The call-box was free and in working order. Her fingers felt all thumbs as she scrabbled in her purse for change, fed it into the machine and tapped out Verity’s number. ‘Come on,’ she muttered aloud. ‘Answer quickly!’
It took six rings, and it seemed a lifetime. ‘It’s Melissa,’ she said, and rushed on before Verity had a chance to speak. ‘Don’t ask questions, just do as I say. I need another address … get the phone book.’ She stood with a pencil poised over a notebook, gnawing her lips, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to the sound of rustling pages and mumbled names, while the seconds ticked away.
At last Verity came back to the phone; Melissa’s hand trembled as she scribbled the details down. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Now call the police again and tell them that’s where I’ll be. And tell them to hurry!’
The address was in Cirencester. Thank God, she was already on the right road. Thank God, too, that she carried with her a book of maps of local towns. Back in the car, she grabbed it from the glove compartment and hunted frantically through the pages. When at last she located Mead Close it was a relief to find that at least it was on this side of town and easy to reach. Murmuring another fervent prayer, this time of supplication that she would not be too late, that her message to Harris would get through and that he would take it seriously, she threw the book aside and set off, driving like a demon until she saw ahead of her the graceful tower of Cirencester parish church.
It was almost seven o’clock. The little town basked in the glow of the setting sun, which was turning the western sky into an inferno of red and orange. There was no one about but a man and his dog walking along the footpath with long shadows at their feet; a few fallen leaves, early casualties of autumn, lay in bronze drifts at the roadside. There was very little traffic; most people would be at home after their day’s work, preparing their evening meal, studying the paper to see what was on the television. As the light faded, they would draw their curtains and settle down, never dreaming that somewhere close by, next door maybe, a young girl’s life was on the line.
She found the house; her stomach contracted at the sight of Peggy’s car on the drive. She parked outside so that the police would see it immediately when they came … If they came … but they must come. If they didn’t, it might mean curtains, not only for Sadie, but for Melissa Craig as well.
Twenty-Two
There was a long interval before Melissa’s ring brought any response. As she waited in the glazed porch, subconsciously noting the external signs of middle-class respectability – a shiny brass coach lamp, pots of well-tended geraniums, a plastic milk holder containing a scrupulously clean, empty bottle, its pointer set at one pint – she could almost feel the tension inside the house, the reluctance on the part of the occupants to reveal their presence. She imagined their frantic, whispered consultations: It might be a neighbour just calling round for something, or a door-to-door salesman. With the car on the drive, they’ll guess someone’s at home. They’ll remember later if no one answers. You go. Say I’m out, you don’t know when I’ll be back. Say anything, only get rid of them … quickly.
It was Peggy who at last came and cautiously opened the door; at the sight of Melissa, her eyes widened until they seemed ready to leap from her pale, startled face.
‘You? What do you want?’ she croaked.
‘I want to talk to Sadie,’ said Melissa, keeping her voice low, anxious not to be overheard by whoever might be lurking, invisible, in the background.
‘S … Sadie?’ Peggy licked her lips. Her eyes flickered and her head made a jerky movement, as if she had been about to glance behind her but checked herself just in time. ‘What makes you think …?’
‘I saw her drive away with you. She isn’t at home and there’s no one in at Bryony Cottage, so I think it’s safe to assume you’ve brought her here.’ Melissa’s heart was racing and it was an effort to keep her voice steady as she went on, still speaking quietly, ‘I’d like a word with her, please. Shall I wait here while you fetch her, or are you going to invite me in?’
With a helpless gesture, Peggy stood aside for Melissa to enter. As the door-latch clicked behind her, it sounded like a trap closing and she felt a surge of panic. She fought it down as she and Peggy faced one another in the narrow hallway.
Peggy appeared to be trying to speak, but no words came from her dry lips. Again, there was that involuntary movement of the head, almost like a nervous tic. In the momentary silence, Melissa thought she heard the creak of a door and the panic rose again like an advancing tide. What she had done was madness; she should have waited until the police came instead of venturing in here alone, but it was too late now. All she could do was play for time.
