Hand in Glove (37 page)

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

Something else was also absent. Derek waited for Superintendent Miller to mention Tristram Abberley’s letters but he never did. What the kidnappers wanted was not specified. What the police expected them to do was not hinted at. And by the end Derek was more confused than ever.

Charlotte and Ursula watched the broadcast together at Swans’

Meadow, Ursula nursing a gin and tonic as she did so. When it was over, she walked across to the television, switched it off, turned to look at Charlotte and said: “They made me sound like an unfeeling bitch.”

“Nobody will have thought that.”

“Oh, yes they will. You’re expected to behave as if you’re in a soap opera these days. Floods of tears. Torrents of emotion. Self-control counts against you.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have taken part.”

“How could I have refused? Imagine the capital Miller and Golding would have made out of it if I had.”

“They’re trying to help, Ursula.”

“Are they? I don’t think so. I think they’re trying to do exactly the opposite.”

“Oh, come on.” Charlotte summoned a smile. “It’s their duty to find Sam—and to protect her.”

“No it isn’t. It’s their duty to find somebody they can convict of Maurice’s murder.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“They don’t think it is. Come into the garden with me.”

“Why?”

“Come outside and I’ll explain.”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Charlotte rose and accompanied Ursula out through the kitchen and into the garden, where a calm and picturesque evening was spreading long shadows and rectangles of gold across the lawn.

“See the man feeding the ducks on the other side of the river?”

Ursula pointed towards the Cookham bank, where an unremarkable middle-aged man in a brown anorak was tossing crumbs to a quacking and splashing circle of waterfowl. “Recognize him?”

“No.”

“He’s a policeman.”

“How can you possibly know?”

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“Because I never saw him before Monday and I haven’t stopped seeing him since. Him and a couple of others out of the same mould.

They’re not looking for Sam, Charlie. They’re looking for Maurice’s murderers. And they think they’ve found them. Here. In this house.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes. But they don’t realize it is. And there’s nothing we can do to make them. So, while they watch us watching them . . .” Her voice trailed into silence. Her chin drooped. The tears she should have shed movingly on television but had not were there now, clear to see, brimming in her eyes, absurdly beautiful in the slanting sunlight. “While they play their bloody silly games and force us to do the same . . .” She swallowed hard and looked straight at Charlotte. “Sam’s chances of coming out of this alive diminish all the time.” Then she raised her head and shouted loud enough to make the man on the other side of the river glance towards them,
“With every day they waste,”
before adding in a murmur: “The thread Sam’s life hangs by grows thinner and thinner.”

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TWELVE

On Friday, Charlotte went home. She justified her departure on the grounds that, with arrangements for Maurice’s funeral on Monday now in place, there was nothing to detain her at Swans’ Meadow. Ursula did not attempt to persuade her to stay, for which she was grateful. If pressed, she might have revealed just how eager she was to be gone. Although she had expressed doubts about Ursula’s interpretation of the police’s conduct, it had rung truer to her than she had cared to admit. What worried her most of all was that she might be held in equal suspicion. By returning to Ockham House, she could distance herself from events and reclaim a reassuring degree of privacy.

She could not escape altogether, of course, as a clutch of telephone calls swiftly demonstrated. Several acquaintances and former workmates had seen the television broadcast and wanted to offer their 264

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sympathy and advice, which was generally as well-intentioned as it was useless. Uncle Jack called to complain of being kept in the dark just when his expertise in such matters—of which Charlotte was unaware—might be most valuable. And Lulu Harrington rang to express her dismay at what had occurred, enabling Charlotte to confirm something Ursula had already deduced.

“The person in New York you sent a letter to on Beatrix’s behalf—could her name have been van Ryneveld rather than van Ryan?”

“Why, yes, it certainly could have been. What makes you think so?”

“She’s been in touch. But Madame V from Paris hasn’t. I don’t suppose you’ve remembered her name?”

“I fear not. I’ve racked my brains, but at my age there are precious few left to rack. I still can’t call more than the initial letter to mind.”

“You’ll let me know if you do?”

“Most certainly.”

After Lulu had rung off, Charlotte thought about the four letters Beatrix had left with her and reflected that the contents of two were still a complete mystery. Maurice must have known what was in the one to his mistress. At least, he must have known what she said was in it. But she was presumably as capable of lying as Ursula. Yet the tone of her telephone call to Swans’ Meadow had implied she knew nothing of Samantha’s abduction—or of what her kidnappers had demanded in return for her release. If so—

The jangle of the telephone, by which Charlotte was still standing, fractured her thoughts. She grabbed at it in irritable haste.

“Yes?”

“Er . . . Miss Ladram?”

“Yes.”

“This is Derek Fairfax.” Guilt washed over Charlotte at his words.

She had given his name to Golding on Tuesday but had made no effort to contact him since to explain the situation. “I’ve been ringing you for days. The police have been to see me.”

“Yes. They would have been. I’m sorry. That was my fault.”

“Since then I’ve seen the broadcast about your niece. Nothing was said about ransom on the television, but the officer who interviewed me, Chief Inspector Golding, said Tristram Abberley’s letters were demanded. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t understand. Who . . . Who could possibly—”

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“None of us understands, Mr Fairfax. If only we did.”

“And Frank Griffith has denied the letters ever existed?”

“Yes. But we can’t discuss this now.” Yet Charlotte did feel the need to discuss it. And she suddenly realized that Derek Fairfax was one of the few people who would view matters in the same light as her. “Perhaps we could meet.”

“Certainly. I’d like to.”

“Can you come to lunch tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. Let’s say midday, shall we?”

“Fine, I’ll see you then.”

“Yes. Goodbye, Mr Fairfax.”

