The Guilty Couple(74)

Her expression hardens. ‘She’s his daughter too and if she doesn’t come to Dubai with us then he won’t go.’

‘So stay here! Divorce Ian and move into the fucking house. Just let me have Grace.’

‘Stay in his parents’ house? Scrimping and saving when I could have ten million pounds?’ She laughs. ‘I’ve waited a long, long time to become rich, Olivia, and I’ve given Dominic everything you couldn’t – love, support, money and a new start in life. Once we set foot in Dubai we’ll just disappear. Me, Dom and Grace.’

I don’t know what she’s talking about – ten million pounds – but she’s not taking my daughter with her.

‘They’ll find you,’ I say. ‘They’ll bring you back. You’ll go to prison for a very long time.’

‘Won’t happen. Why do you think so many criminals go to Dubai to disappear?’

I stare at her, waiting for the Nancy I knew and loved to tell me that this is some horrible game, that she’s been blackmailed into doing this, or that Dom manipulated her, like he manipulated me, but she’s still staring at me with the same cold eyes that took my breath away when we first walked in.

‘Screw this, Nancy. I’m going to get my daughter.’

I head for the door again, keeping an eye on her, bracing myself for another fight, but she doesn’t so much as blink. She’s frozen to the spot, watching me but not really seeing me. Did I get through to her? Has she realised how insane she’s acting? I crouch down by the closed metal door and reach for the catch. Out of the corner of my eye I see the blurred stripes of Nancy’s pyjama bottoms and the straight, hard line of the crowbar in her hands. I lift a hand to defend myself but I’m too slow and the crowbar connects with the back of my head. My nose crunches against the garage door and Nancy hits me again, across my right shoulder, and I drop onto the cold, concrete floor. I swim in and out of consciousness as the door opens, flooding the small space with light, then Nancy is beside me again, her face close to mine.

‘I hope you and Jack are happy together,’ she breathes. Then the garage door closes and the key turns in the lock.

My head throbs and my shoulder aches as I gingerly ease myself up into a sitting position. The back of my head is wet and when I touch it my hand is slick with blood. The sensation of it between my fingers, thick and viscous and warm, makes me dry-heave and I drag my hand across the floor – leaving a deep red stripe against the pale grey concrete. As the nausea fades, I grip the door handle, knowing it will be locked.

It doesn’t turn.

The only way to get out is through the door but with the lock on the other side only brute force will work. What I need is some kind of industrial saw that can cut through metal but any saws in this garage would probably struggle to cut wood. A crowbar might jimmy up the door, at least enough for me to shout for help through the gap, but when I reach around it’s not on the floor.

Slowly I get to my feet, resting my weight against the garage door until my head has stopped spinning and the black spots have disappeared from before my eyes. I search my pockets for my phone but it’s gone. Nancy must have taken it before she left.

I pick my way around the garage until I reach the shelving unit and run my hands over the shelves, feeling for the torch I saw when I first came in. One of my hands slides over it and I fumble for the handle, praying that it works. A whirring sound fills the garage and a weak shaft of light illuminates the floor. I sweep the light around the garage as I step around the motorbike, still searching for the crowbar.

And then I find it, lying on a pile of oily rags beside the bike. Either Nancy was too stupid to assume I’d use it, or she thought I was dead. I wind the torch over and over again then rest it on the ground, angled towards the door. I jam the crowbar beneath the base, directly beneath the handle, and I lean my weight into it. Metal scrapes against metal and … nothing.

The door doesn’t shift.

I try again, shifting the position of the crowbar but the door still doesn’t move. I try a third time, moving it further away from the lock. The door creaks, but doesn’t lift. Maybe Nancy wasn’t stupid after all. What good is a crowbar against heavy steel? With it in one hand and the torch in the other I head towards the back corner of the garage where a thin chink of light has found a hole in the roof. The walls must be seven feet tall and the only way I can reach to the roof is to stand on something. I test the nest of tables with my hand, agitating them to see if they could hold my weight. There’s no way, the legs are too delicate. They’re already wobbling under the smallest amount of pressure. The shelving unit is bolted to the wall so that’s no use. The cupboard is too tall to stand on and the glazed bookshelf is rickety. I consider wedging the nest of tables between two other pieces of furniture, or placing something beneath them. I sweep the torch over the garage, looking for something I can use, and my eyes rest on the large white object on the other side of the room. It’s been partially covered with a tartan picnic blanket and there are barbells and weights piled on the top. Why would anyone keep a chest freezer in a garage with no plug points and no electricity? Unless …

My vision blurs and I fight to stay on my feet. The walls are closing in on me and I can’t breathe.

‘Help!’ I smash the crowbar against the garage door. ‘Help! Someone help! Please! Someone help!’