Cold as Ice (Willis/Carter #2)(52)

Tracy stood up and walked over to the phone. She dreaded every step.

‘Hello, Tracy.’

‘Hello.’ The sound of his voice made her want to drop the phone. The closeness to him was unbearable.

‘Are you scared, Tracy?’

‘Yes.’

Tracy could hear classical music playing in the background.

‘I want to speak to Danielle.’

There was another noise in the background that she couldn’t make out. It was like someone had the phone in their pocket or their bag and had rung her number by mistake. Tracy walked silently through the lounge with the phone in her hand.

She heard a shuffling. The music grew faint as she heard feet walking; then there was the sound of a door opening and the click of a switch. Somewhere at the edge of the room a woman was crying. The sounds of her cries echoed, grew louder. She heard his feet walk across a hard floor and the sound of his breathing as it rasped down the phone. Then she heard the woman crying again. Her crying was mixed with shallow breaths.

‘Please please . . . I’m begging you . . . I’ll do anything . . . please . . . don’t hurt me again.’

Hands muffling the sound around the phone.

‘Did you hear that, Tracy?’

She could hardly breathe.

He laughed. His voice was distorted like last time; it was liquid and deep and one sound rolled into another.

‘Danielle? Danielle?’ Tracy screeched down the phone.

He laughed again. Tracy heard muffled squeals of pain.

‘You think this is your daughter, Tracy? You gave your daughter away. You went off and left her. You didn’t really love her, did you?’

‘No. No. It wasn’t like that. Please. I don’t understand what you want from me. Tell me what I can do. Where is my daughter? Danielle? Danielle?’

‘Shusssssh,’ he said, his voice vibrating in Tracy’s ears. Then Tracy heard someone try to speak, but the words came out as spluttering sounds. ‘She doesn’t want to speak to you, Tracy.’ Tracy heard the sound of squealing as if someone couldn’t breathe. She could hear him working hard at something; his breath rasping down the phone line. ‘I’ll ring you again tomorrow – maybe she’ll feel like talking then. You make sure you’re by the phone, Tracy. Don’t you go anywhere. Your time is coming, Tracy. Look after the boy. I saved his life. I am his saviour. Make sure he doesn’t betray me.’ A piercing wail drilled through Tracy’s ear. ‘Shhhh . . . Bye, Baby Bunting. Daddy’s gone a-hunting. Remember that rhyme, Tracy?’ She didn’t answer. Her hand was clasped across her mouth to stop herself from screaming. ‘Of course you do. You know it well. Now I found a rabbit that needs skinning. Have you ever skinned an animal, Tracy? The first cut is important to get right, then you slide the knife between the skin and the muscle and, hey presto, rip it back . . .’ He laughed and the phone went dead.

Tracy was shaking so much that she dropped the phone as she sank to her knees, clutching her hands together and rocking. She crawled to her bedroom and sat outside, leaning with her back against the wall.

Jeanie came out and knelt beside her.

‘You’re okay, Tracy.’

‘I can’t do it. I can’t do it.’

‘Yes you can, Tracy. Look at me.’ She looked into Tracy’s eyes – her mascara was running. ‘If it means going through this to get Danielle back – then I know because I’ve seen your strength that you can do this, Tracy.’





Chapter 23


The snow fell all night. It stopped just before dawn. Hampstead Heath was covered in a clean pure white icing of it. It looked like a country Christmas scene in the middle of London. Gerald Foster was just thinking that as he drove past it on his way back from having his van repaired – just a quick paint job. He had taken it to the Albanian garage behind Caledonian Road – they were cheap and they didn’t ask questions. They didn’t want to make chitchat. He didn’t feel like driving straight home so he took a detour around the Heath. He watched a woman as she came alongside the passenger window. She was jogging. Her ponytail swished from side to side; her tight Lycra trousers showed every curve. Foster tutted disapprovingly – what did women expect when they wore outfits like that? He kept his eyes on her until she dodged the snow piled at the edge of the pavement and she turned into the road that led to the Heath. Foster turned into the Lido car park and watched her run past.

The jogger passed the Lido, carried on up the path and then headed right along the perimeter of the Heath. She smiled and nodded at another jogger running the opposite way. It was funny how she saw the same people every day. The joggers were friendly to one another, just the way the dog owners were keen on anyone else with a dog but didn’t like the joggers. Or rather, their dogs didn’t like joggers.

Janet had had problems with dogs and their owners in the past. In the ten months she had been running on Hampstead Heath she’d been attacked three times by dogs. Now she tried not to feel anxious, tried not to give off the smell of fear.

Ahead of her a group of women was approaching, walking their dogs. The dog in front had broken away from the others and now looked like it was heading straight for her. She felt a surge of panic. She looked at the owner’s face. The woman was in conversation with her friend but she was staring straight at Janet. The dog had begun a low growl and was coming across Janet’s path. Janet’s heart was racing. The dog owner kept eye contact and gave a half smile that said: don’t worry, he won’t bite you – I think. Janet didn’t smile back. She was thinking: she must take responsibility for her dog now . . . now is a good time. Janet turned away, defeated. She didn’t want to take any risks. She stepped off the path and onto the verge. Her feet cut through the hard snow covering the ground. The cold was biting.