The Caroline Quest

by Barbara Whitnell

  In the opposite wall there was another door, but any hope that this might lead outside was dashed immediately. It opened into a washroom; just a basin and a lavatory. These weren’t clean, either, but were at least better than nothing. I couldn’t imagine who would ever want to sleep here. Maybe it was simply kept for emergency occupation of some kind; certainly it looked as if no one had been there for a long time.

  I could see immediately what had caused that loud metallic noise when I had knocked into the chair. It was a can of orange soda that had fallen to the floor, and lying beside it was a plastic packet containing a couple of sandwiches. At least they didn’t intend me to starve. Not yet, anyway. My thirst was so desperate that I opened the can immediately and took a few sips. Never has a can of orange soda tasted so good!

  I felt marginally less despairing after I’d had a drink and eaten the sandwiches. They gave me the energy to do a bit of banging on the door and shouting for help — both activities proving quite useless, as I think I knew they would be from the start. The silence was almost uncanny, making me feel that I was alone in the world.

  Alone and very cold. Shivering, I sat down on the edge of the bed with my arms wrapped round me, facing the thought that George Quigley and his helpers might be busy at this moment devising some amusing little accident that could befall me so that I’d be out of their hair for good. For a moment that awful, mindless panic swept over me again, but then it occurred to me that they wanted the incriminating picture and I was supposed to know its location. Perhaps killing me was, at the moment anyway, not an option. Torture seemed more likely; and at this thought the panic returned and only a great effort of will restored my thought processes.

  Whatever they had in mind, I sure hoped they weren’t intending to leave me here too long. I’d always suffered from mild claustrophobia. I hated elevators even thought I forced myself to use them, and I had never been able to nerve myself to take a rush-hour tube anywhere in London — or the subway in New York, come to that. I made myself breathe slow and easy and tried not to think of the four walls that enclosed me, but something told me that as time went on this wouldn’t be so simple.

  I stood again and moved to stare up at that line of frosted glass. It actually consisted of small windows, I realised. There were four of them, each measuring roughly a foot high and a little over a foot wide. All were closed, but they looked to me on more prolonged inspection as if they were ventilators that were meant to open. Even so, whoever had brought me here had thought they presented no opportunity for escape and, looking at them, I felt I had to agree. Even if I were able to move those crates —

  But I had the chair, too, I remembered. I could stand the chair on the crates. The only problem, I found, was that I couldn’t move the crates one single inch. I spent far too much energy trying and failing, and as for heaving one on top of another, the idea was laughable.

  That just left the bed. Maybe I could stand the chair on the bed and climb up on that. At least I could try. It was better than sitting and getting more and more frightened and depressed.

  Moving the bed against the wall was easy enough, but climbing up on the chair was a different matter, mainly because the chair wobbled wildly on the mattress with its sagging bedsprings; however, I managed to balance precariously on it in the end. Now I could reach the windows, but though I saw they were designed to open up and out, I couldn’t shift any of them, as the paint of years had cemented them firmly in place. I pushed and shoved, but it was a totally useless exercise. They were stuck fast.

  For a moment I leant against the wall and closed my eyes, weak with frustration. But - what shifted paint? Turpentine, of course! How kind of them to leave me some! Only thing was, I couldn’t open the darn cans. They were sealed and wired up, totally impenetrable.

  Defeated, I looked up at the windows again. I needed some kind of sharp instrument, a knife or a chisel, but of course I had nothing of the kind. Even a nail file might have done, but my purse hadn’t been restored to me and was still back in Henley, as far as I knew. It was quite some time later that, slumped despondently on the side of the bed once more, my eye fell on the plastic package that had held the sandwiches. The edge of it was hard, I remembered. And quite sharp. I’d nearly cut my thumb on it when I’d tried to extract the sandwiches. Maybe there was a chance it would do.

  It took a long time. I selected one of the windows and patiently I scraped and thumped, thumped and scraped, all the time having to shift my weight to keep balanced on the chair. It was a surprisingly exhausting exercise. Twice I fell off, once bumping my head quite hard on the wall to the point where I saw stars, but no real damage was done and I clambered up again and started scraping once more.

  When finally the window moved and I was able to push it open I sagged against the wall, swamped with relief as if my troubles were over. Little did I know they were just beginning!

  Full of curiosity, I looked through to see what was on the other side of the wall. To my disappointment, I saw that the window opened not to the outside world but only to another room — a vast, quite cavernous place which, I could see in the limited light from my side of the wall, had two huge skylights in the soaring roof as well as what looked like an array of lighting equipment. These were all close to me. The further part of the room was lost in shadow, though I could see various shapes. I guessed that it was once a barn but had now been adapted to office and studio use. It seemed very much the kind of place I had expected since I had first heard of Piers Craven’s rural hideaway.

  There was no window apart from the skylights, as far as I could see. No means of getting out of the room other than through the door, which I felt pretty sure would be locked. By craning my neck I could see that right underneath me was a table of the kind that architects use, complete with drawing board, and beside it was a desk with a computer and — of more immediate interest to me — a telephone. Hungrily I gazed down on it. It seemed the answer to everything, the solution to all my problems. Somehow I had to squeeze through that window and get down there.

