by J F Straker
A man came to join them from the back of the room. The eager look on his face raised hopes that were quickly dashed. He knew nothing of their friends, the man said, but if they wanted somewhere on the street they couldn’t do better than the old Anson chemical factory. The firm had closed down some three years previously, and a year later the building had been acquired by a local speculator. ‘The talk was he’d had a deal fixed, but it fell through. I reckon he’d be glad to get rid of it cheap. And it looks in pretty good nick, considering.’
‘Well, thanks,’ Robin said. ‘We’ll pass that on.’
‘I could make enquiries,’ the man persisted. ‘It wouldn’t be no trouble.’
They were not allowed to escape until he had noted Robin’s telephone number. ‘He’s hoping for a commission on the sale,’ Robin said. ‘Seems a shame, poor chap.’
‘It wasn’t much use, was it?’ Simon said. ‘Coming here, I mean.’
‘Not much,’ Robin agreed.
‘If only Karen could remember a name or something,’ Simon said, climbing into the MG.
‘Well, she can’t.’
‘How about giving her one of those truth drugs?’
Robin was offended. ‘Are you suggesting she’s lying?’
‘Good Lord, no! Of course not. But they dig things out of the subconscious, don’t they? Or there’s hypnotism. How about that?’
‘Not a hope,’ Robin said. ‘Karen wouldn’t agree.’
Although he told himself that he had expected nothing from the expedition he knew that that was not completely true. There had been hope, or why else would he have gone? So did he now abandon hope? The hypothesis that had led them to Radcliffe Park had been well-reasoned and their inability to find facts to support it did not necessarily mean it was false. So suppose it were true? Suppose that in walking down Canal Street he had actually passed the building in which Karen had been held captive all those months ago? It was a thought both emotive and masochistic, and as his fertile brain conjured up images of what had occurred inside the building he realised, almost with relief, that this was not the end of the road. He wasn’t that much of a defeatist.
So what now?
Simon’s suggestion of a truth drug was definitely out. Apart from the fact that Karen would see it as an insult, it could only be administered under strict medical supervision. But hypnotism — yes, there might be something there. The difficulty would be to get Karen to agree. What was past was past, she would say, and all she wanted now was to forget. Vengeance had no part in her make-up. Not only would she refuse to be hypnotised, she would probably try to dissuade him from any form of further investigation.
And yet...
‘You’re very quiet tonight, darling,’ Karen said at dinner. ‘What’s the matter. Didn’t you like what you saw in Radcliffe Park?’
‘Not much,’ he said. ‘It’s a depressing place.’
‘Well, I warned you,’ she said, watching him absently twiddle the stem of his wine-glass. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. Why so quiet? Something on your mind?’
‘Something,’ he admitted.
‘Tell me.’
‘You won’t like it, I’m afraid.’ He looked up from the glass. ‘I want you to let yourself be questioned under hypnosis.’
That shook her. ‘What on earth for?’
He told her. He reminded her how, after the kidnapping, he had reluctantly deferred to her plea that the crime should not be officially reported to the police. ‘I wanted to report it,’ he said. ‘You know that. I hated letting the bastards get away with it. But you were apparently unharmed and the money wasn’t as important as your happiness, so I let it go.’ He paused. ‘Now — well, now it’s different.’
‘Because of the baby, you mean,’ she said quietly.
‘Because of what they did to you. I’ve tried hard to swallow it, but I can’t. It sticks in my throat, and I’ve got to do something about it.’
The blue eyes widened in alarm. ‘Oh, no, Robin! Not the police. Please! You promised.’
‘No.’ He stretched to take her hand where it rested on the table. ‘Not the police. Even if you were willing I’m not sure I’d want them interfering. It’s too personal. A vendetta, if you like. I want to deal with them myself.’
‘But how can you?’ she protested. ‘It was so long ago. Nearly a year. I doubt if even the police could catch them now, could they? And you’ve none of their resources.’
‘I know. But I’ll have a damned good try. I might even hire a private detective.’
‘I should think you’d need more than one.’
