‘What the hell, you think I’m lying anyway. But ask yourself this: If I’d really made the story up, would it
have sounded so poorly rehearsed?’
She was right. Crazy though it sounded, the very fact that she’d known nothing about the kidnapped girl endorsed her credibility. No one seeking to make herself look important by
concocting false testimony would have been careless enough to overlook the second victim.
Unless that, too, was part of a plan I failed to comprehend.
‘I can only say what I saw,’ she said, shouldering her rucksack.
I also got to my feet – rather too abruptly, because I felt dizzy all of a sudden. My migraine had now reached the stage at which only prescription drugs would deal with it. Fortunately,
there was a half-used pack of Maxalt somewhere amid the clutter on the Volvo’s passenger seat.
‘Wait,’ I said, massaging the nape of my neck. This time Alina dispensed with her cane and relied entirely on the dog, which gently tried to tow her past me. I gestured to her to
stop. She couldn’t see, of course, so I caught hold of her by the sleeve of her sweater.
‘What?’ was all she said, and turned her head in my direction. We were close for the first time and I caught a whiff of the discreet scent she was wearing. It was light and less
tangy than I’d have expected.
‘Why waste time on me if you don’t believe me anyway?’
It was a fair question, and I tried to answer it at length. I told her that I’d often interviewed people whom I didn’t at first believe, but who had changed my mind. Checking a
source was never a waste of time, I said, especially in the case of a story as exceptional as hers.
Suddenly, however, everything went blurry before my eyes. They felt as if they’d been staring at a flickering screen for hours on end. I was also feeling nauseous, so I limited myself to
asking the one question that could definitely enable me to verify the truth of Alina’s statements: ‘Where did you take the boy?’
63
(10 HOURS 40 MINUTES TO THE DEADLINE)
TOBY TRAUNSTEIN
The walls of his prison were... soft?
Toby kneaded his hands together to make sure his sense of touch wasn’t deceiving him. This was more than likely because his senses were currently monopolized by something else: thirst. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but it must have been hours. Possibly days. The last time he’d woken up with such a sore throat had been New Year’s
Day, after he’d made a pig of himself on all those stupid crisps. But it hadn’t hurt half as much as this.
And my arms hadn’t exploded either.
He didn’t know what had woken him, his unbearable thirst or the throbbing pain in his arms. They felt as if he’d been lying on them for a whole week.
Rolling over on his side in the cramped darkness, relieving his hands of the weight of his body, took a laborious eternity (longer than one of old Hertel’s maths lessons) . The blood
came coursing back into his numb limbs and he started to scratch the places that smarted most: his upper arms, the crook of his elbow and his wrists. His wrists, especially, felt the way they had
when he was looking for his football in the garden next door and reached into that lousy clump of stinging nettles.
‘You should only slap them, not scratch,’ he remembered his mother saying. Honestly, Mummy, that didn’t even work with a mosquito bite. This itches so much, I feel like
ripping the skin off my bones.
He made a claw of his right hand, applied it to his left wrist at pulse level, and drew a deep breath.
Only slap, don’t scratch.
Stuff it. He dug his fingernails deep into his flesh and groaned with relief when the itching abated a little. It even took his mind off his thirst, if only for a few seconds. He’d
scarcely stopped scratching when the flames flared up again and the throbbing, smarting sensation maddened him even more than the impenetrable darkness surrounding him.
‘Hello?’ he called, and
have sounded so poorly rehearsed?’
She was right. Crazy though it sounded, the very fact that she’d known nothing about the kidnapped girl endorsed her credibility. No one seeking to make herself look important by
concocting false testimony would have been careless enough to overlook the second victim.
Unless that, too, was part of a plan I failed to comprehend.
‘I can only say what I saw,’ she said, shouldering her rucksack.
I also got to my feet – rather too abruptly, because I felt dizzy all of a sudden. My migraine had now reached the stage at which only prescription drugs would deal with it. Fortunately,
there was a half-used pack of Maxalt somewhere amid the clutter on the Volvo’s passenger seat.
‘Wait,’ I said, massaging the nape of my neck. This time Alina dispensed with her cane and relied entirely on the dog, which gently tried to tow her past me. I gestured to her to
stop. She couldn’t see, of course, so I caught hold of her by the sleeve of her sweater.
‘What?’ was all she said, and turned her head in my direction. We were close for the first time and I caught a whiff of the discreet scent she was wearing. It was light and less
tangy than I’d have expected.
‘Why waste time on me if you don’t believe me anyway?’
It was a fair question, and I tried to answer it at length. I told her that I’d often interviewed people whom I didn’t at first believe, but who had changed my mind. Checking a
source was never a waste of time, I said, especially in the case of a story as exceptional as hers.
Suddenly, however, everything went blurry before my eyes. They felt as if they’d been staring at a flickering screen for hours on end. I was also feeling nauseous, so I limited myself to
asking the one question that could definitely enable me to verify the truth of Alina’s statements: ‘Where did you take the boy?’
63
(10 HOURS 40 MINUTES TO THE DEADLINE)
TOBY TRAUNSTEIN
The walls of his prison were... soft?
Toby kneaded his hands together to make sure his sense of touch wasn’t deceiving him. This was more than likely because his senses were currently monopolized by something else: thirst. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but it must have been hours. Possibly days. The last time he’d woken up with such a sore throat had been New Year’s
Day, after he’d made a pig of himself on all those stupid crisps. But it hadn’t hurt half as much as this.
And my arms hadn’t exploded either.
He didn’t know what had woken him, his unbearable thirst or the throbbing pain in his arms. They felt as if he’d been lying on them for a whole week.
Rolling over on his side in the cramped darkness, relieving his hands of the weight of his body, took a laborious eternity (longer than one of old Hertel’s maths lessons) . The blood
came coursing back into his numb limbs and he started to scratch the places that smarted most: his upper arms, the crook of his elbow and his wrists. His wrists, especially, felt the way they had
when he was looking for his football in the garden next door and reached into that lousy clump of stinging nettles.
‘You should only slap them, not scratch,’ he remembered his mother saying. Honestly, Mummy, that didn’t even work with a mosquito bite. This itches so much, I feel like
ripping the skin off my bones.
He made a claw of his right hand, applied it to his left wrist at pulse level, and drew a deep breath.
Only slap, don’t scratch.
Stuff it. He dug his fingernails deep into his flesh and groaned with relief when the itching abated a little. It even took his mind off his thirst, if only for a few seconds. He’d
scarcely stopped scratching when the flames flared up again and the throbbing, smarting sensation maddened him even more than the impenetrable darkness surrounding him.
‘Hello?’ he called, and
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