The Caroline Quest

by Barbara Whitnell

  ‘You won’t shoot me,’ I flung at him over my shoulder.

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  ‘Quigley wants me alive.’

  ‘For the moment.’

  Yes, I thought as I stumbled over the tussocky grass, skirting the quarry. Yes, I’d kind of figured that out. He’d hope to get information out of me, and then —

  ‘So what kind of accident have you got worked out for me?’ I taunted him.

  Joe laughed.

  ‘We’ll think of something.’ He gave me another push. ‘Keep moving.’

  ‘Like you thought of something for my brother?’ He didn’t answer and suddenly, disregarding the gun, I came to a halt and twisted to face him. ‘Was it you?’ I spat at him. ‘Did you drive the car that killed Jim?’

  He let go of me long enough to slap me across the face, so hard that I fell to my knees; then he hauled me up and slapped me again.

  ‘Get walking, you little cow,’ he shouted. ‘I obey orders, that’s what I do. Go on — get going.’

  I turned and stumbled on, my face stinging with the force of his blows. I’d made him angry; not, perhaps the wisest thing under the circumstances, but at least I felt I knew for sure now what had happened to Jim, and who had been driving the car. I had no doubt that it was Joe. I was so angry, so full of loathing for this man, that any pain I felt seemed unimportant.

  The journey back seemed to go on for ever. I hadn’t realised I’d run so far, but eventually I could see the old derelict barn looming out of the mist, the one across the yard from the larger place where I had been imprisoned.

  We were just about to emerge from behind it when Joe came to a halt once more as we both heard the sound of vehicles turning into the yard. My heart gave a great leap of hope; this, surely, had to be the police.

  Joe pulled me back behind the barn and slammed me against the wall.

  ‘Keep still and keep your bleeding mouth shut,’ he hissed in my ear. ‘Put your hands flat on the wall and keep them there. I’ll shoot if I have to.’

  This time I felt less sure that he wouldn’t carry out his threat. He was tough and brutal and had virtually admitted back there in the field that he had killed once and would cheerfully do so again. I therefore did as I was told, but I couldn’t help thinking of the blanket tied to the window, evidence of my escape from that little room. If the police went inside the barn, as I assumed they would, they would surely see it. Or had Craven, or whoever the other man had been, have had time to get rid of it? He might have done. Would almost certainly have done, I concluded despondently. He would have known that with a telephone so conveniently at hand I would have called for help and would be expecting the police.

  And here they were. I could hear voices calling to each other, the sound of an intercom, car doors slamming, someone hammering on the barn door. And here I was, so close and yet so helpless, with my hands on the wall at shoulder level and the gun held firmly in my back.

  ‘They’ll find - ’ I began.

  ‘Shut it!’ Joe pushed the gun against me even harder and with his other hand slammed my face into the wall, so forcibly that I gasped with the pain of it. ‘Keep shtum, or you’ll get worse than that!’

  The pressure of the gun eased a little and I realised he was looking, with great caution, round the side of the building to see what was happening in the yard. It took him less than a second and I had no chance to take advantage of it by making any move to escape from him; however, I did manage to ease my position a little and in doing so I saw that, directly below me on the ground at my feet, there was a half-brick. If I could pick it up, I thought, it would make a weapon —

  But there was to be no time, for whatever he had seen had made him decide to move away from the yard again. I wasn’t surprised. It seemed logical to think that the police would make a search of the area if they were unable to find me inside the barn. Somehow I had to do something to stop him taking me far.

  ‘Move,’ he breathed in my ear, jabbing me again with the gun. I groaned and sagged against him, buckling a little at the knees. He attempted to haul me up with his left hand, but I was too heavy for him and he couldn’t prevent me slowly subsiding to the ground as if in a dead faint.

  The brick had to be within my reach. Joe was swearing under his breath, pulling at me, bending over to try to lift me. I groaned again and shifted my position, opening my eyes just enough to see the brick right there. I was almost touching it.

  Now, I thought; and while he was lulled into ignoring the danger, distracted by trying to move me, I grabbed the brick, half rose and smashed it with all my strength against the hand that, loosely now, was holding the gun.

  I heard his gasp of pain, but it meant nothing to me. All I cared about was that he had dropped the gun. I grabbed at it, snatching it a split second before he was able to reach it with a hand that I was delighted to see was already bleeding profusely. Shakily I pointed it at him as I scrambled to my feet and backed away from him a little.

  ‘Don’t try anything,’ I warned him. ‘Believe me, I’d be happy to put a bullet through you.’

  Without taking my eyes off him I backed still further so that I was clear of the building and in full view of the men in the yard.

  ‘Help!’ I screamed, still with the gun trained on him. ‘I’m over here. Help me.’

  I couldn’t see them but I knew they were running towards me — two policemen just as tough-looking as Joe himself, I saw when they arrived. Unlike him, however, they were on my side.

