by Ann Purser
He’s soft on Ivy, thought Alwen. How blind the old fellow must be! Still, there was no telling about men, she reflected, no matter how old they were.
“Are you going to let me into the secret? What is the present for Ivy?” she asked.
Roy shook his head. “I thought everyone knew, except Ivy,” he said. “Never mind, you’ll see tomorrow.”
He could see from the expression on Ivy’s face as she returned that she had had no luck talking to Deirdre. He looked at his watch. Nearly twelve hours to go. He had a sudden mental picture of Gus, his wispy hair standing up on end as he roared with laughter at one of Ivy’s best quips. Roy was not a religious man, but thinking it worth a try, he said a small, silent prayer for Gus’s safety.
DEIRDRE FELT HER mobile vibrate, but by the time she had it in her hand, it had lost the signal, and she put it back in her pocket. She had parked her car outside the village shop in Measby, and now stood looking in the window. This was taken up largely by notices of items for sale, dog-walking services, baby-minding and house-cleaning contacts. There were fixture dates for the junior football team, and an offer of six ducklings, free to a good home.
Not much help, thought Deirdre, but then she saw a small piece of paper pinned to the corner of a noticeboard. The writing was in red pen, and it offered a cottage for sale, due to family bereavement. “Needs a lot of work on it,” it said. Not estate-agent-speak, then. It was signed “Doris May Osborne,” with a telephone contact number.
Deirdre made a note in her address book, and then walked up the steps into the shop.
“Yes?” A burly old man with crooked spectacles and thinning hair looked at her suspiciously.
“Um, have you got any Green and Black chocolate?” Deirdre asked, knowing before he answered that it was extremely unlikely.
He looked at her suspiciously. “Are you anything to do with Mrs. Osborne?” he said.
“Never heard of her,” said Deirdre briskly. “Why do you ask? Has it anything to do with chocolate?” She was beginning to feel irritated with this unsavoury character.
“As a matter of fact,” he said portentously, “it has. Mrs. Osborne is my boss, and she is the only one in our village who asks for that particular brand of chocolate. I get it in specially for her. And that’s why I asked.”
“Well, do you think you could bring yourself to sell a bar of it to me?” said Deirdre, wondering why she didn’t just walk out. But she needed to check on Doris May Osborne, and wondered if she and the old man’s boss were one and the same person.
Grudgingly, the old man reached under the counter and brought out a chocolate bar which he slapped down in front of Deirdre. “That’s the last one,” he lied. “Was that all you want?”
“No, not quite,” said Deirdre. “I’m interested in the cottage for sale. I saw the notice in the window.”
The change was remarkable. At once half a head taller, and with a leery smile on his pale face, the old man said that he might be able to help her on that one. His boss Doris May was at this moment out in the back room looking at the accounts. Without delay, as if Deirdre might change her mind and vanish from the shop, he called in a loud, anxious voice, “Mrs. Osborne! Can you come through, please?”
Doris May was a surprise. She was small and trim, with well-cut hair and neat pearl earrings. Her navy blue coat and skirt were clearly expensive, and as she approached, Deirdre caught a whiff of the exclusive scent that she used herself. There was nothing flashy about her, but Deirdre recognised the signs of money and good taste.
“Yes? Can I help?” Doris said coolly.
Deirdre answered, “I’ve seen the notice in the window about a cottage for sale. Can you tell me a bit more about it?”
“Are you looking to buy a cottage in this village?” Doris May enquired.
“Might be,” said Deirdre.
“I suppose I could show it to you, then.”
It was an attractive village, with ornamental plasterwork on some of the houses, painted all shades of Suffolk pink and other not so traditional colours. Doris May looked at the parked Rolls, and asked if was Deirdre’s. On hearing that it was, and being told Deirdre’s name, she chatted in a more friendly fashion, every now and then asking a personal question about Deirdre herself.
The cottage was clearly a wreck. Tiles were missing from the roof, windows cracked and broken, paint peeling from the front door, which was stuck fast. Doris May had not bothered with a key, explaining that nobody would want to go in. Then she put her small shoulder to the door and with surprising strength gave an almighty shove, and it creaked open.
