‘I don’t think so, sweetheart,’ he said.
For a moment nobody spoke or moved, though I could hear Rose making a strange, mewing noise rather like a frightened kitten. I gathered together my shattered wits.
‘You have absolutely no right - ’
‘He’s got every right,’ said another, more cultured voice somewhere beyond my right shoulder. I turned my head to see that George Quigley, dressed in country tweeds with a shotgun over his arm, had approached from somewhere unseen. He ignored me and looked across me to address Rose.
‘What do you think you’re doing, darling?’ he asked. He smiled as he asked the question, but there was a steely, menacing edge to his voice and Rose’s panic seemed to increase. ‘Come along. Get out of the car. Both of you,’ he added in my direction, hefting his gun as if to remind me of its presence.
I had decided that my only hope was to appear both innocent and annoyed.
‘There’s no need for that,’ I said. ‘Rose said she wanted to see me, just to talk about Caroline. I couldn’t see why - ’
He interrupted me.
‘Get into the house,’ he said, then turned to his trained gorilla, who was still menacing me with his own gun. ‘Joe, come and get her, will you? I’ll take care of Rose.’
Protestations would get me nowhere, I realised. Joe yanked me out of the car and, gripping my arm like a vice with one hand, the other holding the gun in the small of my back, he marched me up the drive with George and Rose a few paces behind. I heard Rose give a yelp of pain and tried to twist round to see what was going on, but Joe put a stop to that. Rose was crying now, entreating George to let her go, not to hurt her any more.
‘You bastard,’ I shouted. ‘Leave her alone.’
‘Shut it,’ Joe said menacingly, pushing me so hard that I staggered and almost fell.
‘Careful,’ George warned, using his pleasant voice again. ‘We shall want Miss Crozier in one piece.’ We had reached the house by this time and I saw that Dora had also materialised and was standing on the threshold, ready to give Joe a helping hand by reaching out and pulling me inside. ‘Well, here we are, Miss Crozier,’ George said. ‘Welcome once more to my humble abode.’
Later, locked into a small attic room, I had time for regrets. I should never have come alone, I realised that now. Had always realised it, really. Why the hell hadn’t I waited until after Steve had come home? Had I, in my arrogance, really thought I was a match for these evil bunch of men? I could only plead that like so many disastrous decisions, it had seemed the right thing to do at the time.
I suppose the bottom line was that I hadn’t taken Rose seriously enough. I’d underestimated George Quigley’s violence and had paid the price, though in fact it was Dora who’d seemed to take great pleasure in manhandling me into the sitting room and administering a stinging slap to my face when I continued to protest.
Desperate as I was at my own plight, I couldn’t help worrying about Rose. She was still uttering those strange, mewing cries as, having dealt with me, Dora hurried her away upstairs.
‘Why don’t you let her go?’ I demanded of George. I had been thrust into the depths of one of the large armchairs in the sitting room and he was perched on the arm of the one that was nearest to me. He had parked his rifle in the hall, but still looked menacing. ‘She’s no threat to you. She only wanted to talk about Caroline. I thought it would be some kind of therapy for her.’
‘She has all the therapy she needs,’ he said harshly. ‘Keep your nose out of it. It’s none of your business.’
It occurred to me that I would only make matters worse by being aggressive and I moderated my tone accordingly.
‘I guess you’re right,’ I said after a moment. ‘Maybe I owe you an apology. I just wanted to help, that’s all. There’s really no need for these strong-arm tactics.’ I smiled at him placatingly, feeling a bit of a traitor but sure that at some later date it would be possible to get Rose away from him. With my hands on the arms of the chair I pushed myself up, still smiling. ‘Well, I can see she’s in good hands, so I’ll be getting back - ’
George leaned across and shoved me back into the depths of the chair again.
‘No, Miss Crozier. You’re not leaving. I think you and I should have a little talk, if you would be so kind.’
‘Do I have a choice?’ I was doing my best to keep cool, but my voice sounded strange and high in my ears.