‘Shall I wait here while you fetch Sadie?’ she said again, and this time she could not entirely control the tremor in her voice.
Peggy made one last effort to prevaricate. Speaking a little more loudly, she said, ‘I tell you, Sadie isn’t here. I can’t understand what makes you think …’
‘That’s not true, is it Pegsy?’ A man, speaking in an unnaturally high-pitched voice like someone remonstrating with a child, materialised from a doorway at the end of the passage. ‘What has Daddy told you about telling stories?’
As her eyes went from his face to what he was holding in his right hand, Chandler’s classic comment, many times quoted by aficionados of crime fiction, came into Melissa’s head: If you can’t think what to do next, have a man enter with a gun in his hand. In her overwrought state, the timing seemed almost comic. She felt an insane impulse to laugh. It must have shown for a moment, for he said, in the same infantile voice, ‘Your friend likes my toy, Pegsy. My little Pegsy doesn’t like me playing with it because it goes bang.’ Now he was addressing Melissa, confidingly, indulgently, a fond parent excusing a little girl’s irrational fears to an older, more sensible child. ‘You don’t mind bangs, do you? This one doesn’t make a very loud bang anyway – would you like to hear it?’ He pretended to aim at the ceiling and Peggy gave a thin shriek and put her hands over her ears. ‘No Daddy, don’t do that!’ she begged.
He lowered the gun, smiling with closed lips. ‘Daddy was only teasing. Bring your little friend in here, Pegsy.’ He gestured towards the room he had just left.
Peggy made feeble movements with her hands. ‘You know I’m frightened of toys that go bang, Daddy,’ she whimpered. ‘Promise not to make it go bang.’
For a sickening moment, Melissa thought Peggy was as mad as her father; then she saw her eyes, glazed with terror, and knew that she was merely joining in the macabre game to humour him. She was staring first at the gun and then at his face, her mouth half open. Then she took a step forward and reached out a hand. ‘Let Pegsy put it back in the toy-box, Daddy.’
He backed away, holding the gun out of reach, and wagged a finger at her. ‘Naughty, naughty, mustn’t snatch from Daddy.’
‘Nice Daddy, put it down and go get Pegsy a drinkie, please.’ On the last word, the childish intonation became a despairing groan.
‘You can have a drinkie later. First you must do as Daddy says. Come along now, both of you.’ A harsh undertone crept into the infantile wheedling. He moved away from the doorway, beckoning like a policeman directing a line of traffic.
‘Play along with him, for Heaven’s sake,’ said Peggy under her breath as, reluctantly, she and Melissa entered the room ahead of him. ‘If you upset him, there’s no telling what …’
Melissa did not hear the end of the remark. Her eyes had gone straight to a couch where Sadie, her mouth sealed and her hands and feet bound with plastic tape, lay curled up with her knees against her chest like an infant in the womb. Her eyes rolled wildly when she saw Melissa and she gave a faint, muffled moan.
‘Keep quiet!’ The voice was no longer soft and coaxing, but harsh and gritty; now there was a different kind of madness in the face of the man holding the gun. He made a threatening gesture with it; Sadie closed her eyes and buried her face in the
cushions.
‘It’s all right, Sadie, he’s only playing,’ said Melissa. ‘It’s just a game, you see. I don’t think it’s a very nice game, though. Pegsy doesn’t like this game, do you Pegsy? Ask Daddy to play something different.’
‘Shut up. Sit over there.’
Plainly, that line wasn’t going to work; she’d have to think of something else. The gun indicated a chair in the far corner of the room and then swung back, pointing directly at her. Fear drew a black curtain over her brain so that for a moment she was aware of nothing, could look at nothing but the weapon aimed at her heart. Then, with an effort, she shifted her gaze and met the eyes of the man who held it. It might have been her imagination, but she sensed that he was uncomfortable under her scrutiny, as if it made him less sure of himself.
