He shook his head. ‘I read the reviews. I haven’t got my copy yet.’ He put the hand-bound book on the table. ‘Can we swap again?’

‘Absolutely,’ Annabelle said. She took a book from the pile and opened it. ‘Remind me of your name again?’

His eye twitched again. ‘Carl Jameson. Can you write “To Carl, with thanks from one writer to another.” That’s what I put in yours. Except not to Carl. To Annabelle.’

She wrote the words he had requested then closed the book and handed it to him.

‘I can’t wait to read your new poems,’ she said. ‘Con-gratulations.’

He clutched the book to his chest.

‘Same to you,’ he said.

Sunday, 8 March 2020, 5.44 p.m.

Matt

Matt sat in the back seat. Brenda was in the front alongside Rob. She had a tablet on her lap. The screen showed a car – Annabelle’s blue Golf – driving along the road. She had another tablet open showing a map with a dot moving across it.

This was working.

Matt watched as the Golf paused at a traffic light.

‘How far is that from us?’ Matt said.

‘About half a mile, as the crow flies,’ Rob said. ‘But we have to get onto the A49 first, which means heading to a junction a bit south of here, then travelling north to them. Maybe a mile in total.’

Matt glanced at the speedometer. They were going sixty miles per hour, so they would cover that mile in about a minute, but presumably the traffic light would change, maybe in half that time.

Which would leave them half a mile away.

Closer.

‘Let’s go,’ Matt said. ‘Maybe we can get there before they move on.’

Rob accelerated. He felt his hope rise. This was the chance they had been waiting for.

This was it.

His phone buzzed.

It was a text from Guy.

How’s it going? Just finished up the literary festival and wanted to check in.

Matt replied.

We have the kids.

Thank God. Annabelle?

With the kidnapper. But we have a plan.

What is it? You don’t have to tell me, if you’re in the middle of it. I’m just worried about her.

I got someone with a professional drone and she’s tracking the car. But I have to go. Going to call the police.

Good luck. Keep me posted.

He put his phone down and turned back to the screen. The traffic light turned green.

The car didn’t move. Maybe Annabelle had found a way to stop it.

‘Speed up,’ he said. ‘Faster.’

Annabelle

She relaxed, resting her muscles. She could feel the reduced pressure in her arm and the relief was blessed. She wanted to wallow in it, but there was no time.

She drew her strength into her legs and pushed as hard as she could, then harder again.

And then she started to slide up the back seat.