‘No!’ Claire reached out and grabbed my wrist. ‘Lawrence, we can’t. The note said that if we call, we’ll never see Aiden again. He could be watching us right now…’
‘We can’t just do nothing, Claire,’ I replied sharply. ‘We don’t even know if it’s real or not. What if it’s a hoax? If it is him, maybe they can track him down. This man may have done this before. We want justice. We want our son back.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a hoax or not! I just want our baby back.’
‘Please, Lawrence. We’ll pay. I’ll do whatever they want! Let’s get the money. Let’s do this!’ Claire shouted.
Her insistence seemed strange… something about her words felt forced. But I didn’t want to dwell on it. I tried not to think about it.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’
We drove to the bank in silence. My wife sat in the back, her arms crossed tightly over her stomach. She stared out the window, as if her mind had drifted away from everything around her.
She looked fragile, pale, as if she might fall apart at the wrong word.
Ten minutes later, she turned abruptly.
‘Stop. Right now.’
‘What?’ I asked, already slowing down. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Stop now. Please,’ Claire asked again.
I carefully pulled over to the kerb, barely managing to park before she threw open the door and jumped onto the pavement.
She bent over and started vomiting into the gutter, both hands clasped around her knees.
I got out to help, but she pushed me away.
After the second bout, she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
‘I can’t do this, Lawrence,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t go with you. I feel like I’ll end up right back here just thinking about it. I can’t…’
I studied her for a long time.
‘Do you want me to take you home?’ I asked.
‘Please. Just… do it without me. Take the money. And bring our boy home safely.’
When we got home, I helped Claire to bed, tucked her in and kissed her forehead.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I find out anything.’
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were already closed, her face turned towards the wall.
Back in the car, I tried not to let my thoughts drift into the abyss. I focused on the road, on my breathing, on the feel of the steering wheel under my hands.
At the bank, I asked for a large cash withdrawal. The teller’s eyes widened when I said the amount.
‘I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have that amount in cash. We can give you £50,000 today. The rest will take time to process.’
‘Then give me that,’ I said, barely containing the tension in my voice. ‘I need it urgently.’
The cashier nodded and began to process the request.
‘Are you in trouble, sir?’ he asked gently. ‘We have specialists who can help…’
‘No, no,’ I said, unsure if I was making the right choice. ‘I just need to make an urgent payment. That’s why I need the cash. That’s all.’
What would it mean if I told the cashier what was really going on?
But how could I explain that my son had been kidnapped from his cot while his mother was less than fifteen feet away?
They brought me the bags, neatly folded and tied with rubber bands, as if from a heist movie. It still didn’t feel right. Too little. Too light.
But it had to work.
I put it in a black sports bag, zipped it up, and drove to the pier, hoping it would be enough to buy some time — or lead someone into a mistake.
The lockers were located in a dimly lit corridor behind the gift shop, barely visible. I placed my bag in locker 117, closed it, and walked away, taking cover behind a parked delivery van.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Chris appeared.
The cleaner walked towards the lockers in a colourful T-shirt and huge glasses, as if he were doing his daily shopping.
He didn’t even look back. He walked up to the locker, fiddled with the lock until it opened, and took the bag.
I had no choice but to follow him.
I caught up with Chris when he turned at the snack machines. I didn’t waste any time.
‘Where’s my son?’ I barked, grabbing him by the collar and pressing him against the tiled wall. The sports bag slipped from his hands, and I could see a hint of surprise in his eyes.
‘What? I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ he stammered, his voice tense with panic.
‘You took my son,’ I whispered. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. The camera, the bag, the fake crying—was that your idea?’
The cleaner’s hands rose in a defensive gesture.
“I didn’t take anyone! I swear! I was hired to move the bag. I got the instructions in my locker, along with the cash. That’s all I know. I don’t know who hired me. Listen, I’m a cleaner — I’ll do anything for a little extra money. I was sent here to pick up this bag from cell 117.”
He looked scared.
Not the fake, panicky kind of scared that someone rehearses, but raw, sweaty, pounding with fear.
‘I was told to leave the bag back in my work locker… someone was going to pick it up. I was told not to open it.’