“Not frightened of spiders and mice, I hope?” she said, and Deirdre swallowed. She was actually frightened of both, but would not admit it to this confident little woman.
“How long since anyone lived here?” she asked.
“About six months, I suppose. There’s still some furniture, but it’s all rubbish.”
As they walked carefully through the detritus which can collect in a house that has been empty for months, especially in one never locked, Deirdre noticed some interesting items. In the main room, an old desk stood by the window. On it, she saw a well-thumbed book and picked it up, puffing off an evil-smelling cloud of dust. The cover was discoloured, and so blotched with damp that she could scarcely read the title. Profes—al Gamb—rs H—book Beating the Sys—m by Hook and by Crook. The author’s name, which surely could not be his real one, was Weasel Murphy.
A gamblers’ handbook? And not just a moral pamphlet on the evils of gambling for amateurs, but what looked like a how-to-do-it book for the professional. Must tell Gus about this, she thought, and then remembered there might not be a Gus to tell.
She looked at her watch, and saw that it was not long before the deadline expired, and her plan might have to be put into operation. She had to get back soon to have a word with Alwen Jones, and looking round, saw that Doris May had rounded the corner halfway up the narrow stairs. She quickly slipped the book into her handbag, zipped it up and followed her guide upstairs.
“Who lived here before?” she asked, as they inspected the two bedrooms and totally unacceptable bathroom. A streak of rust led from a tap to the plug hole, and spiders had woven an intricate web from one side to another. The lavatory had no seat, and no water in the pan. Deirdre gulped, and said she thought she must go now, as she was running short of time.
“You asked me who lived here before,” Doris May said doubtfully. “It was very unpleasant. Did you hear about it?”
Deirde said no, she had heard nothing, and concentrated hard on not throwing up as she continued on her way downstairs.
Unaware of Deirdre’s discomfort, Doris May continued. “An old man. He was found dead at the foot of his stairs, blood everywhere. At least, they thought it was blood. It’s all been cleaned away now, of course.”
Deirdre fled. Once out in the garden, she apologised, and said she was a little squeamish. Gathering her wits, she asked if there was any doubt about the cause of death.
Doris May did not answer but said sharply that she guessed Mrs. Bloxham would not be interested in buying, after all.
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” Deirdre said, her colour returning. “I would like to bring a friend with me and have another look?”
“If you like,” said Doris May. “But I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Where do you live, then?” asked Deirdre.
“Measby Manor. Over there, behind the trees. It is private land,” she added, and walked away smartly towards the church. As she went, Deirdre saw her take something out of her pocket and hold it to her ear. Now who was Doris May so keen to talk to?
Twenty-nine
GUS WAS NOW very hungry. For some reason, he supposed to keep him alive, Margaret had kept him supplied with a minimum amount of water. He was now hallucinating with images of sausages and bacon, toast and coffee frequently before his eyes. Café smells added to his yawing stomach pains. But he had been through all this before, and he knew he could ha
ng on for a while longer.
He was still trying to work out exactly why they were holding him. Ransom money, of course. Possibly they had been in touch with the real Martin and were threatening to extract valuable secrets from their prisoner and sell them to interested parties, unless the department paid up. What a waste of time, and possibly his life! He no longer held any secret information of any value to anyone, and none of his former colleagues would pay tuppence to save him. He had broken his silence to tell his captors this, but they did not believe him. In fact, they had shown very little interest in the real Martin.
“Spicy chicken for lunch,” said Margaret, coming silently into the semidarkness. She carried a jug of water, and half filled his glass. “Can I order some for you?”
He did not answer. He could see that she was losing patience with his silence, and this was just what he wanted. She began to pace around, saying that if he was sensible and answered their questions, and provided his chums came up with the lolly, he could have all the food he wanted and walk free. One other important condition would be that he gave no information about who had held him, or where he had been held. They would know if he talked, and the consequences would be dire, if not fatal.
