Hand in Glove (36 page)

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“Fob me off ?”

“Yes.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, to admit the truth of his accusations as openly as she could. “But everything’s changed now, don’t you see?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Didn’t Golding tell you about my niece?”

“Yes. He told me.”

“She’s in danger, Frank. Grave danger. Aren’t you willing to do anything to help her?”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“You can convince the police the letters really exist. That they’re what this is all about.”

“But they’re not. They have nothing to do with it.”

“They must have. Nothing else makes any sense. In his last letter, Tristram referred to a document he was sending—or intending to send—to Beatrix. And the kidnappers demanded everything Maurice stole from you. They must have meant that to include the document, but Maurice didn’t have it.”

“Because I didn’t have it. Beatrix sent me the letters and that’s all.

She never mentioned receiving anything else from Tristram, with or after his last communication.”

“Don’t you have any idea what it might be?”

“None. Besides, it makes more sense to me to believe your brother was the victim of one of the many enemies I’m sure he made in the course of his life. As for your niece . . .”

“Yes, Frank? What about Sam? She’s just twenty years old.

Younger than you were when you volunteered for Spain. Younger than Beatrix was when she wrote Tristram’s first poem for him.”

His expression remained as unyielding as ever. “I can’t help her.”

“Won’t you even try?”

“Beatrix asked me to keep her secret. Your brother’s death means I can. It’s a second chance I don’t deserve. But it’s one I don’t intend to waste.”

“What about Sam?”

“I’m washing my hands of your family.” He stared out intently through the windscreen. “I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever known about them. I’m doing what I should have done from the start.”

“Which is?”

“Thinking of myself.” He turned and looked straight at her.

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“Now, why don’t you reverse to the bridge? You can turn round there.

Then we can both go our separate ways.”

C

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TEN

Derek’s previous experience of dealing with the police amounted to clarifying some technical points for the Fraud Squad when a client of Fithyan & Co. was arrested for tax evasion. On that occasion he had been treated with a degree of courtesy not far short of deference and he had subconsciously expected the same of his interview with Chief Inspector Golding. But his expectations were not to be fulfilled.

Golding was a lean and outwardly languid man of about Derek’s own age, smartly dressed in a dark suit, striped shirt and monogrammed tie. This and his expression of heavy-lidded scepticism gave him more the appearance of an Old Etonian stockbroker than a policeman. It enabled him to ask the bluntest of questions in the po-litest of tones and to disguise his opinion behind the blandest of smiles. When he invited Derek to confirm the existence of Tristram Abberley’s letters to his sister, it was impossible to guess at the purpose of his enquiry. And when Derek emphasized, as he was determined to, that the contents of the letters supported his brother’s protests of his innocence, Golding heard him out with patient inscrutability.

It was, indeed, only when their conversation seemed to be moving towards a close, with Derek none the wiser about why it had taken place, that Golding began to apply a steely edge to his questions.

“Why do you suppose Mr Griffith might deny possessing the letters, Mr Fairfax?”

“I don’t suppose he would.”

“But he has. There’s my problem. He denies it point-blank. And you’ve never seen any of them, have you?”

“No, but—”

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“So, strictly speaking, you can’t corroborate Miss Ladram’s account, can you?”

“I most certainly can. She—”

“Why do you think Mr Abberley was murdered?”

“I don’t know.”

“For the letters?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. But then, as you’ve pointed out, I don’t know what they contain.”

“Something worth kidnapping Mr Abberley’s daughter for, apparently.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr Abberley’s daughter has been abducted and is still missing.

The letters were demanded as ransom. All of this was prior to our involvement, of course.” Derek felt taken aback, as he knew he was meant to be, by this sudden revelation. “For the present, I must ask you to say nothing to anybody about this aspect of the case.”

“Of course . . . Of course not.”

“The kidnappers’ motive is a complete mystery to us. Money is the norm where abduction is concerned. Generally lots of it. A fifty-year-old cache of letters hardly seems to fit the bill, does it? If you’ll pardon the pun.”

“I suppose not.”

“Could these letters be worth anything?”

“No. I don’t see—” Derek struggled to order his thoughts. “Only to Maurice Abberley.”

“Because they would unlock fifty years’ worth of royalties on Tristram Abberley’s poems?”

“Yes.”

