Deadline

But what choice did she really have? She couldn't do this alone.

There was a grandfather clock in the hallway, bought from an Islington antique dealer at an exorbitant price several years earlier, which had always looked out of place. Something about its relentless ticking tended to soothe her, though, and when it chimed midnight she stubbed out her latest cigarette in the ashtray and made her decision.

She retrieved a small black address book from her handbag on the kitchen top and found the number she wanted in the back, with no name next to it. She turned on the overhead light to dial, stopping at the last second. Thinking. They might have bugged the landline, and if they heard her . . . She couldn't risk it. Instead, she fed the digits into her mobile and stepped out into the back garden.

The night was silent as she walked to the pear trees at the end, thirty yards from the house, and stopped. She looked round, listening, remembering what the kidnapper had said: We're watching you. But they couldn't see her in the back of the garden, she was sure of it.

So, taking a deep breath, she pressed the call button on the mobile.

And took her situation to a whole new level.

Two

Jimmy Galante answered on the third ring. 'Hello,' he said quietly, his accent still firmly east London.

There was no background noise that Andrea could make out, which surprised her. Jimmy had always been something of a nightbird. Maybe he'd changed.

'It's me,' she said, keeping her voice low, knowing the risk she was taking.

'Who's me?' he asked.

'Andrea. Andrea Devern.'

He gave a raucous laugh down the phone. 'Jesus, now there's a ghost from the past. How you doing?'

'Bad. Very bad.'

'Shit, I'm sorry to hear that,' he said, but she could almost hear the smirk in his voice. Jimmy Galante was not the kind of man who wasted time or effort on sympathy. 'How did you get my number? You been keeping tabs on me, Andrea?'

She had, but she wasn't going to tell him that. At least not yet. 'Someone gave it to me.'

'Oh yeah? Who?'

'That doesn't matter. What matters is I need your help.'

'To do what?'

Andrea took a deep breath, looked round in the gloom. 'My daughter's been kidnapped. I need you to help me get her back.'

Jimmy's husky trademark chuckle rumbled down the line again. There was something inherently cruel in it. It made Andrea think of a child pulling the wings off a butterfly, or cutting a worm into quarters, and it still made her nervous, even now, years afterwards.

'Sure, Andrea, whatever you say. You don't speak to me for God knows how many years—'

'You haven't been here. You've been in Spain.'

'You could have called,' he snapped. 'In all that time, you could have fucking called. But you didn't bother, did you? Because you didn't want nothing then, but now you do, so it's' – and here he did a nasty, high-pitched imitation of Andrea – 'please, Jimmy, help me find my daughter, some nasty man's kidnapped her.' He chuckled again. 'It don't work like that, babe. I've got business interests over here now. What do I want to come back to a shithole like England for? Fuck that for a game of soldiers.'

Andrea sighed. She'd been expecting this, but it still hurt to hear his complete lack of interest, either in her or in Emma. But his reaction told her something else too. Jimmy Galante, for all his faults, wasn't involved in this. If he had been, he'd have asked more questions.

'I want you to help me, Jimmy,' said Andrea, knowing that the sudden firmness in her tone was born of desperation.

'Sorry, babe, forget it. You still ain't given me a good reason why I should.'

'Because,' she answered, 'Emma isn't just my daughter. She's yours too.'

There was a long silence at the other end, and then Jimmy started to say something, but Andrea cut him off, pressing her advantage. 'Emma's fourteen years old. Her birthday's April the second. Think of the timing, Jimmy.'

'I can't think that far back. It's been too long.'

'Try. Fifteen years ago, the summer of 1992. We were together, weren't we? That's when I got pregnant. Just before you left.'

'How the fuck do I know she's mine?' he barked. 'You was married, Andrea. Remember? You was the one shagging around behind your old man's back. Or has that conveniently slipped your mind now as well?'

'Billy was impotent,' she said, not wanting to speak ill of her dead husband, but knowing that she had no choice. 'And you were the only man I was sleeping with then. She's yours, Jimmy. Face it. Your child. And now some bastard's taken her.'

She could almost hear the cogs whirring as he thought things over down the other end of the phone. This time she left him to it.

'What's happened then?' he asked eventually, a tone of resignation in his voice.

For the first time since the phone call more than three hours earlier, Andrea experienced a tiny, barely perceptible twinge of optimism. It seemed like she might be getting Jimmy Galante onside, which meant there was a chance she was no longer facing this nightmare alone.

Constantly mentioning Emma by name, and keeping her voice as quiet as possible, she detailed the evening's events, trying not to leave anything out. When she was finished, Jimmy asked her if she could raise the money in the time she'd been given, and she told him that she reckoned she could. 'It's not going to be easy, but I can manage it,' she said.

'And your new old man . . . he's missing?'

'Yes,' she said slowly. 'He is.'

'You certainly know how to pick 'em, don't you, babe?'

'Don't, Jimmy.'

'Think he might be involved?'

'To be honest, I can't see it, but . . .' She paused a moment. 'But I can't say for sure.'

'All right. What's his name?'

'Pat Phelan.'

'Don't know the name.'

'He's from Finchley.'

'I know a couple of people up that end of town. I'll ask around. You haven't gone to the cops, then?'

'No. And I don't intend to either.'

'Good, no point involving those bastards. So, what do you need me to do?'

'I just need you here with me, OK? I'd feel better. After all, you are her dad.'

'I'd better be, Andrea,' he said ominously, his voice barely more than a whisper. 'Because if I'm not, and you've dragged me back under false pretences, then I really ain't going to be very happy at all. You understand what I mean?'

There was no doubt at all what he meant. There never was when Jimmy talked like that. 'Yeah, I understand,' she answered. 'But you are. I promise you that. You are.'

There was another pause.

'I'll be on the first available flight into Heathrow tomorrow,' he said at last. 'I'll call you.'

'Thanks.'

'Don't thank me,' he said blankly. 'I ain't doing it for you.' And he hung up.