by J F Straker
Six
Polly overslept. She was starting to prepare breakfast when Robin came down, bathed and shaved and dressed. His eyes betrayed his lack of sleep and she wondered how far into the night the two of them had talked. But his step was brisk and there was a new cheerfulness in his mien that did her good to see.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘How is she?’
‘Still asleep.’ Smiling, he shook his head. ‘You’d think she’d had enough of sleep, wouldn’t you? What’s for breakfast?’
‘Bacon and eggs, unless you’ve other ideas.’
‘Bacon and eggs will be fine.’ He watched her crack an egg into the pan. ‘This is getting to be a habit with you, isn’t it?’
‘I hope not,’ Polly said. ‘It’s outside my terms of reference.’ She swore as the yolk of an egg disintegrated. ‘Well, come on, Robin! Don’t keep me in suspense. What did Karen have to say?’
‘Not much. She’s not really ready to talk, and I didn’t press her. It’s rather like waking up from a nightmare, she says. You’re scared to discuss it in case it sticks in your mind and recurs when you go back to sleep.’ He put slices of bread in the toaster. ‘Anyway, there’s no urgency. It’ll keep until Martin gets here. Although it seems that her memory of what actually happened is vague. They kept her well doped up.’
He took a tray up to the bedroom for himself and Karen, apologising for leaving her to eat on her own. Not to worry, Polly said, that was how she ate her breakfast most mornings. And the other mornings? he asked. None of his business, she told him, and reminded him to tell Karen how they had accounted for her absence to Mrs Huntsman. ‘Oh! And ask her about Sunday,’ she added. ‘Mrs Huntsman will want to know.’
‘What about Sunday?’
‘I told you. Her dinner-party.’
When he returned with the tray some forty minutes later the food on one plate had not been touched. She’s not hungry, he said. I thought she would be, seeing that they fed her on slops, but she isn’t. Anyway, breakfast isn’t her meal. Polly thought him more subdued than earlier — apologetic, almost — but Mrs Huntsman’s return to the kitchen after hoovering the sitting-room prevented further discussion. Will Madam be staying in bed? asked Mrs Huntsman, who had already been told that Karen was back. I’d like her to, Robin said, she’s pretty tired. But she won’t. She’s in the bath and will be down shortly.
‘Shortly’ was a miscalculation. Martin had arrived and they were drinking coffee in the sitting-room when Karen eventually joined them and, in a voice unusually subdued, apologised for keeping them waiting. She had had to wash her hair, she said, she couldn’t bear the smell and the feel of it. To her audience the effort had been fully justified, the hair falling in a shimmering cascade of gold that curled and swirled about her shoulders. Her face was more oval than round, with a delicate complexion, her eyes a soft pastel shade of blue; and although neither nose nor mouth was perfect in itself, the total effect had an ethereal appeal that few men could resist. That morning she wore a blue jump-suit in fleece-backed cotton, nipped at the waist by a broad belt. Though it did nothing to emphasise the elegance of her figure it could not entirely conceal it.
All three stood at her entry. With a nod and a smile for Martin, Karen went to Polly and took her hands. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Polly,’ she said. ‘Robin’s told me how marvellous you’ve been.’
‘I just fussed around a bit, that’s all,’ Polly said, embarrassed. ‘It wasn’t much. But it’s great to have you back, Karen. How do you feel?’
‘I’m not sure yet. Apparently it takes time to adjust to freedom.’ She turned to Martin. Funny, Polly thought, they never kiss. Did they before? ‘And thank you too, Martin. For everything.’ Tucking her arm in her husband’s, she said, ‘We’re lucky in our friends, darling, aren’t we?’
‘Very,’ Robin said.
‘Making free with another man’s money is no great hardship,’ Martin said. ‘Now, how about answering a few questions, Karen? I’d like to get the show on the road.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said.
‘Good. Well, let’s start with Tuesday, the day you were snatched. Polly left at five-thirty. Did you go out in the Porsche at any time after that?’