Golding fell silent for a moment, tugging reflectively on the lobe of his left ear. Then he said: “If the letters can’t be recovered, your brother’s defence collapses even before it’s been assembled, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” This conclusion had not occurred to Derek, but it was true nonetheless. He felt helpless, overwhelmed by a tidal rush of events he could not hope to understand.

“And if they are found, it’s too late for Maurice Abberley to benefit from their publication, isn’t it? The royalties would go to his widow and daughter?”

“I suppose so.”

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“Or just his widow, if his daughter isn’t released alive.” Golding’s voice sank to a murmur, as if he were talking to himself rather than Derek. “There’s something here nobody’s seeing. A pattern to the missing letters and wiped tapes, the denials, the contradictions, the downright—”

“Wiped tapes?”

Golding stared at Derek in surprise. “What?”

“You mentioned some tapes.”

“Did I? Extraordinary. Well, never mind.” He smiled. “I’d better not hold you up any longer. One last thing.”

“Yes?”

“Where were you last Sunday night?”

“At home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nobody who could confirm that?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because you blame—or blamed—Maurice Abberley for your brother’s arrest. You’ve admitted as much. In other words, you’ve admitted to having a motive for his murder.”

“I’ve done no such thing.”

“You have, actually.” Golding grinned at him. “I was just trying to rule you out from the start. It’s a pity I can’t.” His grin broadened.

“Isn’t it?”

After Golding’s departure, Derek made several further attempts to contact Charlotte by telephone. When it became obvious she was not at home, he decided—against his better judgement—to try Swans’

Meadow, directory enquiries furnishing the number. This time there was an answer, but it was the one he had dreaded.

“Hello?” He recognized the voice instantly as Ursula Abberley’s, but knew it would be best to pretend he had not.

“Could I speak to Charlotte Ladram, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Er . . . Derek Fairfax.”

“
Derek Fairfax?
This is Ursula Abberley speaking, Mr Fairfax.

Charlotte’s not here. Even if she were, I can’t think she’d want to talk to you.”

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“I’m sorry to disturb you . . . at this sad time, Mrs Abberley . . . but it’s very . . .”

“If you were really sorry to disturb me, you wouldn’t have, would you?”

“Well, I—”

“Goodbye, Mr Fairfax. Please
don’t
call again.”

When Charlotte reached Swans’ Meadow late that afternoon, tired and dispirited after her journey to Wales, she found Ursula in a further stage of her adjustment to Maurice’s death and Samantha’s disappearance. It was one of wistful regret rather than fretful anxiety and had taken her to her daughter’s bedroom, where she was sorting through the show-jumping rosettes Samantha had accumulated during her hippomanic early teens.

“There’s no news, Charlie,” she mournfully announced. “No word. No sign. Nothing.”

“I wish I could tell you I’d expected there to be.”

“Why are they keeping her? We gave them everything they wanted.”

“Everything we had of what they wanted, you mean. And they don’t know that. They must think we’re holding out on them. That’s why they killed Maurice.”

“But who are they? And if they want more—of whatever it is—why don’t they tell us?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they’re waiting for the police to lose interest.”

“Then they may have to wait a long time. D.C. Finch was here again today, enquiring after my health, checking on my movements, watching, prying, probing.”

“It’s her job.”

“And doesn’t she just love it? Spying on me is so much pleasanter than directing the bloody traffic.” Ursula’s mood was changing again, reverting to anger and impatience. She rose from the bed where she had spread out the rosettes, strode to the window and stared down into the garden. “They listen to every telephone call, you know, in
and
out. They’re all recorded, logged and traced.”

“In case one of them’s from the kidnappers.”

“Or
to
the kidnappers. They think we know more than we’re telling, Charlie. How can we convince them we don’t?”

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“We can’t. Frank Griffith has made them wonder if the letters really exist. And there’s nothing I can do to make him say otherwise.”

“Then we’re hoist with our own petard. If the police think we made them up, they’ll think the same about the tapes, maybe about the kidnap itself.”

“Surely not.”

“It’s how their minds work.”

“But they know Sam’s missing. As soon as the kidnappers make contact—”

“Exactly!” Ursula turned to look at her. “
As soon as they make
contact
. But what if they don’t? What if we never hear from them again? What then, Charlie? What will the police think then?”

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ELEVEN

Tension eases with the passage of time, no matter how unbearable it seems at the outset. The human condition adapts in spite of itself, turning abnormality into a form of routine. So it was that by Thursday morning Charlotte could detect within herself an ebbing of urgency, a slide towards fatalism, a creeping acceptance that Samantha’s absence might be as permanent as Maurice’s.

