I? I mean, fucking hell, the thought of Tasha dying . . . But that’s nothing compared to thinking about life without Ellie. I couldn’t bear that.’

  ‘So bumping off your wife is a better option?’

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ I say flatly.

  ‘Jesus.’ Mark looks out across the pond, his eyebrows raised slightly as he leans forward, rubbing his hands as if rinsing them under an imaginary tap. ‘I dunno. I mean, this isn’t the sort of shit I want to get mixed up in, you know?’

  ‘He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?’ I ask.

  ‘Depends what you mean by “friend”. I know him, yeah. But I wouldn’t invite him over for chicken chasseur and a game of Trivial Pursuit.’ Mark shakes his head. ‘Look, I’m a white-collar man, yeah? I don’t get involved in any of this stuff. I’m not a violent man.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ I say, turning my head to face him. He just raises one eyebrow. ‘That was a long time ago, Mark. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, sorry. Just a bit shocked, y’know?’

  ‘I thought you were unshakeable?’ I say, with a wry grin on my face. Mark always prided himself on being a man of the world – an honourable criminal, as some might have said.

  ‘Well, it’s not every day you have a conversation like this, is it? Listen, I’m not going to get involved, alright? I ain’t organising anything. If you want to get in touch with a bloke and do a business deal, that’s your problem. But it’s nothing to do with me. Got that?’

  I swallow and nod quickly. ‘Yeah. Thanks, Mark.’

  ‘Guy’s name is Warren MacKenzie. Drinks in the Talbot Arms. He’s got a couple of Serbian lads who work for him, have done for years. Reliable, like. No-one knows who they are except him, and that’s the way it’s got to be.’

  This all seems so surreal. The fact that it’s just like a scene out of a gangster film almost make
s me chuckle. Part of me wonders whether Mark’s fucking with me and trying to sound like Don Corleone because he’s on the wind-up. But I’ve known Mark for a long time, and I can see in his eyes that he isn’t. For the first time, I think I see fear.

  32

  Tasha

  Nick’s been out for a couple of hours. I don’t know where – he said he wanted to clear his head. The media appeal is due to be shown on tonight’s news, so we’re not likely to have much space after that. I didn’t know until afterwards that there’d be that delay. I presumed it would be shown on all the news channels straight away. Every second counts, and getting that message out there to everyone as quickly as possible is vital as far as I’m concerned.

  The police told us they had to be careful and make sure they released the information in the right way and in the right order. I wasn’t sure what they meant by that, but I can only assume that they’ve got some leads they’re following and want to use the media appeal to control that somehow. I feel almost violated that they’re not passing this information back on to us, particularly as it’s our daughter that’s missing. I have no idea how much they know or what they think they know, but you’d think that telling us would be a priority. Unless we’re under suspicion.

  I’m not going to say that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. Of course it has. If you’re thinking logically, you’d probably expect some tricky questions. But for me, all I can feel is a sense of sheer desperation. These people are meant to be helping us bring Ellie home. They’ve told us time and time again to leave it to them. They’re the experts, they say. Yet if there’s even one percent of their time spent suspecting us or investigating what we’re doing, that’s time that’s being taken away from finding the person who really took Ellie.