‘Good Heavens, no! Why would I?’ As she poured coffee the others exchanged glances but made no comment. ‘No, after supper I changed into a negligee and settled down to read Daphne du Maurier’s new book. I bought it last week. I was surprised when I saw the car’s headlights flashing on the curtains. That’s Robin’s signal, you see, and I’d expected him to be late.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About half-past eight.’
‘Did you hear the car?’
She shook her head. ‘The double glazing is very efficient,’ Robin said. ‘Practically sound-proof.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I went to open the front door, as I always do. But when I stepped out on to the portico I was blinded by the car’s headlights. Robin always switches them off. Then —’Her shoulders hunched as she shuddered. ‘Well, someone caught me from behind and clamped a sort of pad over my face. I remember smelling the chloroform, or whatever it was. And I think I struggled a bit. After that —’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘And when you came to?’ Martin asked.
‘I don’t think I ever did. Not properly. They kept pushing more dope into me. I existed in a sort of twilight world, if you know what I mean. I was never more than vaguely aware of what was happening.’
‘Were you kept in one room?’
‘Yes. At least, I think I was.’
‘Can you describe it?’
It was small, she thought, about the size of their boxroom (‘Twelve by twelve,’ Robin explained for Martin’s benefit). There was an iron bedstead, with a mattress and blankets but no sheets; a chair — ‘I remember it had a cane seat, with bits of cane sticking up’ — a metal ferry and a washbasin. The bare floorboards creaked badly, and with the windows boarded up the room was in semi-darkness even during the day. ‘It was bitterly cold,’ she said. ‘Even if I hadn’t been drugged I’d have stayed under the blankets. It was the only way to keep reasonably warm.’
‘Electric light?’ Martin asked.
‘No. Just candles. And I don’t think there was any plumbing. There was this basin of sorts against the wall, but no taps. They filled it from a bucket.’
‘How did they empty it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Martin thought awhile. ‘How about food?’ he asked.
‘Just slops. Soup — tinned soup —and mugs of tea.’ Karen wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Both were always lukewarm and tasted of paraffin. And the tea was made with condensed milk. It made me feel sick.’
‘Were you sick?’ Robin asked.
She nodded. ‘Once.’
‘Tell us about the kidnappers,’ Martin said. ‘Was one of them a woman?’
Yes, Karen said; a big, strong woman who reeked of cheap scent. It was the woman who brought the food and water and emptied the slops. ‘She had a harsh, rather sing-song voice, but I’ve no idea what she looked like. She always wore a sort of hood over her face. Both of them did.’
‘Both?’ Robin said. ‘There was just the woman and one man? No more?’
She hesitated before answering. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Who used the hypodermic on you?’ Martin asked.
‘She did.’
‘Never the man?’
‘No. But he was usually with her. Once or twice, when I was more wide-awake than usual and tried to struggle he — he held me down.’ Hitherto Karen had sounded reasonably composed, with only the occasional hint of distress. Now she was clearly agitated. ‘I can still feel his hands. Rough and sweaty, with ragged nails. And his breath!’ She shuddered, screwing up her eyes. ‘Ugh! It was horrible!’
‘Anything more you can tell us about him?’ Martin asked.
‘Not really. Except that he wasn’t particularly big. I
couldn’t see his face, of course, and he never spoke. Not even when —when —’ She swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘Please! Do we have to talk about him? You’ve no idea how — how — Please, Martin!’
Polly put a protective arm round her and looked pleadingly at Martin. Martin shrugged. ‘Have you any idea where you were being held?’ he asked. ‘Town — country —anything?’
No idea at all, she said. She could recall no external noises. Nor could she say how or when she had been taken to Selsley Common the previous evening. And the information that Simon Mallett had seen the Porsche leave the lane at eight-thirty on the Tuesday filled her with astonishment. ‘It certainly wasn’t me,’ she said. ‘So it must have been one of them. But if they wanted it, why did they bring it back? It doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘No,’ Robin said. ‘And I’ll tell you something else that doesn’t make sense. The ransom. Why only two hundred and fifty thousand? I know they topped it up later, but I’d have expected something nearer the half million mark.’ He looked at Martin. ‘Kidnappers aren’t usually so modest in their demands, are they?’