  Which was a lot easier said than done. I could kill myself if I went down head first — but I could see no other way. I needed a ladder — a rope — anything that could help me climb up above the window on this side so that I could somehow get through feet first. Even that appeared pretty hazardous, I thought, as I looked at the drop below me.

  But I hadn’t got so far only to give up now. I surveyed my small, bare prison. No sheets to tear up, but there was that old, threadbare blanket which I felt sure would be just as easy. I tore it into three strips, knotted them together at one end and and plaited them tightly into a rope, half of me amazed at myself for doing something so utterly and ludicrously melodramatic. I felt as if I were starring in some banal TV show of the kind I wouldn’t put beyond the scope of the committee that wrote the script of Bower Street. How, I wondered, would Mary Lou McAllister cope with this? I couldn’t even begin to think.

  But however melodramatic, I thought my scheme just might work. I clambered up on the chair again and tied the makeshift rope around the entire window, slotting it through the gap that had appeared at the top when I opened it outwards so that it dangled down nearly as far as the bed.

  At least I could move that unstable chair out of the way, and I was thankful for that, but the window creaked ominously as I shinned with great difficulty up the rope. To my relief, it held, and I was able to pull myself up. That was the easy part! It was then that I somehow had to find a way of manoeuvring myself through the gap without hurtling to the ground on the other side of the wall, or falling back on the bed.

  I’d never been much of a gymnast, but at least I’d kept myself in pretty good shape, which was as well since I needed all the agility I could muster. I’d removed my boots before I started all this climbing about, and gone halfway up my makeshift rope before tipping them up and over into the next room. I’d heard them thump as they landed next door. Then I’d continued up the rope and scrabbled with my feet agai
nst the wall, managing to get them through the window. It was the rest of me that presented the problem and for a moment I froze, unable to move. It was impossible, I told myself. I couldn’t do it. I was at quite the wrong angle. If I let go of the blanket rope, I would fall, but I couldn’t get my body through the gap without letting go at some stage. At least I wasn’t cold any more. I could feel the sweat running down my face, whether from fear or exertion I wasn’t sure.

  You’ve got to, I told myself. And, gritting my teeth, I strained and wriggled, still clutching the rope, until half of me was through. I then found that if I continued to cling to the rope with my left hand, it ought to be possible to grasp the bottom of the window frame with my right, which would enable me to lower myself as far as possible into the next room. I can’t do it, I thought. I can’t. I can’t! But then I felt an ominous jolt and realised that the window, now supporting all my weight, was coming loose from its hinges.

  I realised I’d run out of options so, quickly, before I could think about it any more, I twisted round and somehow managed in one movement to change my grip so that first one then both of my hands were holding the edge of the window frame, with my face pressed against the wall of the next-door room, my legs dangling over a drop of about six feet. Maybe it doesn’t sound much, but it sure looked a long way down to me.

  I dropped to the floor, twisting my ankle a little as I landed. It was mildly painful, but I rubbed and flexed it and I soon realised I’d done no serious damage. In any case, it was a small price to pay under the circumstances. In fact, as I looked up at the tiny window above me, my exit from it seemed like a miracle. I think it was at that moment that I began to think that I really might make it. It was an outcome that had seemed most unlikely only a few minutes before.

  I sat and recovered for a bit, then reached for my boots and put them on. Very cautiously, I stood up and, in the light shining through from the other side of the wall, I squinted at my watch. It was a few minutes to four, and already the skylights showed that the night was becoming perceptibly lighter.

  My first instinct was to use the telephone, but it occurred to me that I ought to try the door first, just in case it was open. I did so, only to confirm what I’d expected all along. The door was securely locked. I therefore wasted no more time and went as quickly as I could back to the phone, where I dialled Steve’s number, my hand trembling in my eagerness. I prayed that he would be at home and not scouring the country for me, and I was in luck. He answered before the phone had rung twice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Steve, it’s Holly.’

  ‘‘Holly! Where the hell are you? I’ve been - ’

  ‘Steve, I don’t know where I am. I went to Henley, but I was drugged and taken some place else — I’ve no idea where, but I think it might be Piers Craven’s place in Wales. They’ve locked me up but I managed to get to a phone - ’

  ‘Is the number on it?’

  ‘What?’ I was confused, not thinking straight.

  ‘The telephone. Is there a number on the telephone?’

  I peered at it closely.

  ‘Not that I can see. The light’s not good.’

  ‘Holly, phone this number — 0181 300 9I20. It’s the police — a sergeant called Hillstead. I’ve spoken to him already and he knows all about you. Tell him you’re being held against your will. He’ll be able to trace the call and find out where you are. Have you got that number?’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  He did so and I repeated it back to him.

  ‘Holly,’ he said, his voice suddenly softer and almost as shaky as mine. ‘Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just frightened.’

  ‘Hold on. You’ll be home in no time. Hang up now and dial that number. I’ll see you soon.’

  I hung up and dialled the number. In a few seconds I was speaking to Sergeant Hillstead, who sounded both efficient and reassuring.