Charlotte put the receiver down and pondered the mystery of why she had issued such an invitation. It would be folly to raise his hopes just when the loss of the letters had effectively dashed them.

Yet she badly needed an ally, a friend who would listen and advise.

Why look for one in Derek Fairfax? Because, she supposed, there was nowhere else to look. He was her last resort now as well as his brother’s.

She wandered into the kitchen and began assembling a shopping list. Cooking lunch for a guest might at least take her mind off the intractable problem of Samantha for a while. When the telephone rang yet again, she was inclined not to answer it. But, when it showed no sign of stopping, she relented.

“Hello?”

“Miss Ladram?”

“Yes.” The caller’s voice was familiar to her, clipped and formal with the hint of an accent. She realized who it was a fraction of a second before he spoke again.

“I represent those who are holding your niece, Miss Ladram.”

“What?”

“You heard. And I rather think you understood. Police surveil-lance has prevented us contacting your sister-in-law. We have therefore turned to you.”

“Who do you represent?”

“It is better you should not know.”

“Why did you kill Maurice?”

“Because he did not deliver all the papers. And because he had the effrontery to offer money instead.”

“He gave you everything he had.”

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“There is more. And we want it.”

“We don’t have it.”

“Then find it. We know Beatrix Abberley had what we require.

Therefore it must lie within your power to locate and surrender it.”

“Tell me what we’re looking for.”

“A document sent by Tristram Abberley to his sister in March 1938, written in the Catalan language.”

“What sort of document?”

“I have said enough. We are patient, but not infinitely so. We will keep your niece alive for one month from today. You have until October eleven to procure the document. When you do, place an advertisement in the personal column of the
International Herald
Tribune
to read as follows:
Pen pals can be reunited. Orwell will pay
.”

He paused for a moment. “You have that?”

Charlotte read back her own scrawled note from the jotter beside the telephone. “Pen pals can be reunited. Orwell will pay.”

“Correct. If such a message appears on or before October eleven, we will contact you.”

“You must give me more information.” Charlotte knew she should glean as much as she possibly could, but her brain seemed sluggish and uninventive. “We’re prepared to do anything to get Sam back.”

“All you have to do is meet our requirements, fully and promptly.

Do not tell the police we have made contact. If they seem to be drawing close to us, we shall kill your niece without hesitation.”

“How . . . How is Sam?”

“She is alive.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“Enough of speaking. You agree to our terms?”

“Of course. But—”

“Then our business is concluded. Good afternoon, Miss Ladram.”

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THIRTEEN

Derek’s first surprise when he arrived at Ockham House shortly before noon on Saturday was the cancellation of lunch. Charlotte Ladram was more obviously nervous than he had known her to be on any previous occasion and professed herself reluctant to remain indoors, let alone cook a meal. She suggested a walk in the open air and he readily agreed. Her willingness to talk verged on a compelling need and after all his previous attempts to gain her confidence, which had made little headway, he knew he must not let such an opportunity pass him by.

They drove towards Ashdown Forest, and even before they had found a suitable place to stop, Charlotte had begun to recount the events of the past week in such detail that it was obvious she was holding nothing back. She slipped, without appearing to notice it, into addressing Derek by his first name and, after some initial awkwardness, he reciprocated. Her brother’s death seemed to have removed a barrier between them. It was no longer necessary to pretend they knew less or more than they did. Their obligation to be honest with each other outweighed for the first time whatever they owed to anyone else.

They parked near Camp Hill and walked out aimlessly across the heath amidst the estranged fathers flying kites with their sons and the headscarfed ladies exercising their labradors. Everyday preoccupations had never seemed more remote, the present never more real, than now.

“I suppose you think I should tell the police,” said Charlotte, after describing the telephone call with which her niece’s kidnappers had broken their silence.

“Are you afraid they won’t believe you?”

“I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t. They’ve seen and heard nothing to convince them. For all they know, Sam’s abduction may be a figment of our imaginations.”

“But she
is
missing.”

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“Or hiding. How are they to know which?”

“If you don’t tell the police, what will you do?”

“Try to find the document the kidnappers want. Offer it to them in exchange for Sam’s release.”

“But where is there left to look? You’ve combed through Beatrix’s possessions time after time. And I can’t believe Frank would be holding anything back if he thought it could save a young girl’s life.”

“Neither can I. Which leaves the two other recipients of letters from Beatrix.”

“One of whom is still unidentified.”

“Yes. But one isn’t. Natasha van Ryneveld.”

“Maurice’s mistress? Why would Beatrix have sent a document entrusted to her by her brother fifty years ago to her nephew’s mistress?”

“I can’t give you a reason. But she sent her something. That we do know.”

“Surely Maurice would have known what it was—and handed it over to the kidnappers accordingly.”

“Not necessarily. Natasha may have lied to him about what her letter contained—as Ursula did. After all, Beatrix wouldn’t have sent her anything unless she had good reason to think it would be kept from Maurice. And I’m pretty sure Natasha knew nothing about the kidnap. Maurice probably didn’t want to risk her objecting to the surrender of Tristram’s letters. So, if what she received from Beatrix is what the kidnappers want, she’s not to know, is she?”

“It still doesn’t seem very likely.”

“I agree. But isn’t it worth a try?”

“I suppose so. What will you do? Visit her in New York?”

“Well, I doubt she’ll come here. There are some awkward questions she may not want to answer.”

“About what?”

“About your brother, Derek. Who rang him in May to make the appointment for him to visit Jackdaw Cottage? Not Beatrix, obviously.

But it
was
a woman, wasn’t it?”

“Natasha van Ryneveld?”

“Who else?”

They reached Airman’s Grave and paused together beside its perimeter wall, gazing in at the poignant tribute to one victim of a long-ago conflict, though not as long-ago, it occurred to Derek, as the