The Bombmaker by Stephen Leather

inside her jacket,
    put it on top of the print-out and slid them both across the counter to the receptionist.
    'Could you do me a favour?' asked Andy. 'If my husband should pop by in the next few days, could you give this to him?'
    The receptionist looked at the envelope. Andy had written 'MARTIN HAYES' in capital letters. 'I could post it, if you like?'
    Andy shook her head. 'He's not at home. He's travelling. He had hoped to meet me here but I've got to go up to my parents'.
    She nodded at the envelope. 'It's not really that important. If he doesn't call for it, you can throw it away.'
    'No problem,' said the receptionist. She gave Andy a credit card slip to sign and put the envelope in a drawer. Andy left the hotel. She followed the instructions she'd been given the previous evening and carried her suitcase into the multi storey carpark. The blue Transit van was on the third floor. There was a sign on the side that said 'CITY LANDSCAPING', and underneath it an 0181 telephone number. Andy put her suitcase on the floor by the rear doors. A man in a blue suit and a red tie drove by in a BMW. Andy wondered if she was being watched, if someone had followed her from the hotel. She'd looked around a couple of times but the streets were too crowded for her to have picked anyone out.
    Another car drove by, a grey Volvo hatchback. Then there was silence. Andy reached out and turned the door handle.
    She'd half expected, hoped maybe, that it would be locked, but it turned easily and she pulled open the door and threw her THE BOMBMAKER suitcase in. She took a last look around the carpark and then climbed in after the suitcase.
    She sat down and scanned the metal floor of the van. There was no sign of a hood. She took the typed letter out of her jacket pocket and reread it. A black hood. There should be a black hood. She got down on her hands and knees and checked the corners, right up to the seats at the front. There was no hood.
    Had she got the wrong van? No, of course not. It was blue, it was a Transit, and it was on the third floor. And it had the name of a landscaping firm on the side. It had to be the right van. She crawled over to the suitcase and lifted it up. The hood was underneath it. She felt a sudden surge of relief. So long as everything went as planned, then she'd get her daughter back. It was like a long line of dominoes, standing on end -- they all had to be in the right place so that when they were pushed, they'd all fall down. The hood was one of the dominoes, and the feet that it was there reassured her. It was going to be all right. Katie was safe.
    She pulled the door closed behind her and locked it. The hood was made of some sort of woollen material with a drawstring around the open end, like a bag that might be used to hold shoes. She held it to her nose and sniffed. It smelt like a new cardigan. It didn't feel particularly thick, but even so she was worried about how easy it would be to breathe through. The kidnappers had planned everything down to the last detail, but she doubted that they'd have put the bag over their own heads to try it out. She slowly pulled it on, then put her hands on the drawstring. She couldn't bring herself to tighten the bag around the neck. After taking a few deep breaths to steady her nerves,
    she sat back against the side of the van and drew her knees up to her chest.
    Time seemed to crawl by. Andy tried counting off the seconds, then the minutes, but after a while her mind began to wander. She started counting again, but soon lost interest. It didn't matter whether they made her sit in the van for minutes,
    hours or days, she had no alternative but to wait. She was in their hands. She tried to think of happier times. Birthdays. Christ 47 STEPHEN LEATHER masses. Just lying on the bed, Martin next to her, Katie curled up between them, smiling in her sleep. Martin giving Katie horsey rides, prowling around the sitting room on his hands and knees,
    Katie lying on his back, her arms