He smiled at me thinly.
‘Not really. You see’ He got to his feet and, with his hands in his pockets, came and stood close in front of me so that I was forced to strain to look up at him. ‘I happen to know that the reason you came here had nothing to do with helping Rose. You thought she had information. No - ’ He lifted his hand to as if to prevent me denying this. ‘There’s no point in protesting your innocence. You see, I happened to lift the extension in my study just as you answered her phone call, so I heard every word.’ He laughed, dismissively. ‘Poor Rose! She’s so terribly naive.’
So he knew; knew that I knew how Jim, and the other young man, had died. Knew that Rose was prepared to give evidence against him. Knew that he and his cronies were about to be exposed. I remembered what Aunt Caroline had said — that they might assume that Jim had confided in me before he died and that I could be in danger, too. Why hadn’t I taken her more seriously? All my bravado left me and I felt hollow with fear.
‘There’s another thing,’ he said, taking a few steps away from me, then returning to look down on me again. ‘I didn’t know you were an art collector, Miss Crozier.’
I was a little bit disconcerted by this sudden change of tack and had to collect my thoughts.
‘I’m not! Well, I’m interested in art, of course.’
‘But you only collect certain paintings, yes? Or are you just a mercenary little bitch who’s out for anything she can get?’
‘What?’ Genuinely puzzled and outraged, I stared at him. ‘That’s a very offensive thing to say!’
‘As I said before, don’t play the innocent, Miss Crozier! We all know you’re not that.’
I took a deep breath, fighting my rising panic.
‘I’m not with you, I’m afraid. What are you talking about?’
‘A certain Zoffany painting? The le Maire family?’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
Exasperately he flung himself down in a chair and glared at me.
‘Don’t play games, Miss Crozier. You were seen at Lovells this morning.’
‘Lovells?’ I gave a short laugh. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. I went to the Tate.’
He totally ignored me.
‘Where is that picture, Miss Crozier?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no picture.’
‘Oh yes, of course - ’ He smiled as if he had just remembered the truth. ‘It was Sir Timothy Crofthouse who was doing the bidding, wasn’t it? But you were there, weren’t you, hanging on his arm, clearly delighted when it was knocked down to him. It didn’t take a great leap of the imagination to see that he was buying it for you. And was rewarded by a kiss! It didn’t take you long, did it, to find a friend in high places?’
‘You’re wrong!’
‘Why did you want that particular painting, Miss Crozier? And, more importantly, what have you done with it and what have you told Crofthouse? Is he party to all your wild suspicions or just a poor, gullible sap you’ve managed to twist round your little finger?’
My fear increased, intensified now by the sudden knowledge that I had not only put myself in danger, but also Tim and Davina. God, how I’d mucked everything up, put everything and everyone in jeopardy. It was clear that Davina had gone to the sale with her father and had been mistaken for me by someone who knew me only a little and Davina not at all. It was, after all, understandable. Hadn’t the lady in the tea shop been similarly confused?
‘He knows nothing,’ I said. The words emerged as a croak and I had to clear my throat before I could s
ay anything more. ‘He and I — we sort of became friends a few nights ago. He wanted to give me a present and I saw the paintings that were in the sale and rather fell for the Zoffany. So I asked him for that.’
‘And he happily shelled out a million and a quarter pounds? Really, Miss Crozier, I don’t doubt that a few nights with you would prove a rewarding experience, but this seems excessive even for someone as generous as Crofthouse.’
‘He’s a very generous man.’ I attempted a laugh. ‘He didn’t admire my taste in art much - ’
‘So where is it now? The picture?’ He had suddenly leant over me and at these words he brought both his hands down violently on the arms of the chair, one on each side of me, his face thrust into mine, so close that I shrunk away from him. ‘You’ll tell me eventually,’ he said menacingly. ‘I want it and I intend to get it, so tell me where it is now and save us all a lot of grief.’
