Destroy Me Karen Cole (guided reading books txt) 📖

I will talk to the police. I will do whatever you want, but first I need to see Dylan.

I wait a minute, holding the phone in my hand as if it’s a bomb that might go off. But there’s no reply.

Please. Where are you? Who are you? Give me your number at least, so I can speak to him.

No response.

Thirty-two

One thing is certain. Luke didn’t take Dylan. That’s obvious now. He was here when I got the message. I could see him all the time sitting by the lake with Harry and he didn’t have a phone in his hand, so he couldn’t have sent it. But I need to make sure Luke thinks Dylan is safe now. I can’t risk the kidnapper finding out that I’ve told someone.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and head over to the lakeside where Luke and Harry are sitting on a bench. Harry is eating some sandwiches from his lunch box.

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Luke glares at me as I approach.

‘This will be quick. I’ve just come to apologise,’ I mutter. ‘I made a mistake. I’ve just received a message from my friend. She picked Dylan up. Apparently, we arranged it weeks ago. Crossed wires.’ I try a little laugh. It comes out as a strange, strangled wail.

He nods and grunts. ‘Well, you can’t just go around accusing people like that.’ Then he pulls me aside and says in a lower voice so that Harry can’t hear. ‘This has got to stop. There’s nothing between us. Do you understand?’

He meets my eyes directly. His green eyes are cold with anger. He doesn’t believe that Dylan was ever really missing, I realise. He thinks this was just a ruse to get his attention. He’s so egotistical. And how crazy does he think I am – to use my son in this way just to get close to him?

‘No, you’re right. I’m sorry,’ I say. I don’t want to argue with him. It’s not important. Nothing is important except Dylan. Finding Dylan.

I am back to square one. I still have no idea where Dylan is or who he’s with. My stomach is twisted in knots as I walk briskly back to the car. I can’t afford to waste any more time. I need to think calmly and rationally. But working out who took Dylan seems impossible. Anyone could walk into the school at pick-up time. Who would notice a stranger among the crowd of parents? Then again, Dylan is a cautious child, mistrustful of people he doesn’t know. I’m almost certain he wouldn’t have willingly gone anywhere with a stranger. It stands to reason that he was picked up with one of his classmates, as Luke suggested. But who? I should speak to the teachers again to find out what they can remember. I swallow a hard kernel of anger at their sheer incompetence and negligence. Once all this is done, I’m going to kick up a stink about it. But as I’m driving, I realise with a kind of sinking hopelessness that I can’t speak to the teachers. If they’re aware that Dylan’s missing, they’ll insist on calling the police.

Temporarily defeated, I’m on my way home when, stopping at traffic lights in town, I notice the small, unobtrusive camera swivelling on the edge of an office building, its red light blinking. That’s it, they’re everywhere, I think, with a flash of inspiration. The school must have CCTV.

With a new sense of purpose, I turn the car around and head back to school.

Thank God, reception is still open and the secretary, plump, rosy-cheeked Nicky Ewens, is there. She’s involved in an animated phone conversation, and when I enter the room, she cups a hand over the receiver, mouths hello and gestures for me to take a seat.

I perch on the edge of a chair, my knee jiggling with nervous tension. I still it with my hand and breathe slowly. I need to appear calm and collected.

‘Hi,’ she says, when she finally puts down the phone. ‘Sorry about that. Can I help you?’

I take a deep breath. ‘Hi, yes, I’m Catherine Bayntun, Dylan Bayntun’s mother—’

‘Oh, little Dylan! He’s such a little sweetheart,’ she beams. ‘Where is he?’

‘Um, he’s with his dad,’ I say, thinking fast. ‘Anyway, the thing is, I’ve mislaid my handbag and I think I might have put it down somewhere here when I came to pick up Dylan. I was wondering if I could check the security footage to see if I was carrying it when I left the school.’

She frowns, ‘Oh no. I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m allowed to do that, but you can check lost property if you want. You’d be surprised the stuff we find in there. Last year we found a diamond ring in the pocket of a cardigan. It turned out it was one of the parents’ engagement rings,’ Nicky continues chatting in her easy, friendly way as I follow her into another office, and she hauls out a large cardboard box from under a desk. ‘There you go,’ she says. ‘Be my guest.’

I rummage through the box, pretending to look for my bag. It’s mostly full of old school cardigans and bizarrely a single shoe. How can someone lose one shoe?

‘No luck?’ she says when I emerge after a suitable length of time.

I shake my head. ‘I’m afraid not. Are you sure you can’t show me the CCTV footage?’

She bites her lip and gazes at me, head on one side. I can see she’s weakening.

‘Please. That handbag has everything in it . . . my whole life!’ I beg.

She grins and lowers her voice conspiratorially, even though there’s no one around to hear her. ‘Oh, all right, then, as it’s you. But don’t tell anyone or muggins here’ll be in trouble.’

Sitting at her desk, she clicks on a camera icon on her desktop and after a few moments, a split-screen live stream of various parts of the