Capital Punishment by Robert Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

possible.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘She’s been kidnapped and there’s a whole process for us to go through before you’ll get the chance to speak to your daughter.’
    Silence. Mental paralysis. Words that had been on the way jammed in her throat. Pure emotion took hold. Her blood turned to ether: thin, cold, unable to transport oxygen. A swoon, replete with nausea, walloped through her head.
    ‘Mrs Marks?’ said the voice. ‘Can you hear me?’
    The word ‘yes’ fell from her mouth like a loose tooth.
    ‘Listen very carefully. Your daughter has been kidnapped. I know this is a shock,’ said the voice gently, but then the tone changed. ‘You must not go to the police and you must not talk to the press. If we believe that you have done either of these things, you will never hear from us again. And, I’m quite serious about this, Mrs Marks, you will only see your daughter if you are extremely lucky, but it will be some months later, and she will be in an advanced state of decomposition and forever troubling the mind of the unfortunate hiker, farm worker or gamekeeper who has chanced upon her remains. Do you understand me?’
    ‘No police, no press,’ said Isabel, on automatic.
    ‘You can talk to Alyshia’s father about what has happened, but—’
    ‘What do you want? He’ll want to know that.’
    ‘Well, that’s not so easy,’ said the voice. ‘That will have to be discussed over—’
    ‘Money? Is it money you want? How much money?’
    ‘I wish it could be as straightforward as that. Of course, rich people always believe that all anybody wants from them is their money. And that the kidnap of someone as precious as your daughter can be sorted out with a bit of negotiation over a few days or, at worst, a few weeks. I start at fifty million, you come back at twenty thousand and, after a bit of good old Asian haggling, we agree at, say, half a million. This is not about money. I am not going to be so crass as to demand that you put a price on your only child’s head. Your ex-husband will try to dismiss our little endeavour as a mere money-making exercise and it’s up to you, Mrs Marks, to persuade him to take it much more seriously than that.’
    This man’s talk had a strange effect on Isabel. His calmness earthed her. After the initial shock and the terrible, chilling constriction it had inflicted on her, his chattiness, even the severity of his articulate threat, had restored some normal flow. Her brain finally started to function.
    ‘Do you know my ex-husband?’
    ‘Frank D’Cruz is in the news so much these days you could go anywhere in the world and find people who
think
they know him. The difference is, Mrs Marks, that you know him better than anybody.’
    ‘Do I?’ she said. ‘We’ve been divorced for twelve years and we weren’t together much for three years before that.’
    ‘That’s what happens when you become very wealthy: you make sure people know you as little as possible. It leaves you greater leeway for ruthlessness,’ said the voice. ‘One last thing before I go, Mrs Marks. I will only speak to
you.
Understand? Nobody else is acceptable. Not your husband, not a friend, not a lawyer. Only you. If anybody else answers the phone, I will hang up. Three strikes and you’re out.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘If somebody other than you answers that phone more than twice, you won’t see Alyshia again,’ said the voice. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Marks.’
    ‘Wait,’ said Isabel, surprised at what had just come to her. ‘How do I know you’re holding her? That’s the first thing my ex-husband’s going to ask.’
    ‘No physical proof, although don’t expect her at your lunch party tomorrow.’
    ‘That won’t be good enough.’
    ‘Alyshia asked me to remind you that when she was small, she used to call her Portuguese grandmother
vo-vó-voom
.’
    The phone went dead, leaving Isabel Marks with the sensation of a double pulmonary collapse.

 
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    2.50 A.M., SUNDAY 11TH MARCH