‘I — I don’t know where it is.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘It’s true. It went to be packed up.’ I was improvising wildly, sure of only one thing — that I had to direct these men away from Fincote and the Crofthouse family.
‘You’re lying. You and Crofthouse took it somewhere in the back of his Roller. You were seen. Is it at your hotel?’
‘We took it to be packed.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know the name of the firm or where we went. It was somewhere - ’ I hesitated, my thoughts racing. ‘Near the river, I think. I don’t know London very well. Anyway, what does it matter to you? Why are you so keen to get hold of it?’
He didn’t answer, and of course I didn’t need him to. The picture was evidence. I knew it and he knew it, no matter how I strung him along.
‘You’re lying,’ he said again. Then, as if losing patience with me, he went to the door of the room and shouted for Dora.
‘Take her to the top room,’ he said when Dora appeared. ‘Keep her quiet. I need time to think what to do.’
Dora took my other arm in a grip like iron and together they manhandled me towards the stairs.
I struggled, but didn’t speak, for I knew now that all protestations, all pretence of innocence, would count for nothing. I was mad at myself for getting into this situation. I’d said the wrong thing, I felt sure. I’d done the wrong thing, should never have embarked on this crazy mission to rescue Rose. Who did I think I was? Superwoman?
For a while I was on my own in that top room, left to my thoughts and to the contemplation of my prison. It was, in fact, quite a pleasant bedroom, with a sloping ceiling and two small dormer windows overlooking the front drive. There were pretty green and white drapes and a matching bedcover, and a connecting green and white bathroom. A guest room, I imagined. Not much used and just as impersonal as the rest of the house.
I peered out of the window. I could see the sweep of the drive ahead of me and my hired car still parked halfway down it. Even as I watched, the greasy man who Quigley had referred to as Joe walked towards it and got into the driving seat. I saw him slam the door but could not hear it. The windows were clearly double-glazed and soundproof; I was insulated from the world here in this cosy little prison.
Joe backed the car up towards the house and round somewhere to the left, out of my sight. Somehow this made me more frightened than almost anything else that had happened. There seemed a finality about it, as if they were wiping away all trace of my presence here. I ran back to the door and rattled the handle, knowing it was pointless, knowing it was locked.
I contemplated the lock for some time. In films, people opened locked doors so easily with a credit card or a nail file. I doubted I could be so successful, but anyway I couldn’t even try. My purse had come off my shoulder during my journey up the stairs and Dora had prevented me from picking it up so that I had no possessions with me at all, except my jacket and my watch. I opened the drawers in the little chest, but they were all empty.
Frustrated, I sat down on the bed and stared at nothing. It was almost five. I wondered if Steve were already in his flat, if he’d heard my message, what he’d be thinking. What a crazy airhead I was, most likely, and he’d be right.
After a while I heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. It was Dora and the greasy man.
‘You’d better go in first, Joe,’ she said. ‘Hold her down.’
I looked beyond him to Dora and saw to my horror that she had a hypodermic syringe in her hands.
‘Come along now,’ she said briskly. ‘I don’t want any hysterics.’
‘Don’t touch me!’ I shouted, shrinking away, but, as instructed, Joe was there, reaching to hold me so tight that I couldn’t move. I kicked out at him but that only made him hold me tighter still.
‘I’ve got ’er,’ he said.
I struggled, but it was useless. I had kept my jacket on as if in denial that I was there for any length of time but now it was forcibly pulled off me and my shirt sleeve was wrenched upwards. I felt the prick of the needle, heard Dora’s satisfied grunt as it went home. And that was it. I felt suddenly as if I were at the end of a long tunnel, everything spiralling away from me.
Fourteen
When I regained consciousness, I sensed I had been moved to a different place. Not that I could see anything of my surroundings. The dark pressed down on me, evil and almost tangible, but the room smelled different, felt different.
