“What about Sandy? You could persuade him to help me.”
I try hard not to snicker. I really do. “If someone is going to kill you,” I say, reaching for a sachet of sweetener, “Sandy might offer to dig the hole.”
Tom’s hand shoots out, his fingers gripping my wrist. “I’m not kidding. They really are going to kill me.” I hear his frantic tone and see the fear in his eyes. Is he serious? “I thought they were real investors, but it turns out, they’re glorified loan sharks. Organized crime, Iz—they’re fucking criminals! They had guns. They took me to a warehouse.” His gaze turns inward, his expression one I’ve never seen before. “I was so frightened, I nearly pissed myself. You’ve got to help me, Isla.” He dips his head. I think he’s actually crying.
“Go to the police.” Despite what he’s put me through, I find myself turning my wrist, grasping his fingers in mine.
“You want me to die quicker?” His head comes up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Do you have money in the business? Cash flow?”
“You know I haven’t turned a profit yet.” Online retail can take years to build up a database of loyal buyers. Not to mention, I’m not catering to your average shopper. My buyers have to be courted delicately and persuaded by more than high quality.
“Can you borrow from Sandy?”
“You want me to ask him for money?” But I’m not really asking, more reminding him of how we both know I won’t.
“You could lie to him, tell him you need the money for a new roof or something.”
“Not happening.”
“Then maybe you can persuade him to invest—”
“He already said he won’t.”
Tom presses his elbow to the table and the knuckle of his thumb to his teeth. “I’m sorry, babe.”
“I’m sorry, too.” Sorry he’s in this state. Sorry I can’t think of a way to help him, other than the police. “What are you going to do?”
“The only thing I can do.”
“Which is?”
“Appeal to your better nature.”
“Me? I’ve told you, I don’t have—”
“They said—they said they’d take a meeting with you. As part payment.”
“What?” His words send icy-cold fingertips skittering down my spine. “No.” I snatch back my hand. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Please, Izzy. They’ve promised not to hurt you.”
“They’re going to kill you but be nice to me? Really, Tom. These are trustworthy criminals, are they?” My cappuccino turns to coffee cottage cheese in my stomach as I grab my bag from the next chair to me, thrusting my hand inside for my car keys.
“They’re hardly going to hurt the sister of a peer of the realm.”
“Nope.” Swallowing down a gurgle of panic, I almost jump from the chair, making the legs screech against the linoleum flooring. “You must think me the biggest fool alive. I’m not meeting with criminals. I’m not a human to be trafficked.”
“It’s not instead of me. They just want to talk to you.”
“Oh… piss off,” I hiss, ignoring the snippy looks of the oldies at the other table.
“They’ll kill me if you don’t!”
“Well, that’s a risk I find I’m willing to take.” I grasp my cup and take it back to the counter, sending Annie, the proprietor, a quick smile. I might want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible, but I’m also aware of how the villagers talk.
Came in for a coffee, so she did. Too high and mighty to clear her cup away when herself was done.
“Himself” is the duke. “Herself” would be me, though really should be Holland now.
Although, judging by Tom’s bleating as he follows me out, an unreturned cup is probably not what the gossip will be about.
“Izzy!”
I dash across the quiet high street, pointing the key fob at the car as I bite back my retort. The car bleeps as it unlocks, but I can’t open the door as Tom’s palm lands on it.
“I didn’t tell them about you, but they knew. I said you wouldn’t help, that we were divorced, but then they brought up the boys.”
“What?” The blood in my veins turns to ice water, my head turning like an automaton. My voice, when I find it, sounds much stronger than I feel. “Brought the boys up how? What exactly did they say,” I yell when he pauses. He seems to be choosing his words.
“They knew their names. Where they go to school. They suggested, no”—he rakes a hand through his hair—“more like implied it would be a shame if anything happened to them.”
Fear, like an icy-cold hand clamps over my entrails as it forms an unrelenting fist. It sounds like some clichéd made-for-TV show. Or I might think so if it wasn’t my children I was suddenly terrified for.
“It’s just a meeting,” Tom adds hurriedly. “In London. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I feel so very, very sick.
“I’ll take the boys to school, if you want.”