The Escape: The gripping, twisty thriller from the #1 bestseller. C.L. Taylor

      Max smiles for the first time since he sat down. He would have loved to see the look on Ian White’s face when the police turned up to arrest him. Evil bastard. He’d set up a national chain of money-lending shops that charged single mums, pensioners and people on benefits ridiculous amounts of interest and then turned up at their home and threatened them with violence when they couldn’t pay it back. Coercion, drug-taking and violence were rife. Max had witnessed one of Ian’s goons shoving an old man up against the wall of his own home when he said he wouldn’t be able to eat for a week if he paid up. He couldn’t react. He couldn’t stop him. All he could do was pray that the tiny camera in his glasses was getting enough footage to convict the bastards.

      ‘And you weren’t worried about your cover slipping? No one at Cash Creditors suspected you?’ Fiona asks.

      ‘There were a couple of sticky moments but I talked my way out of them.’

      ‘That doesn’t surprise me in the least.’ His boss smiles tightly. ‘So, are we going to have to start calling you Donal MacIntyre now then?’

      ‘Nah.’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘He’s old hat. Max Blackmore will do fine, although if you want to call me “sir” that would be fine too.’

      He stiffens as Fiona’s smile slips and she raises an eyebrow. Shit. He always takes a joke one step too far.

       Chapter 3

      The second the buzzer sounds and the door is un-locked I fly through the nursery, dodging coat stands, a papier-mâché homage to The Hungry Caterpillar, and several members of staff.

      ‘Elise?’ A bead of sweat trickles down my lower back as I fumble with the catch of the gate at the ‘twos room’. Half a dozen pairs of tiny eyes look up at me in interest and alarm as I step into the room. None of them belong to my daughter.

      ‘Everything OK, Jo?’ Sharon, a woman with a tight ponytail and an even tighter smile, looks up from her position in front of the children, a picture book in her hands. Another of the nursery staff, a sweet eighteen-year-old called Bethan, looks up from the table she’s cleaning. She smiles a hello but there’s confusion in her eyes.

      ‘Jo?’ Sharon says and I search the faces of the children again, just in case I missed one.

      ‘I can’t see Elise. Where is she?’

      I don’t wait for her reply. Instead I open the door to the garden. It’s empty; the sandpit abandoned; an array of brightly coloured plastic tools lying on the sand, illuminated by the security light.

      ‘Jo?’ Sharon appears beside me, an irritated expression on her face. ‘What’s the matter. I’m sure Elise is in—’

      ‘Mummy!’

      The plaintive cry from across the room makes me turn. And there she is, my tiny little girl with her dark blonde hair still in the bunches I tied this morning, clutching the hand of Alice, her key worker. I like Alice. She’s kind and gentle and she doesn’t give me lectures about timekeeping if I’m five minutes late.

      ‘I did a wee wee,’ my daughter says proudly as I dash across the room.

      ‘In the toilet,’ she adds as I lift her into my arms and press my face into the soft warmth of her neck.

      ‘It was her idea,’ Alice says. ‘She said she didn’t want to wear nappies any more.’

      ‘My God.’ I hold my daughter tightly and stroke her hair over and over. ‘Oh my God.’

      ‘Jo?’ The tone in Alice’s voice changes. ‘Is everything OK? You look very pale. Is it your stepdad? Did something happen?’

      I want to tell her that I have just driven across Bristol at breakneck speed, certain that the woman who tricked her way into my car had somehow harmed my daughter. I rang Max over and over again but he didn’t pick up. Neither did Fiona, his boss. I tried to call the police but I couldn’t breathe, never mind talk, and I ended the call before it connected. My hands were shaking so much it took me three attempts to get the keys in the ignition and the car started. I want to tell Alice all these things but, more than anything else, I want to get Elise home. We will both be safe there.

      ‘Jo!’ Alice shouts as I hurry through the nursery with Elise’s legs wrapped around my waist and her small face buried into my neck. ‘You haven’t signed her out. And you’ve forgotten her coat!’

      I fumble with the door latch. Other parents are waiting to be let in, watching me through the glass panel. Their smiles turn to frustration. I can’t get my fingers to work properly, I’m shaking so much. Finally, Sharon appears beside me. She thrusts Elise’s bag and coat at me and then opens the door with one swift turn of the latch. I mutter an apology to the other parents as they part to allow me out of the door.

      ‘She looked a bit wired,’ a woman says, sotto voce, but loud enough for me to hear, as I step out onto the street.

      ‘Probably a couple too many glasses of wine at lunch,’ someone comments and a chorus of laughter follows me out onto the street.

      Back home I pause as I reach the living room, Elise’s cup of milk in my hand. Outside in the street a woman is laughing – a loud, throaty cackle that makes all the hairs go up on my arms. Paula knows the name of our road. She’s seen me take Elise to the park. She’s probably watched us leave the house. I’ve already checked – twice – that all the doors and windows are locked but I dart to the front door anyway and jiggle on the handle to make sure. Still locked.

      I hurry back into the living room where my daughter is still on the sofa, staring at the TV, a blanket over her legs, and Effie Elephant, her favourite soft toy, clutched to her chest.

      ‘Milk,’ she says as I cross the room, peel back the curtain and peer outside. Two women, both of them dark-haired, saunter down the street. The one on the right cackles again and her friend punches her playfully on the arm. It’s not Paula. But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.

      ‘Here you go, sweetheart.’ I force a smile as I hand the cup of milk to my daughter. Her gaze doesn’t flicker from the screen. She’s entranced by Makka Pakka placing rocks, one by one, into a wheelbarrow. She’s relaxed and happy … I just wish I felt the same.

      ‘Mummy’s just going to pack a few things so we can go and visit Granny and Grandad for a few days. I’ll be back in a second. I’m just going upstairs.’

      I move quickly, running from room to room, gathering up clothes, nappies, toys, toiletries and medication, freezing whenever I hear a strange sound, shouting down to my daughter to check she’s OK. I throw everything into a large wheeled suitcase and then return to Elise’s bedroom. I stand in the middle of the room with my hands on my hips as I scan the shelves for anything I may have missed. I can’t believe Max did this to us. He swore to me that he would never put our family in danger. He reassured me over and over again that we would be safe, that no one would come after us as a result of his investigation. And I believed him. I don’t know who was more naïve, me or him. Our marriage has been on its last legs for a while. I’ve tried to keep it going, for Elise’s sake, but I can’t do this any more. I can’t spend my life with a man who puts his career before his family’s safety.

      I return to my bedroom and zip up the suitcase then open it again. Have I got absolutely everything I need for Elise? It doesn’t matter if I’ve forgotten something of mine but we’ve got a problem if I forget something of hers. I can’t ask Mum to leave Andy’s side to go to the shops for me. And if I go …

      I grip hold of the chest of drawers and take a steadying breath. I can do this. I’ve driven up to Mum’s loads of times and nothing has happened. I know the route: M5, A41, all the way up. Approximately three hours. It’s nearly 7 p.m. now and Elise will probably sleep the whole way.

      ‘Sweetheart!’