Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,19

There’s an old sofa in the corner with a sleeping bag on it, a small camping stove on the floor beside it with tins of food. Dominic is clearing a space at the end of the long meeting table.

‘Put the baby on the sofa over there,’ he says without looking at me.

I stay where I am, both hands around Mia’s back. I have to keep her close, to make sure we don’t get separated.

‘She’s still sleeping,’ I say quietly. ‘I can keep her in the sling for a bit longer.’

He pulls the black pistol from his waistband and holds it casually down by his side, staring at me with red-rimmed eyes.

‘I’m not going to tell you again.’

I stand and lift Mia gently out of the sling, laying her down against the back edge of the sofa so she doesn’t roll off, putting the toy octopus on a muslin cloth next to her. She snuffles and frowns but doesn’t wake.

‘Now take off your jacket, your shoes and your watch,’ he says. ‘Empty your handbag on the table and take everything out of the rucksack.’

‘Whatever’s happened between you and Kathryn, there must be a way to make it right,’ I say. ‘But you can’t take it out on Mia. Please.’

He goes to the sofa and holds the pistol over the baby’s sleeping form, the black muzzle barely a foot from her little chest.

My heart rises up into my mouth.

‘OK, OK, please, I’ll do it.’

‘This is going to get boring really quickly if you want to have a discussion every time I ask you to do something. And sooner or later, I don’t know, my finger might slip.’ He mimes the recoil of the pistol going off. ‘Boom.’

‘Don’t,’ I say quickly. ‘Please don’t do that. Please.’

I do as he asks, placing everything on the table.

‘Now put your arms out just like you’re at the airport.’

He leans in close and pats me down, rough but thorough, running his hands down my front and back, arms and legs, the smell of stale cigarettes strong on his breath. He tells me to sit down again, duct taping my wrists together behind me. He takes off his baseball cap, dark ginger hair flattened against his head. He runs a hand through it, back and forth, raking his fingers across his scalp, then starts to go through my handbag, examining each item as if it might hold some hidden secret. Opening the lipsticks, flicking through the diary, emptying everything out of my purse and feeling inside the bag’s fabric lining.

I study him while he works. He is heavy with muscle, thick knots of it around his shoulders and arms. His beard is too long to be smart, but not long enough to be an actual full beard. Ragged and uneven, more like he has simply stopped shaving and hasn’t bathed in a while. There are deep, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

‘What are you looking for?’ I say. ‘Because whatever it is, I haven’t got it.’

‘You’re not carrying ID?’

‘I’m not at work today.’

‘And where do you work?’

‘I told you, I’m a project manager for an aerospace and defence company.’

He grunts.

‘If you say so.’

Mia gurgles, awake now, and I instinctively try to stand to check on her.

‘Sit.’ He stares at me, his eyes hard.

Slowly I sit back down as he takes a knife from his jacket pocket. It has a short, wide blade and he goes to work with it on my shoes, a pair of soft brown loafers, prising at the heel and the leather inner. As I watch, he works the blade into a gap and saws back and forth until the whole heel comes free with a snap. He studies it, turning it over in his hand, before throwing it towards an overflowing rubbish bag in the corner.

‘Can I at least have my shoes back now?’ I say when he is finished. ‘Please.’

He throws both shoes into the pile. ‘You won’t be needing them.’

I swallow hard, my throat dry, absorbing the implication of his words.

‘What are you actually looking for?’

‘You really want to play this game?’

‘What game?’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. ‘I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.’

He sighs, unscrewing a ballpoint pen from my bag and pulling out the tube of ink.

‘GPS trackers.’

‘Why would I be carrying one of those?’

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he begins working his way through everything in the rucksack, turning each item over in his hand, feeling the seams, shaking the bottles of formula milk, studying