‘All right, then. An army of detectives, if necessary.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I know it’s a long shot, darling. But at least I’ll have had a go.’
‘Well, if that’s what you want —’ She shrugged. ‘Another meringue?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I’ll make the coffee, then.’
Was that a dismissal of the subject? he wondered. But when she joined him in the sitting-room and was pouring coffee, she said, ‘Suppose you found these men, Robin? What then?’
‘I’ll decide that when the time comes. But one way or another I’ll make them pay. That’s for sure.’ He took the cup she proffered. ‘Money can achieve most things.’
‘And where does the hypnosis come in?’
‘Ah!’ Relieved that it was she who had reopened the topic, he sought to explain in terms that would neither frighten nor antagonise. ‘It could be a non-event, of course,’ he concluded. ‘Probably will be. But it’s worth a try.’
‘Is it?’ She put a hand on his thigh. ‘I want to forget, not be reminded. Is it really so important to you?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’ As he leaned to kiss her, coffee spilled into the saucer, and he swore. ‘But you don’t have to worry about being reminded. When you come out of the trance, or whatever they call it, you’ll remember nothing that’s been said. Really!’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It was on TV.’
‘Well, then!’
‘How would you find a hypnotist? Look in the Yellow Pages?’
He laughed. ‘We could, you know. They’re there. Or hypnotherapists are. But I thought of asking Lucy Profit, Derek’s cousin. She’s a hypnotherapist. We could make it a social thing, have them both down for the week-end.’
‘She might tell Derek,’ Karen said. ‘I’d hate that.’
‘She won’t tell anyone,’ he assured her. ‘Professional etiquette.’
She needed more persuasion. But eventually (‘And only because I love you, darling’) she agreed and before she could change her mind he rang Derek and asked him to arrange it. Knowing nothing of the kidnapping, Derek was curious. What was it all about? I can’t tell you that, Robin said; but it’s important, so fix it for me, will you? Derek said that without more information Lucy would probably refuse. Then don’t mention hypnotism, Robin said. Just tell her I’ve asked you both down for the week-end, and I’ll break it to her when she’s here. If she won’t play I’ll have to look elsewhere. But I’m hoping that when she fully understands the circumstances she’ll agree to cooperate.
They arrived the following Saturday. Snow during the night had made the roads treacherous and they came by rail. Lucy Profit, at least ten years older than her cousin and darker-skinned, was a small, buxom woman with a mouthful of gleaming white teeth that brightened her dusky face when she smiled. On the two previous occasions Robin had met her, and then only briefly, he had found her a cheerful and friendly person and he was hopeful that Karen would be of the same opinion. After a rather strained initial period — due, he suspected, to the fact that Karen was still not entirely reconciled to the proposed experiment — it seemed that his hope was justified. Karen even allowed Lucy to join her and Mrs Huntsman in the kitchen, a privilege not lightly given.
As always when there were guests Karen wished to impress, dinner that evening was a gastronomic treat: tomato and orange soup, pheasant flamande, apricot suedoise. During t
he meal Robin kept the conversation away from Lucy’s profession and it was not until they had adjourned to the sitting-room for coffee and brandy (as good as, if not better than the club’s, Derek observed with grateful appreciation) that Lucy was encouraged to talk about her work. Even on this general level, however, he could see that the topic was putting a strain on Karen’s composure and presently he said, ‘I’d like a word with you in private, Lucy. Come along to the study, will you?’
If Lucy was surprised she gave no sign. ‘Is that allowed, Karen?’ she asked, smiling. ‘I wouldn’t want to poach.’
‘It’s encouraged,’ Karen said with forced gaiety. ‘It’ll give me a chance to be alone with Derek.’
The night’s snow had left a thin carpet of white over the garden and the fields beyond, against which the bare branches of the trees showed starkly. From the study window they surveyed the scene. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve lived in England most of my life, but I still can’t get used to your winters.’
‘Most of us natives feel the same,’ Robin said. ‘They’re so damned unpredictable.’
‘And cold.’ She turned to face him. ‘Well, what’s on your mind, Robin?’
‘I — no, we — we want you to interrogate Karen under hypnosis.’