I was cold and desperately thirsty, but it was the dark that was my undoing, and in those first minutes I was more frightened than I had ever been in my life before. I tried to sit up, but my head swam and I felt so sick that I let it drop back again. For a moment I lay still, sinking back into the kind of mindless desperation that had me whimpering like a child. I think I even called for my mother — and perhaps it was the thought of what she would have to say if she could hear me that enabled me to will myself back to some degree of composure. Panicking wildly would achieve nothing. I needed to be calm and strong and determined if I were to get through this in one piece, not revert to helpless childhood.
Wherever they’d taken me, it was deathly quiet. As I tried to calm myself I saw that there was, after all, a small amount of light in the room — not light that allowed me to see anything much, but a kind of greyness coming from high up on the wall to my left. It was in the form of a narrow, horizontal strip.
I swung my legs to the ground and stood up, staggering a little at first. What had that horrible woman given me? It could have been anything, but I hoped and prayed it was nothing addictive. It was probably something intended to put me out long enough for them to move me easily from Henley to wherever I was now without having to deal with my struggles, and that, of course, was what worried me most of all. Where had they brought me? And how how would anyone know where to find me? There seemed only one answer to that. They wouldn’t.
As my eyes became used to the dark, I could see that the walls were light in colour, with a dark-painted door in the corner of the same wall as the strip of grey. I blundered over to it, knocking against a chair and sending something metallic crashing to the ground as I did so. In the blanketing silence it seemed as loud as the combined percussion sections of several orchestras, and having almost jumped out of my skin I waited a moment or two to see if it would cause any reaction from outside the room. There was nothing. The silence continued as before.
I found the door and tried to open it, but of course it was locked — and bolted, I decided, seeing the way it seemed to be held top and bottom as well as in the middle. But at least, feeling round the door with my fingers, I was able to locate the light switch and dispel the dark.
My prison, I now saw, was a small, windowless room, roughly six feet wide and not much more in length. The light was coming from a line of frosted glass set in the wall about two feet or so from the ceiling. This was obviously some kind of storeroom, for there were two large cans of what looked like oil of some kind as well as two large wooden crates, banded with a criss-cross metal
strip. I squatted down to read the label on the cans and saw that it was turpentine.
Of course! The whole place reeked of the stuff. I’d been aware of it all along but hadn’t gotten around to identifying it. Now that I had, it occurred to me that I had probably landed up at the heart of this operation — in Wales, at Piers Craven’s commune. So what was in the crates? Paintings? Artefacts of some kind? They, too, had labels on and I saw that one was addressed to a firm called Mycroft Antiques in Chicago and the other to the New York branch of Lovells.
It was hardly surprising, now I thought about it, that this racket reached across the Atlantic. The market in the States for European art and artefacts was virtually limitless, and it made sense to think that something more must be involved than simply a handful of greedy men in London creaming off the odd million for an occasional forgery in Lovells’ London auction. A few fake old masters, even if those little words ‘attributed to’ had to be added to their description in an auctioneer’s catalogue, would no doubt make a sizeable amount in New York or Chicago.
My watch told me that the time was eleven twenty; over six hours since I’d been in Henley. Which, I guessed, could mean my captors would have had ample time to take me almost anywhere in the British Isles — or out of it, come to that. Six hours was a hell of a lot of travelling time and I could be quite wrong about my location; still, it seemed to me that Wales was the most likely place.
I surveyed my prison once more. It wasn’t at all how I had imagined the commune when Steve had spoken of it. I had envisaged a collection of attractively rustic farm buildings, but this room looked neither attractive nor particularly rustic.
Everything was dirty, in need both of cleaning and of a coat of paint. The ceiling had several huge brown stains on it and the corners were festooned with cobwebs. The mattress I had been lying on was covered with a thin blue blanket, ragged at the edges, with parts of it so worn that it was practically transparent. The pillow was minus a pillowcase so that its stained cover was on view, and it made me shudder to think how long I must have been resting my head on it.
The Caroline Quest Page 19