  ‘Wherever you are, we’ll get on to the local police station,’ he said. ‘Just sit tight.’

  ‘I’m not going any place,’ I said. ‘Just get them to come quickly.’

  My fear, of course, was that Quigley or Craven would come before the police did and that they would see me and the phone. Then they would know that I must have called for help and that the police would be on their way.

  It could happen, I thought. They’d be back at some time, I was sure of that, but there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. I sank down on the floor behind the computer desk hugging my knees, making myself as small as possible in the hope that if they did come, they wouldn’t see me — which was, it soon dawned on me, a totally ridiculous aspiration. Of course they would see me the moment they put the light on. And if the police didn’t hurry up, morning would be here and there would be no need for artificial light at all. I could feel myself shaking uncontrollably.

  At some point it occurred to me that if Quigley and his friends did come, I’d have a better chance of a swift getaway if I hid behind the door so that I was concealed when they opened it.

  That’s sensible, I said to myself, out loud; but it still took a few more minutes to summon the energy to move. It was as if the effort I had made to get through that window had drained me, both physically and mentally, and I didn’t give much for my chances of being able to make a successful run for it, even if I had the opportunity.

  Still, I had to try, so I got to my feet and went towards the door. It was during this journey, from one end of the barn to the other, that I realised there were no less than five easels between me and the door, plus three stands - heaven knows their proper name — on which sculptors place their work in progress. They, together with the crates, all seemed to bear out my previous suspicion — that this, in its way, was a small factory. Who was it who had said that the Zoffany painting represented the tip of the iceberg? I was convinced now that they were right. This was big business.

  I stationed myself close to the door and waited some more. The silence was absolute. After a while, I pressed my ear to the door itself. Still I could hear nothing. Where were the police? I couldn’t imagine what was keeping them. I seemed to have been waiting for ever.

  Suddenly, I heard the muffled sound of a car and the faint slam of a door, then another door. Someone had arrived — surely, surely this had to be the police? I felt a great surge of relief which was all too quickly dispelled when I heard a key being inserted in the lock.

  Not the police, then, but the thing I had dreaded from the moment I had opened my eyes in that horrible little room. This had to be the return of the men who were implicated in the murder of my brother, coming now to deal with me.

  I could barely breathe as I pressed myself flat against the wall, waiting for the door to open as I knew it must. I was afraid they would hear me long before they saw me, my heart was knocking so thunderously against my ribs, but they were talking as they came in and in the first few seconds seemed to notice nothing amiss, even though one of them flipped a switch and flooded the room with light.

  ‘...got to get her out before the van comes for the crates,’ one was saying to the other. It was a low, cultured voice, one I didn’t recognise. Definitely not Quigley. Piers Craven, perhaps?

  There was a grunt in reply, the sound of boots on a bare floor, then a sudden exclamation.

  ‘‘Ere — boss, look. The little cow’s climbed out!’ That voice I knew at once. How could I forget Joe?

  ‘Don’t be a fool, man. How could she?’ The footsteps advanced further into the room. ‘My God, so she has!’

  I didn’t wait to hear more, but darted round the door and outside into what I now saw was a kind of yard with another derelict-looking building opposite. I heard a shout behind me. There was no time to size up the situation or see in which direction I should run; I simply fled across the yard and round the back of the old barn opposite.

  Immediately behind it was an area liberally strewn with rubbish of one kind or another — a broken sink, piles
of bricks, sodden sacks — but beyond was an open field. Dawn was definitely breaking now, but a misty rain was falling and it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction, so that although I could make out a broken-down rail fence a short distance away, whatever was beyond it was totally obscured. I figured that my only hope of escape was to put as much distance between me and my pursuers as possible in the hope that the mist would hide me. Without pausing for more than a split second to review the territory, I dodged round all the debris and ran like crazy for the fence, hurled myself over it and kept on running, tripping over tussocks of grass, slipping on cow pats and patches of mud — running, running until suddenly there was nothing in front of me, just some kind of pit or quarry that fell steeply away to unseen depths, so that I had to skid to a halt and steady myself.

  I had, from the first, known that one or both the men were coming after me. Now I glanced behind and saw to my horror that Joe was closer than I had imagined. My efforts to melt into the mist had been useless. Wildly I looked around and, with my breath sobbing in my throat, started to run again, skirting the quarry, making for some trees that had now come into view, kidding myself that somewhere over there I would find a place to hide.

  I suppose I should have known it was hopeless. The trees were silver birches, their trunks thin and straight, incapable of hiding anything. Worse, I found that I had taken a path through them that led only to a high, mossy stone wall, dripping with moisture, part of some ancient building. I leant against it for a moment, panting for breath, then turned to find, as expected, that Joe had caught up with me. There was nowhere to run. The chase was over.

  For a moment we faced each other without moving, the only sound the rasp of our breathing. Then his unpleasant face creased into a grin.

  ‘Gotcha, you bitch,’ he said softly, levelling the gun that I could now see was in his hand.

  He reached out and roughly pulled me round so that once again I was in the position of feeling the gun in my back as, with both my wrists held in his left hand, I was frogmarched back over that soaking wet field.