‘Oh! I’m expected to sing for my supper, am I?’ He started to protest, but she waved a hand to silence him and settled herself in an armchair. ‘Not that I mind,’ she said. ‘And not that I’ll necessarily agree. I presume you’ve consulted your doctor?’
‘No. It doesn’t concern him. It has to do with crime, not medicine.’
She frowned. ‘Crime isn’t my scene, Robin. Shouldn’t you be talking to the police?’
‘I should, yes. But I can’t. Look! Let me explain.’
‘It might help if you did,’ she said.
He tried to be objective in his explanation; yet at the same time he had to make her appreciate the strength of the force that drove him. ‘I could live with the kidnapping,’ he said finally. ‘I did, for nine months. It hurt, but I took it — for Karen’s sake. But rape —’ He took a deep breath. ‘I can’t take that, Lucy. I just can’t.’
Lucy had listened with occasional expressions of sympathy and horror, her large brown eyes following him as he paced the room. ‘I imagine most husbands would feel the same,’ she said quietly. ‘But one thought occurs to me. Are you satisfied that Karen is not deliberately concealing something from you?’
‘Of course she isn’t. Why would she? And if she were, would she agree to be hypnotised?’
She nodded. ‘And if I do as you ask and happen to unlock information that will enable you to identify these men — what then?’
That was what Karen had asked, what he had asked himself. He had no specific answer, it must depend on circumstances. But it would be personal and unpleasant and probably violent, and he suspected Lucy would disapprove of a man usurping the privileges of the Law, no matter how great the provocation.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But it’ll be something they’ll regret, I promise you that.’
‘Rough justice, eh?’ She frowned. ‘I hate violence Robin. And I’m not referring just to the past, but to what I expect you have in mind for the future. Except that it’s unlikely to happen, isn’t it? No matter what may be tucked away in Karen’s subconscious mind, it can’t be enough to enable you to find these men. Not after all this time.’
‘Perhaps not. But then again, it might be.’
‘H’m! Karen isn’t being pushed into this, is she? She’s agreeable?’
‘Absolutely. Does that mean you’ll do it?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘It was a very good dinner.’
He was so delighted he bent and kissed her.
He had prepared a list of questions which he hoped might provoke helpful answers; others, he suggested, might occur to them as the interrogation proceeded. Not to you, Robin, she said, I’ll have no spectators. He protested that his presence was essential, that it was Karen’s reactions as well as her answers that were important. Lucy eyed him steadily at that and he reddened, guessing her thoughts. But he persisted and eventually she reluctantly agreed. ‘But there must be no interruptions,’ she said firmly. ‘And now I want to talk to Karen alone. Wait here with Derek. I’ll call you if and when I’m ready.’
‘If?’ he queried.
‘Certainly. It depends on what Karen has to say.’
Derek’s curiosity was unabated. ‘What’s it all about?’ he demanded when he joined Robin in the study. ‘Don’t I ever get to know? I mean — well, dammit man, you owe me!’
‘I know.’ Robin was embarrassed. Derek had cause to feel disgruntled. But it was a choice between two loyalties, and loyalty to Karen came first. ‘Unfortunately there are complications. So leave it for the present, eh? After the session’s over — well, maybe. But I’m promising nothing, mind.’
Half an hour and two brandies later Lucy called him into the sitting-room. Karen half sat, half reclined on a settee, propped up by cushions, her eyes closed. Lucy pointed to an armchair and waited for Robin to sit before starting the interrogation. She spoke slowly and distinctly, never raising her voice, and Karen sounded equally composed. She had been lying on the settee, she said, reading Daphne du Maurier’s new book; but she must have dozed off — until something, she didn’t know what, awakened her. (The noisy exhaust, Robin thought.) Almost immediately she had seen the headlights flashing on the curtained windows and, assuming that Robin was home, had hurried to the front door to greet him.
