Simon Kernick: Deadline

But she still couldn't explain his absence.

Jimmy's hand massaged her shoulder, slowly and deliberately. The sensation filled her with conflicting feelings. She still loved Pat, or at least she thought she did, but Jimmy had always done something to her, and even now she felt the first stirrings of arousal, accompanied by sharp pangs of guilt that she could even think about sex when her daughter was in the position she was in. Yet she couldn't help feeling much more secure with Jimmy here with her. He was strong, stronger than Pat could ever be, and she needed that now. But he was also trouble, and there was no part for him in her life now. Once this was over, she'd say goodbye to him for ever.

Although something told her it wasn't necessarily going to be as easy as that.

'Half a million quid. It looks beautiful.'

Jimmy Galante had always loved money. He just hadn't liked the part where you had to work for it, which was why he'd chosen armed robbery and major drug dealing as his means of making a living.

The ransom was in a large Adidas holdall that Andrea had dug out from the loft, which was now sitting open on the coffee table in her living room. Jimmy was sitting on one of the leather armchairs with a large wad of fifties secured by a rubber band in his hand. His dark eyes moved from the wad to the contents of the holdall, then back again. The expression on his face was pure, unadulterated excitement.

'It's not all there yet,' she told him. 'I'm still sixty short. I need to pick up the rest at the bank tomorrow.'

'Where did all this lot come from, then?'

'Never you mind.'

He grinned. 'Been hiding it from the taxman, have you?'

'It's none of your business, Jimmy. The lucky thing is I've got it. It means our daughter can come home.'

The grin disappeared, and he nodded soberly, returning the wad of fifties to the holdall.

Initially, Andrea had been reluctant to bring Jimmy back here. She knew the kidnappers had been watching her and was afraid they might have bugged the house, so on Jimmy's advice they'd driven to a shop in Kensington which sold surveillance products and Andrea had bought a bug finder for a hundred pounds.

When they'd got back it was already dark, and after checking there was no one watching from the street, she and Jimmy had hurried inside, and he'd gone to work with the bug finder. It had taken him only seconds to locate a tiny electronic trip switch attached to the bottom of the skirting on the front door which would have alerted the kidnappers remotely as soon as the front door was opened, and was clearly how they'd known to phone her as soon as she'd got home the previous night.

Inside the house, though, the bug finder hadn't picked up anything, but this didn't stop Andrea feeling that the place had been violated by the kidnappers. It was now twenty-four hours since she'd found out about Emma's disappearance.

She watched Jimmy carefully as she sat smoking what was probably her fortieth cigarette of the day and drinking her third glass of red wine, and wondered if she could trust him. She'd hoped that telling him that Emma was his daughter would stir his parental instinct, but now she wasn't so sure it even existed. In the four hours since she'd picked him up from the airport, he'd hardly asked about Emma at all, seeming far more concerned about filling his stomach. He'd insisted on ordering an Indian takeaway, at the same time bemoaning the quality of them in his little corner of the Costa del Sol. Andrea had hardly been able to touch hers, but Jimmy had fallen upon his food ravenously. He'd eaten enough for two men, and washed it all down with four cans of Stella.

When Andrea had shown him a picture of Emma she'd brought with her to the airport, she'd said quietly, and with a sense of awe in her voice, 'This is your daughter, Jimmy. This is Emma.' His reaction had been a vague half-smile and a murmured, 'She's pretty.' Nothing else. Just those two words. She's pretty. For Andrea, this hadn't been enough. She'd wanted more. In truth, Emma didn't look much like Jimmy, but then again she didn't look much like either of them. Andrea was a natural brunette, with features that were sharp and well defined – a very attractive woman, but one with a hard edge to her. Emma, meanwhile, was a natural blonde, with small, delicate features, a round snub nose, and lively blue eyes. She was pretty in a sweet, cherubic way, and looked young for her age. The photo Andrea had shown Jimmy was a head-and-shoulders shot taken on Hampstead Heath the previous summer. Emma was grinning at the camera, showing a neat row of white teeth courtesy of the brace she'd been wearing for the previous six months, and which had been taken out the week before that shot. It was a celebration smile, and to Andrea the most beautiful smile in the world. It killed her to look at it. But not Jimmy. All he could manage was, 'She's pretty.'

She wondered if he genuinely believed he was the father or whether he'd concluded she was bullshitting in order to get his help. It was difficult to tell. That was the thing with Jimmy. He rarely let on what he was thinking, preferring to play mind games and keep people guessing.

As she sat there watching him, she realized she'd never really known him. On the one hand he was a ruthless bastard capable of terrible violence. On the other, he was also capable of great shows of affection. She remembered how once, not long after she'd first started seeing him, she arrived at his flat for a prearranged visit only to find that he wasn't there. Even though it was the early days of mobile phones, both of them had one, and she called him. He didn't answer so she took a walk round his neighbourhood before trying his number again. This time he answered, and he sounded breathless. Apologizing for the delay but not going into any detail as to what had caused it, he told her that he'd be back at the flat in fifteen minutes, although it was actually nearer half an hour before he finally pulled up in his Jaguar XJ6.

As he stepped out, Andrea could tell that something wasn't right. He was looking worn out, and his hair, usually so immaculately styled, was unkempt. His shirt was partly untucked, and as he jogged across the road towards her she saw a handkerchief tied tightly round his left hand.

'What happened to you?' she asked with a smile, looking towards the hand.

'Nothing for you to worry about,' he answered with a smile of his own, kissing her on the lips before ushering her inside the building. 'Sorry I'm late.'

Andrea knew better than to ask too many questions. She was aware that Jimmy operated outside the law. That much was obvious. He didn't appear to have a proper job but always had plenty of money. He'd told her he owned a construction business but was suitably vague, and tended to keep very odd hours for someone running his own company, often staying in bed with her until mid-afternoon on a weekday. Andrea was no fool. She knew. And the truth was that at the time it didn't bother her unduly. In fact, she found the whole thing very exciting. Jimmy was handsome and mysterious, a fantastic lover, and possessed the kind of wild streak a young woman like her couldn't help but find attractive.

Once they were inside the flat, Jimmy showed that wild streak by pulling her close and kissing her hard, then lifting her in his arms and taking her through to the bedroom, where he flung her on the bed and tore off her clothes. They made intense, passionate love, several times in quick succession, and when they were lying, sated, in each other's arms, his free hand – the one with the handkerchief wrapped round it – gently stroking her belly, he said he had something for her.

'What?' she asked, intrigued, trying to ignore the tiny flecks of blood on his fingers, just visible beneath the fabric.