Did that make him more, or less, dangerous? There was no doubt that he was seriously disturbed and therefore unpredictable, but she had heard many accounts of skilled negotiators persuading people like him into peaceful surrender. Without training, without any previous experience, she would have to try, play it by ear, make it up as she went along. Her life and Sadie’s depended on it.
A moment ago she had been quaking; suddenly, she felt ice-cool, as if someone outside had taken charge of her brain and her reactions, someone who knew how to handle the situation and would talk her through it. It came as a surprise to hear herself saying, ‘I think I’ll stay where I am, if it’s all the same to you.’
He looked taken aback, then shrugged and said, ‘Please yourself. It makes no difference to us. Pegsy, fetch the other roll of tape.’
At the thought of being trussed up like poor Sadie, Melissa had a struggle to keep her appearance of calm. Inwardly she was cringing with horror, but there was nothing she could do but follow the line she had embarked on.
‘We shan’t be wanting the tape just yet, Pegsy – I want to talk to your Daddy a bit longer.’ Once again, she forced herself to look him straight in the eyes. ‘You’ve been so clever, making that effigy, writing the poems to read like haiku. Did you know your Daddy was a poet, Peggy?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘When did you first learn what he was up to? You didn’t know yesterday afternoon, did you? You wanted to help find Stewart’s killer, which was why you agreed to answer my questions about Kate, even though it didn’t show him in a very good light. You wouldn’t have been so ready to talk if you’d known the truth.’
There was no reply, only faint sounds of tremulous, half-stifled weeping.
‘I suppose the “Death of Hope” figure was meant to throw more suspicion on Maurice Dunmow, so the police would think it represented his sister?’ Melissa continued. The murderer nodded, smirking. ‘That was very clever!’ she said.
‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ The gun was still levelled at her and his gaze had not wavered, but he seemed pleased at the compliment. Was she getting through to him? Keep it up, Mel, play for time – and Ken, for God’s sake get here soon!
‘Brilliant, in fact,’ she went on. ‘And the coded link between “hope” and “Haughan” was neat as well – except that it was one of the things that put me on to you.’
‘One of the things? What else was there?’ Now his curiosity was aroused; she must spin this one out for all it was worth.
‘Well now.’ She glanced at the ceiling in the manner of someone trying to remember titles of books, or the names of people met at a party. ‘There were several, only it took a little while to fit them all together. The first was the business of the German word hoffen, meaning hope, sounding the same as the name Haughan, plus Peggy knowing German and her father having been in the army in Germany. It wasn’t much of a clue, but it was a start.’
‘You figured out I was her father, just from that?’ He sounded incredulous – but intrigued as well. She was getting through.
‘Not straight away,’ she continued. ‘I only knew for certain when I got here. Up to then, it had been largely guesswork, although there were other clues.’
‘It’s a pity for your own sake you didn’t stick to the ones in your books,’ he sneered. ‘Such a pity, too, that you won’t be writing any more.’ There was a pause, during which his eyes flickered and his lips moved silently, as if he was holding some kind of internal discussion. Then he said, ‘What other clues?’
Curiosity had got the better of him again … but for how long? For God’s sake, Ken Harris, where are you?
Aloud, she repeated, ‘There were several. Do you know, I think I will sit down, if you don’t mind.’ She settled herself on a straight chair with its back to the wall, midway between Peggy and the man with the gun. The adrenalin was really going now; almost, she was beginning to enjoy herself, to forget this was a grim game of life and death. Almost …
‘I just had this feeling there was something I’d missed,’ she went on. ‘You know how it is …’
‘Get to the point!’ he snarled.
Now he was losing patience. She’d been pushing her luck, getting too cocky. ‘It was something I remembered hearing the day I came to Uphanger,’ she said hurriedly. Was it only the day before yesterday? It feels like a lifetime.
‘What was that?’
‘You and Peggy were talking about Maurice Dunmow’s sister Kate, who worked at Uphanger eighteen months or so ago. You said something like “the girl you told me about”.’
‘What of it?’
