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

‘Let’s just pop this on now and then we can go. We’re going to see Granny and Grandad.’

      ‘No.’ Her bottom lip wobbles. ‘No nappy, Mummy.’

      ‘Elise, please.’ As I sit down on the sofa I hear the sound of keys being turned in the front door.

      A second later my husband flies into the room, his cheeks ashen and his eyes wide. He takes one look at Elise and scoops her up into his arms, pressing a hand against her back as he holds her tightly against his chest. He notices me watching.

      ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘I thought Elise was … I … you can’t leave a message like that and then NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE.’

      Elise yelps in shock as his shout fills the living room.

      ‘Sorry, sorry, baby.’ He strokes her hair, his wide palm cupping the back of her head. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

      ‘Max,’ I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. ‘Can we talk about this in the kitchen, away from Elise?’

      ‘I’m sorry!’ Max says, the second we step into the kitchen. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I was just … fucking hell, Jo, you really scared me.’ He rubs his hands over his face, peering at me through the gaps in his fingers.

      ‘You were scared? Where the hell have you been? I rang you. I called you as soon as it happened.’

      ‘I was in a meeting with Fiona.’

      ‘Seriously?’ I can’t keep incredulity out of my voice. ‘Have you got any idea what I’ve—’

      ‘I’m sorry. OK. Just tell me what happened.’

      He listens, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, as I tell him about being followed down the street, about Paula getting into my car, about the threat she made to Elise. I pause when I reach the end, waiting for a reaction, but Max doesn’t say anything.

      ‘What?’ I say. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

      ‘I …’ He runs a hand over his hair. ‘I’m shocked I guess. I’m … trying to make sense of what happened.’

      ‘Make sense of what? A stranger got into my car, started rooting around for something and then threatened Elise. And she knows you, Max. What is there to make sense of? We need to ring the police.’

      ‘The woman said her name was Paula?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Paula what?’

      ‘She didn’t tell me her surname.’

      ‘What did she look like? I worked with someone called Paula about six or seven years ago. She left on maternity leave and didn’t come back.’

      ‘Was she blonde, early fifties?’

      ‘No. She was in her twenties, mixed race. And she didn’t have a problem with me.’

      ‘You can’t think of anyone else called Paula who might know you? Someone you investigated or did a story on?’

      ‘No. I’d remember if I had. And I’ve only done one investigation, you know that.’

      ‘But you’ve interviewed loads of people and run hundreds of stories. There has to be at least one Paula that you’ve pissed off over the years. Maybe we should ring Fiona,’ I add before he can object. ‘She could search the archives or something. Then we’ll have something to take to the police.’

      ‘No.’ Max shakes his head. ‘Jo, I’m not ringing Fiona. For one she’ll be at home by now, and two …’ He tails off.

      ‘Two, what? Why are you looking at me like that again?’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like you don’t believe me.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      ‘Yes, you are. You’re giving me the same look you gave me when I told you about my panic attack in the corner shop.’

      ‘Oh God.’ Max slumps back against the kitchen unit. The cheap MDF creaks under his weight. Our house isn’t the only thing that’s falling apart. ‘Do we have to talk about that again?’

      ‘Yes, we do. I told you I felt threatened by the way that woman was looking at me and you said—’

      ‘That she was just concerned because Elise was having a tantrum. Jo, it’s her shop. If I owned a shop and some kid was screaming their head off I’d stare at the mother too!’

      ‘Today was different! Paula threatened me. She threatened Elise. I can’t believe you’re not taking this seriously. Look!’ I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my daughter’s rainbow-coloured glove. ‘She gave this to me. There’s no way she could have got hold of it unless she’d been near Elise. I put both gloves in her pocket when I took her to nursery this morning.’

      My husband runs a hand over the back of his neck and gives me an exasperated look. ‘Have you checked Elise’s pockets for the other glove?’

      I glance towards the front door where I dumped my daughter’s things as soon as we came in.

      ‘That’s a no then.’ Max strides out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He picks up Elise’s coat, thrusts his hands into the small pockets and then turns his attention to the bag. He pulls out our daughter’s spare clothes one by one. When it’s empty he turns his attention to the other clothes, hanging up on hooks by the front door. Scarves, hats, coats, jackets, hoodies and umbrellas fall to the floor as he selects, searches and then discards them.

      ‘She must have taken both gloves,’ I say from behind him. ‘Max, we need to ring the police.’

      But he’s off again, sidling past me to the pile of coats hanging on the banister.

      ‘Did you wear this today?’ He holds up a soft grey coat from Wallis.

      ‘Yes. Why?’

      He thrusts a hand into one pocket, then the other, then holds his palm out towards me. Lying alongside a screwed-up tissue and a packet of raisins is a tiny rainbow-coloured glove.

      ‘Look.’ He plucks the other glove from my fingers and places it on his palm, making a pair. ‘Two gloves. They were both in your pocket. Did you blow your nose while you were walking to the car?’

      I automatically touch my nose. My nostrils are red raw from the streaming cold I’ve had for days. ‘Possibly. I can’t remember.’

      ‘Well, there you go then. One of the gloves fell out of your pocket when you took out a tissue. And this Paula woman picked it up and gave it back to you.

      ‘You’re tired, Jo,’ he adds before I can respond. ‘You haven’t been sleeping well and work has been stressing you out. A stranger got into your car and you freaked out. That’s perfectly understandable.’

      Irritation bubbles inside me at the patronising tone of his voice and the ‘poor little woman’ look on his face, and I have to fight to keep my tone level.

      ‘You’re right, Max. I am tired. And I am stressed. And OK, maybe I got it wrong about the glove, but I didn’t misinterpret what Paula said. She definitely threatened me.’

      ‘OK.’ He touches a hand to my arm. It’s a weary gesture, one that matches the look in his eyes. ‘Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that we do ring the police.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘Now, imagine that you’re a police officer. Someone rings you up to tell you that a stranger handed you something that you dropped and then told you to look after your daughter’s things. Does that sound like a crime to you?’

      ‘It does if they also say, “And your daughter” with real menace.’

      ‘Like