  ‘Take it,’ I said, handing the gun to them. ‘You can take over now.’

  *

  Five weeks later, I stood at the long windows at Fincote, looking out on the park that surrounded it as I waited for Steve to come and take me to Heathrow. Tim was in London, attending some important directors’ meeting; Marian was in a nearby village, giving a talk on the subject of miniatures to the Women’s Institute. I’d said my goodbyes, tried to express the extent of my gratitude. My bags were packed and standing in the hall. Soon I’d be winging my way across the Atlantic to tie up various things there. I would be visiting Caroline in Washington — a meeting I hoped would be the first of many, for we had spoken several times on the phone and had already established a good rapport. But there was also the sale of the New York apartment to arrange and the packing up of my belongings. For I was coming back to England. Had there really been any doubt that I would?

  The daffodils were over now, but there were magnificent rhododendrons on each side of the drive that led up to the gates, and splashes of colour nearer the house from tulips and forget-me-nots and bright pink azaleas. Easy to wonder how my mother could have walked away from all of this.

  Five weeks, and it seemed as if I’d always known Fincote. Tim had said that of course I must stay with them. I needed cosseting, he said, and Marian had agreed and welcomed me here as warmly as anyone could have wished. Davina had been here too, and we had become friends. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I’d found a wonderfully supportive family.

  ‘You will be back, won’t you?’ Davina said now, coming into the room and joining me at the window.

  ‘You’d better believe it!’

  ‘And you’re really feeling OK? No more horrors?’

  For there had been horrors. I’d suffered from nightmares for a while, but was calm again now, simply thankful that my unlooked-for adventure had ended happily.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Thanks to all of you. And especially now I know that Rose is being looked after properly. I was worried about her.’

  ‘No need to be. Dad will make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘I told you!’

  ‘My mother wouldn’t have been right for him, you know. I was just thinking about her and wondering how she could have borne to leave this place, but I’m sure she did the right thing. She was lively and amusing and very attractive, but she was just too restless to settle here. Country life would have killed her.’

  ‘My mo
ther loves it. Can’t stand London.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ I said vaguely, turning to the window again. ‘I guess life has a way of working itself out.’

  I hoped I was right. My thoughts turned to Quigley and the Cravens and Higginson and Joe, hoping they would all get their just deserts. I had enough faith in British justice to think that they would, for they were on remand and eventually they would be standing trial not only for fraud and kidnapping, but murder as well. And there was talk of money laundering, too, in their dealings with America. Tim assured me that they were likely to be put away for a long time.

  ‘Here comes Steve,’ Davina said, as the battered old station wagon came into view. She laughed, but with affection. ‘You’re going to have to do something about that car.’

  How little she knew him!

  ‘He likes it,’ I said.

  I went to meet him. Davina, as always, was the soul of tact and lingered somewhere in the hall as I stood on the top step waiting for him to get out of the car and come up to me. He was smiling as he bent and kissed me.

  ‘All set?’ he asked.

  ‘Just about. My bags are inside.’

  ‘I’ll put them in the car. We’d better get a move on, sweetheart. I was held up on the motorway.’

  Neither of us moved, though. We just stood there — his hands on my shoulders, my arms around his waist, looking at each other as if we wanted to learn each other by heart before we were separated — as if we hadn’t done so already! I noted the shape of his face, those winging brows over the clear grey eyes, his mouth, his smile.

  ‘I approve of that,’ I said.

  He laughed.

  ‘Approve of what?’

  I could have said ‘of the way you look’, but knew it would embarrass him.

  ‘Of being your sweetheart.’

  He bent his head and kissed me again.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Because if I have my way, you’ll be filling the role for a long, long time.’

  Still I didn’t move. I was wondering what my mother would have said about having an Englishman as my partner. In every sense of the word. Would she have accepted that I had to go my own way? That whatever prejudices she had cherished, whatever memories of past wrongs, I belonged to another time and another generation? Would she forgive me for finding so much happiness in the country she had firmly turned her back on?

  Yes, I thought. I think she’d understand and accept. She would expect me to forge my own road in life and stand by my own opinion, for after all, I was her daughter, wasn’t I?

  ‘We really must go,’ Steve said, gently and with love. Davina joined us in the hall as he picked up my bags, and we said goodbye, hugging each other with genuine affection.

  ‘Come back soon,’ she said, and I swore that I would.

  I took one last look at the lovely old house, and followed Steve down the steps to the car. And as I did so, I could swear I heard one small, indomitable, intolerant Yankee ghost give a sigh of resignation.

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  About the Author

  Barbara Whitnell was trained as a teacher and taught in a village school in Cornwall before going to Kenya and Uganda where she married and had four children. She travelled extensively, her husband’s job taking the family not only to Africa but also Hong Kong and the West Indies.