‘Little men, probably,’ Martin said. ‘And little men don’t think big.’ He wetted his lips. ‘How about a drink, Robin? Whisky for me.’
The two women declined. Robin didn’t want a drink either, but it seemed unsociable to let Martin drink alone and he poured himself a dry sherry. Polly reminded Karen of the dinner-party scheduled for Sunday. ‘Are you going to cancel it?’ she asked. ‘I imagine you’re not feeling much like a party.’
‘Not much,’ Karen agreed. ‘Not this minute, anyway. Although by Sunday ‘ She paused to consider. ‘You know, it might be just what I need. Give me something else to think about.’
‘Who have you invited?’ Robin asked.
‘Only the Malletts.’
‘All of them?’
‘Of course. And I was hoping Polly and Martin would join us. Eight is a nice number. How about it, you two? Could you manage it?’
Both said they could, although Martin reminded her that he could never fix a date with absolute certainty. Then we’ll have a party, Karen said, she would discuss it with Mrs Huntsman after lunch. Unlike the majority of married women, Mrs Huntsman had no objection to helping out on a Sunday evening. It provided an excuse not to accompany her husband on his weekly visit to his widowed father. ‘She can’t stand Arthur’s old man,’ Karen said. ‘He’s like an elderly bloodhound, she says. All slobber and spit.’
Mention of Arthur Huntsman reminded Polly of the car that, according to his wife, he had heard leaving the Hall around ten o’clock on the Tuesday evening, and while the others talked she gave it further thought. Did it explain the mystery surrounding Simon Mallett’s sighting of the Porsche an hour and a half earlier? Robin’s supposition that Karen had been driving it was now exploded. But suppose the kidnappers had been unable to restart their own car after seizing and anaesthetising Karen? They would be too deeply committed to abort the undertaking. So had they used the Porsche to take her to wherever it was they had arranged to hold her? They would then have needed to get rid of it; and since their own car could be traced to them, wasn’t it a logical assumption that they would have returned in the Porsche to recover it? In which case it would have been their departure, after managing to restart their car, that Arthur Huntsman had heard.
Pleased with what she considered to be a brilliant piece of deduction, Polly wasted no time in expounding it. Robin too thought it brilliant, but Martin had reservations. The kidnappers, he said, would more likely have used a stolen car than their own; and a stolen car, provided it were clean of prints, could lead the police nowhere except to its rightful owner. ‘They certainly wouldn’t have risked coming back here to collect it,’ he said.
‘But they had to get rid of the Porsche,’ Polly protested, displeased at having her brain-child discredited.
‘No problem. Just dump it.’ Martin held up his empty glass. ‘How about one for the asphalt, Robin? Then I’ll be on my bike.’
Robin obliged. ‘Well, they obviously knew I’d be away that evening,’ he said. ‘And if Polly’s right and they did return at ten o’clock they must also have known I’d be late back.’ He looked from one to the other of the two women. ‘Were there any suspicious calls from strangers inquiring into my movements?’
Both shook their heads. ‘They also knew about your signal with the head-lights,’ Karen said. ‘I’d never have opened the door without it.’
‘Yes.’ Robin watched Martin drain his glass. ‘How about it, Martin? Couldn’t there be a lead there? It’s hardly common knowledge.’
‘Possibly.’ Martin held the glass at eye level, twisting it between thumb and forefinger before putting it down. ‘I’ll look into it, certainly. But there’s something I’d like to make clear. Just for the record, this is the first intimation I’ve had that Karen was kidnapped. All the negotiations, the drop — everything — were handled by you, Robin, without any reference to me. Okay?’
‘If you say so,’ Robin said, without fully appreciating the reason.
‘I do say so. Otherwise I could be in hot water. The fact that you didn’t want the police involved is beside the point. If I knew of it I should have reported it. Which I didn’t. And the super would want to know why.’
Robin nodded. ‘Of course. I hadn’t thought. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you out of it.’