Who did she mean by chums? He said nothing. She raised her voice. “For God’s sake, man!” she shouted. “What have you got to lose? Do you want us to pull your fingernails out? Okay, okay, I know that’s stupid, but we do have other, more uncomfortable ways of getting you to talk. I like you, Gus! Please, don’t make us do that. . . .”
He still said nothing but could sense that she was weakening. He did not have to pretend to feel giddy. Objects, including Margaret, began to shimmer and waver, and he sat down heavily on the camp bed.
She looked hard at him. “All right. I’ll get you something to eat, but for God’s sake don’t tell Max. He’ll kill me. Literally, Gus. Hang on, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He watched her leave, and saw that in her anxiety about her rash decision, she had pulled the door shut, relying only on the Yale lock to keep him safely imprisoned.
He moved like a streak of lightning, and could hardly believe his luck. Like everything else in the room, the lock was damp and rusty, and the lever had stuck.
Out on the landing, he hesitated. He could hear animated voices speaking in a foreign tongue in the café, and knew it would be useless to try getting out that way. In desperation, he headed towards the back of the building, down rickety stairs, and found himself in the cluttered backyard he had seen from his window. He ducked down and sped past a kitchen window, finally clearing a low wall and finding himself in the busy street outside the café.
He turned and ran for his life down the street. He was soon breathless and knew that a sustained chase would eventually catch him, so he entered the first of the many small hotels in the area, and secured himself a room under a false name. He asked that he should not be disturbed, and the burly receptionist winked at him, and said, “No questions asked, mate. You look done in. Best get some rest.” Then the reception telephone rang, and he answered, directing Gus to go on upstairs to his room. This he did gratefully, and collapsed on to a clean, neatly made bed, breathing hard.
DEIRDRE WAS ON her way back from Measby. It was lunchtime, but she was not hungry, and headed for Springfields, where she could get handover details of the blackmailer from Alwen Jones. The silly woman had been cagey about this, reluctant even, but Deirdre was certain she had details, and probably knew more than she had told the others. For a start, why hadn’t she gone to the police?
But Deirdre was not concerned with that now. She had already arranged for the ransom money to be available, and, if all else failed, had decided without a qualm to pay for the release of Augustus Halfhide.
A tiny rabbit ran in front of her car, and she braked hard, coming to a standstill while it leapt into the verge. At that moment, her mobile chimed. Her heart raced as she put it to her ear.
“Deirdre? Gus here. Don’t say anything. Just listen. Do not pay the ransom, not on any account. And for God’s sake don’t go to the police. It won’t help, and could mean danger for us all. I shall be—” The phone was disconnected, but not until Deidre heard raised voices and the sound of distant traffic.
She was shaking violently but immediately dialled for the number of the latest incoming call. An infuriating woman’s voice said, “The caller withheld their number,” and Deirdre slammed her mobile down on the seat beside her, and drove slowly forward. Gus must have had a few minutes’ freedom and found a telephone. That wretched automatic message was just bad luck.
So she must not hand over money. It wouldn’t help, he had said. What else was he going to say, before his kidnappers had caught up with him? And what would they have done to him now as a result?
So, first to Springfields, and then back home to think.
“WHAT THE BLOODY hell did you think you were doing?” Max said to Margaret as they sat in a waiting room at Liverpool Street station. They had no wish to be recognised, and it was an often-proved strategy with them that there was nowhere safer to hide than amongst an ever-moving crowd.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can say. I felt sorry for him—I know, I know!—and I must have forgotten to do all the locks while I went to get him something to eat. Only bread and water, Max, only bread and water.”
“I suppose you realise we’d have been in deep ordure with the boss if our friendly hotel receptionist had not tipped us the wink?”
“Gus had hardly finished dialling,” she lied. “In any case, the hotel had one of those ‘number withheld’ messages, so Bernie said. I snatched the phone from Gus, and we grabbed him. No problem about holding on to him. Bernie’s not lost his bouncer’s skill. So Gus is safely back in his own little room again.”