Momentarily her voice lost a little of its calm when she told how she had been seized from behind as she stepped out on the portico. She had thought it was Robin playing a trick on her; then the arm round her breast had tightened its grip, an ether pad had been pressed into her face and after a brief moment of panic she had lost consciousness. She could recall nothing of the journey to wherever it was she was taken and could add little to her previous description of the room in which she had been confined. It had not been on the ground floor, however, for she vaguely remembered being half carried, half dragged up stairs that creaked noisily. Could she hear any external noises from the room? Lucy asked. Traffic, for instance? She had thought to hear a train once, Karen said, but that was all.
Lucy turned the questions towards her jailors. It was always the woman who attended her, Karen said: feeding, washing, emptying slops. ‘She gave me the injections,’ she said, shuddering at the memory. ‘Most times I think he was there too, but it was the woman who used the hypodermic.’
‘She was big, was she?’ Lucy asked, referring to Robin’s notes. ‘Big and strong?’
‘Yes.’
‘What else can you remember about her?’
Karen’s eyebrows wrinkled as she sought to peer into the past.
‘Well, she had a large bust. And her voice was sort of harsh, without much inflexion. I thought she might be Welsh.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I didn’t like her scent. It was very strong. And she wore one of those funny masks. They both did. I never saw their faces.’
‘But you saw her hair, didn’t you? What colour was it?’
‘Auburn,’ Karen said, without hesitation. ‘With darker roots. I suppose it had been dyed.’
‘How about her hands? Did she wear rings? A bracelet, perhaps?’
Karen shook her head. ‘I don’t remember a bracelet. Rings? Oh, yes! Several, I think. There was one with a large red stone. Blood-red, it was, like her nails.’
‘How old would you say she was?’ Lucy asked.
Karen found that difficult to answer. Not having seen the woman’s face, and with the woman’s body well wrapped up against the cold, she could only offer a guess at the late thirties. She had always worn trousers, Karen said, usually with a jacket of some sort of brown fur and once with a full-length fur coat. ‘Grey, I think it was.’
‘Right. Now let’s talk about the man,’ Lucy said. ‘Can you describe him
at all?’
‘No.’ Karen’s voice rose slightly. ‘I never saw him. Not at all.’
‘Are you sure, Karen? Didn’t he hold you while the woman used the hypodermic?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’ Her face wrinkled in disgust. ‘But I turned my head if he came near. He — his breath smelt.’
‘Well, was he big — small — average?’
‘I don’t know. Average, I suppose.’
Lucy consulted the notes. ‘If you never really saw him, can you be sure it was always the same man behind the mask?’ she asked.
The question seemed to bother Karen. ‘He always smelt the same,’ she said eventually.
Perhaps because she sounded on the defensive, Lucy did not labour the point. ‘Was there any conversation between them while they were in the room?’ she said.
‘Sometimes. But only a few words.’
‘Did they ever address each other by name?’
‘No.’
‘So you don’t know their names.’
‘I think the woman’s name was Gwen,’ Karen said. ‘Or Gwyn, perhaps.’
Lucy frowned at Robin’s involuntary exclamation. ‘How do you know that, Karen?’ she asked.
‘I heard her call out. I think the door can’t have been shut. ‘It’s me, Gwen,’ she said, ‘I’m popping down to the Peacocks.’ Or something like that.’
‘You’re sure about the Peacocks?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the man was in the room with you then?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice faded to a whisper.
Lucy waited. Then, ‘Did he assault you, Karen?’ she asked quietly. Karen’s body stiffened, but she made no answer. ‘Think back, Karen. Try to remember. There’s something more to tell me, isn’t there?’
‘No!’ Karen said hoarsely. ‘No, no!’
Her body started to writhe. Beating her clenched fists against the settee, she turned her head rapidly from side to side as if seeking to evade an unwelcome embrace; a look of horror disturbed her lovely face, the lips parted in an agonising moan. To the watching Robin the spectacle was horribly expressive, and he gripped the arms of his chair. Then the moaning died away and she began to breathe heavily, as if in the throes of unusual exertion. Her head was still, a cheek against the cushion. The writhing turned to an undulating movement, her pelvis rising and falling, at first slowly and then gradually quickening. To Robin it was explicitly and hatefully obscene and he almost leapt from the chair.