‘Good.’ Martin stood up. ‘Well, I’ll get back to the station and set the wheels in motion. I expect Weightman will take charge of the investigation himself, kidnapping being a major crime. In which case, Karen, I’m afraid you’ll be put through the hoop again. Rather more searchingly, too. But don’t be intimidated by his brusqueness. He’s no ogre. It’s just his manner.’
If his smile was meant to be reassuring it failed. Karen had listened to him with growing alarm. Now she said nervously, ‘But I don’t understand! You’re not actually going to put in an official report, are you?’
‘Of course he is, darling,’ Robin said. ‘We kept the police out of it before because we didn’t want them fouling things up.’ That sounded disparaging and he looked apologetically at Martin. ‘Now it’s different, isn’t it? We want the swine caught.’
‘But that means it’ll be in the news! It’ll be public knowledge!’
‘I suppose so, yes. Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters!’ She sounded on the verge of hysteria. ‘Think what it’ll mean, Robin! Policemen and reporters badgering me, asking interminable questions. Photographers everywhere, TV cameras in the drive — I’d go crazy. And everyone knowing — people staring at me in the street —’ She shuddered. ‘And if they catch them I’d have to appear in court, give evidence.’ Leaning forward, she grabbed Robin’s hand. ‘Oh, no! Please, darling, don’t let them do that to me! I couldn’t stand it, I know I couldn’t. I’d — I’d —’Tears started in her eyes. ‘Please!’
Perplexed, Robin looked to Martin for guidance. But Martin’s non-committal shrug did not help and he turned back to Karen and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
‘But we can’t just ignore what they did, Karen,’ he said. ‘We can’t deliberately allow them to get away with it. That would be wrong.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘I suppose I should, but I don’t. It was horrible — horrible —and all I want is to forget it ever happened. Don’t make me go through it all again. Please, Robin! Not if you love me.’ She looked beseechingly from one to the other of the two men. ‘Please!’
Frowning, Robin hesitated, caught in a dilemma. To allow the criminals to enjoy the proceeds of their crime unmolested went against his principles. On the other hand, he knew that Karen’s fear was very real and that the threatened publicity could only increase the trauma of the past two days and would certainly delay her return to normality. So which did he put first? His wife’s health and sanity or his principles?
Again he looked at Martin. ‘It would certainly be tough on her,’ he said. ‘Ve
ry tough. I suppose — Look, Martin! Suppose you didn’t report it? What then?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ Martin said.
‘I’m asking you to — well, to give it further consideration.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re asking me to forget it. Very well, I’ll forget it — and I wish to God I’d never got into it.’ Martin nodded at the two women and walked briskly to the door. ‘But remember, I’m putting my career on the line. So if anything happens to change your mind, don’t bloody well drop me in it, that’s all.’
Seven
The dinner-party was not an unqualified success. As always on such occasions, Karen and Mrs Huntsman between them had produced an attractive meal: rougets à la nicoise, poulet au blanc with a green salad, followed by profiteroles and enhanced by white burgundy with the fish and claret with the chicken. But with the eight people present divided into two groups, those with knowledge of the kidnapping and those without — the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’, as Robin referred to them later — conversation was seldom free-flowing or spontaneous. The ‘haves’ had constantly to keep a guard on their tongues, for fear that inadvertently they might let slip a remark which could hint at Karen’s ordeal and invite questions they would prefer not to answer. It was infuriating, Robin thought, how an apparently safe topic could contain unexpected pitfalls. Television, for instance. Had any of them seen that extraordinary Wednesday evening play on BBC2? Henry Mallen asked. Recalling the anxiety of that evening, when he and Polly had sat waiting for the kidnappers to ring, Robin shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘We were both much—’ Realising the slip, he sought for some innocuous conclusion — ‘too busy,’ he ended lamely. But with Karen supposedly staying with her mother that night, how would the Malletts interpret the ‘we’? Noting how Adele Mallett turned her head to look at Polly, Robin swore under his breath. Adele, according to Polly, was something of a scandal-monger. She was also extremely left-wing and generally at odds with society. Polly thought she resented her brother’s good looks. Certainly she had cause to envy them, Robin thought. Tall and thin like Kate, her mother, she had a large nose and no chin. Her complexion was poor and her bust apparently non-existent.