Some similar process in Ursula presumably explained her willingness for the first time to discuss arrangements for the funeral, which they agreed should be held as soon as possible. Charlotte was in fact on the point of telephoning the undertaker to put matters in hand when she was intercepted by an incoming call.

“Hello?”

“Who’s speaking, please?” The voice was low and huskily femi -

nine.

“Charlotte Ladram. Who—”

“This is Natasha van Ryneveld. I know who you are, Charlotte.

Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you might, though Maurice chose to believe otherwise.

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I learned of his death when I tried to telephone him at Ladram Avionics. It was a shock. I would have liked to have been told less . . .

abruptly. But perhaps you think I had no right to be.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“How is Ursula?”

“She’s . . . bearing up.”

“May I speak to her?”

“I’m not sure.” In fact the doorbell had just rung and Ursula had gone to answer it. Charlotte was relieved to be able to say honestly,

“Actually, I’m afraid you can’t.”

“What happened, Charlie? May I call you Charlie? Maurice always did. How did he come to be murdered? What were the circumstances?”

“I can’t discuss them.”

“Why not?”

“It’s . . . complicated.” Charlotte heard Superintendent Miller’s gruff tones in the hall. “I must go now. I’ll tell Ursula you called.”

“But—”

Charlotte put the receiver down and felt positively grateful for the lack of opportunity to consider her reaction to the conversation. As she looked up, Ursula returned to the room, with Superintendent Miller, Chief Inspector Golding and D.C. Finch behind her. The three police officers were grim-faced and intent. They acknowledged Charlotte with peremptory nods.

“We’ve just held a case conference, Mrs Abberley,” Miller began.

“And we’ve decided on a change of approach.”

“We’re hampered by a total lack of evidence,” said Golding. “The only way we can set about obtaining some is to raise the public profile of the case, which is so far limited to the bald facts of your husband’s murder.”

“Accordingly,” said Miller, “I propose to hold a press conference this afternoon at which I’ll reveal we’re dealing with a kidnap as well as a murder.”

“You
propose,
” said Ursula. “Are you asking for my agreement?”

Golding smiled at her. “Naturally, we hope you’ll see the wisdom of taking such a step. Indeed, we hope you’ll be willing to attend the press conference and answer questions.”

“But it’ll go ahead anyway,” growled Miller. “I don’t need your consent.”

“Won’t publicity frighten off the kidnappers?” asked Charlotte.

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“The embargo hasn’t flushed them out, has it?” Golding countered. “We need a public response. Sightings. Suggestions. Tip-offs.

We need information.”

“Shouldn’t you wait a little longer?”

“Nine days is long enough,” put in Miller.

“People forget quickly, Miss Ladram,” said Golding. “We can’t afford to delay.”

“Very well,” said Ursula. “Hold your press conference.”

“And you’ll attend?” asked Golding.

“Yes.”

Charlotte was watching the two policemen as Ursula replied. She saw them glance at each other and exchange a conspiratorial arching of the eyebrows, compounded in Miller’s case by the faintest of nods.

Ursula’s participation would evidently strengthen their chances of success. But what success represented to them she was no longer sure she knew.

Derek started watching the six o’clock news on television that evening in a distracted mood, only for his attention to be seized by mention of the name
Abberley
during the preamble to film of a press conference held earlier in the day at Newbury Police Station.

The reporter referred to sensational developments in the Abberley murder case. Then attention switched to a Superintendent Miller of pugnacious appearance, who described in clipped and guarded police-speak how twenty-year-old Samantha Abberley had been abducted nine days previously. Anybody who had seen or heard anything suspicious in the neighbourhood of her home on Tuesday 1st September was urged to contact Thames Valley CID. A photograph of the missing girl was displayed, looking wholly unlike Derek’s single memory of her. Then, with Chief Inspector Golding visible in the background, Ursula Abberley made a personal plea for her daughter’s release.

Her performance—particularly in response to questions—was not what Derek was used to when viewing such events. There was none of the customary tearfulness, no hint of hand-wringing despair.

Instead, she spoke calmly and rationally, more like a mediator than a mother. All the words were in place—
“I would not wish this on my
worst enemy”; “Sam’s safety is my only concern”; “I appeal to the public to help in any way they can”; “I beg those who are holding her to let
her go”
—but the heart seemed strangely absent.

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