‘Yes.’
Miranda started to cry again. This was too much. Why couldn’t George just have kept quiet? Even in this crisis, he couldn’t help showing off. She tried to plead with Sampson: ‘I promise I won’t call the police. You can take my mobile, disconnect the phone. Tie us up. I won’t call the police.’
‘I don’t believe you. And I need him to help me find the other boy.’
Miranda started to cry harder. Where was Pete? Why the hell wasn’t he home? What had she done, to invite this monster into her and her children’s lives?
‘Come here.’ He beckoned to George, who reluctantly stepped forward. ‘What’s your name?’
‘George.’
He turned to Miranda. ‘If George behaves, he’ll be safe. As soon as I find Jack, I’ll let him go. He’ll call you to let you know where he is. But if you call the police or try to follow me, I’ll kill him. Then I’ll come back here and kill your whole family. Understand?’
Miranda nodded tearfully.
Sampson crouched down and put out his hand. Miranda flinched, and then realised that he was giving her something.
‘This is Kate’s mobile phone. When she comes here, give the phone back to her and tell her I will call her. Tell her that if she calls the police or involves anyone else, I will kill whichever child I have with me: George or Jack.’
He stood up and looked down at them. ‘Remember – call the police and pay the price.’
Miranda nodded again.
‘George. Come with me.’
Sampson walked out of the room and George followed him, looking back once at his mother and sister, who held on to each other, unable to speak.
At the bottom of the stairs, George darted into the front room and grabbed the white robot. ‘Jack will want this.’
‘Right. Just get a move on.’
‘Get in the passenger seat.’ Sampson climbed in and locked the doors. He didn’t want the boy trying to escape. He stuck the robot on the backseat. He’d been successful with the teddy bear so thought he might be able to do the same with this toy. Before setting off he lit a cigarette. The boy coughed as smoke filled the car but Sampson ignored him.
The village disappeared in the rear-view mirror as they made their way towards the motorway, Sampson driving fast, but slowing down for speed cameras. It was a simple rule: don’t break minor laws; don’t draw attention to yourself. He existed in the shadows, the underground tunnels, co-existing with normal society like a city fox or rat. When he killed or hurt people, nobody knew he was there so nobody looked for him. It was a trick he learned long ago. Keep moving, keep changing, live on the outside, but don’t stick out.
He looked at the boy, who sat rigid, staring straight ahead.
‘Do you remember the registration of the car?’
George hesitated. ‘I think it was a Y reg.’
Sampson nodded, pleased. He wasn’t surprised the boy had noticed the registration. When he was George’s age he had played a game when travelling with his parents. While his parents sniped and bickered in the front seats, he would note the registrations of passing cars, assigning an imaginary fate to their passengers depending on their registration. C meant they would be crushed. B meant they’d burn. P – paralysed. H – heads chopped off. It was a fun game.
Sampson chucked his cigarette out of the window and followed the signs south, heading towards Heathrow. Sticking in the outside lane, he put his foot down. There were no speed cameras on this stretch of road, and Sampson eased up to eighty, then ninety. The Audi was smooth, but he noticed George grip the sides of his seat. The kid was brave, Sampson realised. Most kids would have blubbed by now. Sampson admired the fact that George hadn’t kicked up a fuss about being brought on this impromptu roadtrip. It didn’t mean he liked the boy or felt any sentiment towards him. But if George had snivelled or wept it would have been deeply fucking irritating. As long as the boy doesn’t piss me off and his mother doesn’t disobey me, I’ll let him live, he decided.
‘Tell me about Kate,’ Sampson said.
George looked at him. ‘P-pardon?’
‘I want you to tell me about Kate.’
‘Auntie Kate?’
‘Auntie Kate.’
George was quiet and Sampson began to get annoyed. Perhaps he would have to strangle the brat. But then George started to talk, as if he was reciting something he’d written for school. ‘Auntie Kate lives in America. She is my mum’s sister. She is quite old. She has a son called Jack. Her hair is dark brown. She is . . .’
‘Stop. For fuck’s sake.’
George clamped his mouth shut, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. He made a quiet whimpering sound.
Sampson said, ‘That doesn’t tell me anything. I want to hear what she’s like.’
Another drawn-out silence while George thought hard. ‘Don’t you know her?’
‘Of course I know her. I just . . .’ Sampson trailed off. What exactly did he want? It made absolutely zero sense, but he wanted to talk about Kate. To hear someone else talk about her. Even if it was only this kid.
‘What’s your earliest memory of her?’ he asked.
George said, ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Think. Remember.’
Shaken by Sampson’s menacing tone, George blurted, ‘I was really little and she came over from America and brought us some sweets, M and Ms I think, and I ate too many and was sick.’
‘What else?’
‘I remember her and my dad talking about boring science stuff, but Auntie Kate made science sound interesting. Even though it’s not.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does she smell like?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Tell me what she smells like.’
‘I don’t know.’
Sampson glared at him.
‘Like perfume?’
Sampson shook his head. ‘No. She smells like – like water. Like a clean, pure lake. Pure, yes.’
‘Water.’
‘Except she’s not pure.’ That was right. Kate was tainted. She had fucked Wilson. And now Wilson’s brother. And in between – well, who knew how many men she’d been with? But one of them was this Yank husband, Vernon, and she’d spawned his child. Sampson’s eyes were clouded by visions of Kate naked, having sex, riding some undistinguished male torso. Her eyes were screwed up tight and her skin gleamed with sweat and . . .
‘Are you alright?’ George asked.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ He paused. ‘You made a funny sound.’
Sampson glanced at the boy, aware that he was grinding his teeth. He exhaled through his nose and grabbed another cigarette. He wanted to talk about Kate more, but he despised himself for it. Weakness, weakness. He had to concentrate, do his job, stop thinking about Kate.
‘Do you love my Auntie Kate?’
‘What?’
Sampson snarled it, his voice cracking. George went rigid, flinching and waiting for the hit. But it didn’t come. Instead Sampson thumped the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. What the fuck was the kid talking about? The idea that he was in love with Kate