“I’ll strangle him with my bare hands if he doesn’t talk soon,” Max said angrily. He looked at his watch. “Time for a last call to the old folks’ home. So let’s hope we’re about to find out what needle-sharp Enquire Within are up to, and make a bob or two in the process. But for God’s sake, don’t feel sorry for him again, else you’ll foul up everything, and then I can’t answer for the consequences.”
He took up his mobile and dialled a now familiar number.
“SIT DOWN, DEIRDRE, do! You’re all of a do-dah,” Ivy said firmly. “I’ll get some coffee sent up.”
“Not just for a minute, thanks, Ivy,” Deirdre said, slumping down heavily. After several false starts, she gave as cool an account as she could manage of Gus’s call.
“He’s alive, then,” said Ivy matter-of-factly. “And we’re not to pay the ransom money. Mind you, Deirdre, I had no idea that you were even thinking of doing that. Was it wise?”
“Yes, Ivy, it was. Because we can’t get the police onto it or else Gus’s life, and maybe one of ours, will be in danger. So how could I ever forgive myself, knowing that I had money in the bank, and if we never saw Gus again, and . . . and . . .”
“. . . and he was murdered?”
Deirdre nodded miserably. “Oh, Ivy, what are we going to do?”
“First of all, we find Roy and Alwen . . . well, maybe not Alwen . . . and you can tell us exactly what you found out at Measby. That was where you went, wasn’t it?”
When Roy was sitting comfortably in his chair, and Deirdre had perched on the edge of Ivy’s bed, the Measby story was told in a much more leisurely fashion, and at the end of her report, Deirdre took out the gambling book and put it on Ivy’s bedside table.
“There we are,” she said. “Bedtime reading for you, Ivy.”
“Where on earth did you get that? And what is it, anyway?” Ivy said.
Roy picked it up. “Gambling Handbook,” he read, and began to leaf through it. “Great Scott! This is hot stuff, Ivy. Better not read this, girls, else I shall have no chance at the pontoon table!”
“I have no intention of reading it,” Ivy said, handing it back to Deirdre. “But it might be important. Well done, Deir
dre. It might help us to make sense of some odd things we already know. An old man died in that cottage, possibly with blackmail involved. Full stop. Then there’s Alwen. I don’t believe she got that twenty thousand back, and nor do you, Roy.”
“If she ever lost it,” said Roy quietly.
At that moment, there was a tap at the door and Alwen Jones poked her head round, asking in a trembling voice if she could come in.
Ivy sighed. “This is one of them days,” she said wearily. “Come in and tell us what you want. There’s nowhere to sit, but you can perch next to Deirdre if you like. It’s only my bed, and fortunately I sleep the sleep of the just, rumpled or not.”
Alwen perched. Then, as the others were all waiting expectantly, she said that she had had another anonymous call. Same man, same hoarse voice. He warned that the deadline was very soon, and then gave her an address where he said she must take the money. If not, he had said, Gus Halfhide would be extinguished. Never heard of again, he said. And no good telling the police, he repeated several times. He would know, and nobody would be at the address. But Gus would be no more.”
She looked anxiously at the others, and Deirdre put her arm around Alwen’s shoulders, comforting her with an edited version of her conversation with Gus.
“Pull yourself together, Alwen,” Ivy said, quite kindly. “We have to come to a decision now. Does one of us go to the collection address, or do we call the police right away?”
“Not the police, Ivy! No, I think we do as Gus said,” Deirdre said slowly. “That is, do nothing, and wait to see what happens?”
The silence seemed to go on for hours. Then Alwen rose to her feet and seemed quite agile now. She took a deep breath. “I suggest we do nothing,” she said. “That is, you do nothing, and I go to get some advice from my daughter, right now. I can order a taxi.”
“How will that help?” said Deirdre, still undecided whether to do nothing or pay up, whatever the others said. She had noticed Alwen Jones’s quick recovery from collapse, and began to wonder if she was maybe a really good actress?