‘Peggy is a very loyal employee; she was reluctant to tell me Kate’s story, even when I questioned her about it. After all, it didn’t reflect very well on Stewart. She agreed to talk only when I suggested it might help us find his murderer. Was it likely she’d go blabbing to a comparative stranger who’d only worked at Uphanger for a couple of months? But she might have confided in someone about it at the time … someone she thought she could trust … her father, for example.’
‘More guesswork?’ His laugh was scornful, but she could tell that he was disconcerted.
‘Inspired guesswork, wouldn’t you say? And then there was Sadie, who’d “taken a peek” at something she wasn’t supposed to see, and learned something interesting about Peggy or her father – “speaking of her Dad”, she said. She was just going to tell me when Peggy came back. I tried to figure out what it could have been. Then I remembered Peggy had been to collect tickets from a travel agent, for a holiday in the Canaries. For that, she’d need her passport. I thought, I’ll bet Sadie couldn’t resist taking that passport out of Peggy’s handbag when her back was turned, to have a look at the photo. Passport photos are always good for a laugh, aren’t they? I know mine is, I look …’
‘I’ll give you just thirty seconds to tell the rest of it.’ There was a rasp in his voice that sent a shiver down Melissa’s spine. The sands were running out, there was no sign of the police, at any second his fragile control would snap.
‘I believe that Sadie found something else in Peggy’s handbag that she shouldn’t have seen … a letter in your handwriting, for example, or maybe a photograph of the two of you together. Which was it, Peggy?’
‘A card with the name and address of my next of kin. I always keep it in my passport, just in case …’ Peggy’s voice was a shaky, barely audible whisper.
‘That’s enough! Peggy, get that tape, stop her mouth and tie her up. I’ve got her covered. You, lie down on the floor.’ He made a menacing gesture at Melissa with the gun. ‘Any more fancy talk and I’ll shut you up for good.’
Slowly, on legs that threatened to buckle under her, Melissa got to her feet.
‘We have to do as he says,’ Peggy whimpered. ‘If we don’t, he’ll kill you – both of you.’
‘He means to do that anyway – or didn’t he tell you?’
Sadie gave another stifled moan. The gun swivelled menacingly from Melissa to the couch and back again.
‘She’s right,’ he snapped. ‘Better play it my way.’
‘Oh no.’ Melissa’s courage had been oozing away, but she made one more despairing effort. She managed to remain upright, but her cont
rol was going; she could feel herself swaying and her voice rising in pitch as she gabbled on, ‘You won’t shoot us in the house. A neighbour’s sure to hear and tell the police when our bodies are found. They will be found, no matter how cleverly you hide them. There’ll be a search, when we’re reported missing …’
‘Shut up!’
‘You want to get us as far away as possible before you kill us, don’t you? Because you know you’d never get away with it if you did it here. But the game’s up, because the police will be here any minute. You’ll go to prison for a long, long, time, the rest of your life, maybe … and who’ll look after Pegsy then?’
The effect of the final words was extraordinary. He gave a strangled sob; tears spurted from his eyes and ran down the furrows at the side of his nose.
‘But I did it for her,’ he said brokenly. ‘She was all I had when her mother died. I dreamed of her finding a husband and being happy. She’d never be happy so long as that animal walked the earth and kept his hold over her. I wanted her to have children … lots of children … and he made her destroy the only one she’ll ever conceive … the doctor told us, because of that, there’ll never be any more. That’s when I gave up dreaming of grandchildren and began to dream of murder.’ His voice became steadier as he told his simple tale of justifiable vengeance.
‘And what about Maurice Dunmow, who was going to take the blame for what you did … and Ben Strickland? He didn’t deserve to die, did he?’
‘I had to kill him. I was afraid he’d recognise me – we were together on an army exercise years ago. When it got out how Haughan was killed, he might have remembered and told the police I’d trained with the SAS and they’d have started questioning me. I daren’t take the risk. I couldn’t let myself be caught, because Pegsy needs me. But it’s all gone wrong. I’m no good to her now.’
Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel Page 15
