Hostage to Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  She turned over. Steen hesitated, looked at the gun still close to her head, and also turned over.

  “Both of you cross your ankles and put your hands behind your backs.”

  They did as he ordered. “Please, what do you want?” she asked, in a trembling voice.

  He secured her wrists and ankles with adhesive tape, moved round the bed and tied up Steen. He rolled Steen over on to his back.

  “We’ve nothing here…” began Steen.

  “You’ve two hundred and seventy-five thousand quid. Or what’s left of it.”

  “We’ve nothing like that,” said Penelope, trying desperately to convince him. “We’ve only a very little money. Our name’s Steen…”

  “I know that, lady. And I know that your husband lifted two hundred and seventy-five grand by switching the money in the suitcase in the bank.”

  “He’s never stolen anything in his life.”

  “Yeah? So where did this house come from?”

  “His uncle died and left it to us.”

  “No ways, lady.”

  “But I promise you. I’ve put flowers by the grave…”

  “Sure, there’s a grave for Silas Steen. Only there ain’t no body in the coffin.”

  She was now almost as bewildered as she was scared.

  Steen spoke hoarsely. “I swear my uncle left me this place…”

  Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t you understand nothing?” He crossed to the chair on which Steen had folded his clothes and with his left hand picked up the shirt and pair of pants. “Open your mouth.” Steen kept his mouth shut. Thomas swept his right hand downwards to slam the butt of the automatic into Steen’s cheekbone and as Steen cried out the pants were jammed into his mouth. Thomas used the shirt to tie the pants in place. He gagged Penelope with her clothes.

  He returned to the right-hand side of the bed. “Listen,” he said in an unemotional voice, “I want that money. I ain’t interested in anything else. So tell me where it is and save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  Steen shook his head.

  Thomas put the automatic down on the bedside table and brought the gas lighter out of his pocket. He flicked it open and adjusted the flame until it was an inch high. “Don’t be a mug all the way.” He waited but Steen merely stared at him. “O.K. When you want to talk, nod.”

  He dragged Steen to the edge of the bed. He brought the flame up to the flesh.

  At first, Steen found the pain bearable. Indeed, in a strange, crazy way, he almost welcomed it. He had stolen and betrayed his code of honour and by the terms of that code should have been punished. Instead, he had prospered. So, the prosperity for which he had not paid in any coin had frightened him. Now he was paying, in a strange coin, true, but he was paying and the score would be evened.

  The pain grew until it became so obscene that it seemed impossible he could ever have welcomed it. It squeezed his mind, to become unendurable. He nodded convulsively.

  Thomas shut the lighter and ungagged him. “Where is it?”

  Through the mists of agony, mercifully easing, he became aware that Penelope was sobbing violently.

  Impatient, Thomas flicked open the lighter again.

  “In a suitcase. In the other bedroom. In the cupboard.”

  Thomas went through to the second bedroom — equipped as a studio — and in the small cupboard he found three suitcases, one of which was heavy and locked. He ripped it open with his knife. The money was inside, most of the notes still in their original brown wrappers. He made a very quick count and put the total at around two hundred and thirty thousand pounds — a hundred and twenty thousand more than he would have received under the original share-out. He smiled sardonically. Since there was no way of quickly getting back the money Steen had spent on the house, he might as well be left to enjoy it: after all, it wasn’t often that the mugs of the world had the chance to come out on the right side of things.

  *

  Finally convinced Thomas had gone, Steen used his teeth to free Penelope’s hands. She tore loose the gag and the tapes from her ankles and then, tears flooding her cheeks, freed him and examined and treated the burn on his side.

  Later, after she had dressed the burn and given him aspirins, he lay on the bed with her in his arms and listened to her asking again and again, why? Thomas might have killed him: she’d thought he was being killed: she’d seen him writhing in agony and her mind had been crucified: Oh God, why had he ever risked such terror?

  Would she eventually be able to understand? He wondered dully.

  The pain flared up again, despite the aspirins. It was incredible that such agony could come from so small a burn: it was only about three inches long and was not deep.

  She suddenly kissed him, frantic for emotional proof that he was all right.

  What of the future? He wondered. Now they had little money. How long could they continue to live in the sunshine? Did they sell the house and live on the proceeds for as long as those lasted?

  His thoughts were suddenly overtaken by the shocked realisation that since Thomas knew it was he who had switched and finally stolen the money, he would only remain free as long as Thomas did.

  Chapter 19

  Thomas, a man who thoroughly enjoyed the luxuries of life, leased a penthouse flat in a building overlooking the sea in Estopella, on Rosas Bay, close to the French border. Three days after signing the lease in the name of Trenton, he met Veronica Armstrong. A very attractive brunette, tall and fashionably slim, she had been on the coast for the past three years and reckoned to know her way around, but only after living with him for quite a time did she finally realise that compared to him she was a babe-in-arms. By then, she was in love with him.

  One morning in early March she stood in the centre of the long sitting room, which faced the sea, and spoke far more petulantly than she had intended. “But why can’t I come with you?”

  He spoke with patience. “Like I told you, I’m making the journey solo.”

  “Yes, but why…?”

  “Leave it.”

  “Suppose I get fed up with being on my own and clear off?”

  “I’ll investigate that neat little red-head we saw at the pub.”

  “You bastard.”

  He laughed.

  “Why d’you keep going off? Where d’you go?” she asked, knowing it could prove to be a painful mistake to keep pressing him, yet unable to stop.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  She went across to the settee in which he was sprawled and kissed him as she pressed her body against his. He ran his hand under her short skirt and soon she was moaning gently at the back of her throat.

  He stood up. “I’ll be off then. Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t.” He left, without a backwards glance.

  She cried tears of anger, frustration, and bitterness. The bastard had been laughing at her from the beginning.

  She’d leave him and find someone else to flaunt in his face. But she knew that emotionally she couldn’t do that, physically she didn’t dare.

  She crossed to the small cocktail cabinet and poured out a very strong gin and sweet red vermouth, returned to the large picture window. A strong southerly wind was driving the waves up high on to the wide sand. A couple, hand in hand, laughing as odd drops of spray stung their faces, walked along the edge of the sand. Honeymooners, she thought with contempt, trying to hide from herself her sense of envy.

  She finished the drink and poured herself another. She wanted to get tight: so stinking tight that she could forget the past and ignore the future. Forget the three years of moving from man to man because she hadn’t the courage to leave the life of mañana and return to England, ignore the possibility that one day there might not be a man willing to pick up the tabs.

  Where in the hell did Val keep going? France? She’d once seen him check his passport before leaving. He’d be away all day and not return until late at night or maybe early next morning. After one such trip he’d drunk so much she’d dared to
question him at length about where he’d been. His final answer had been the flat of his hand across her mouth.

  She had a third and a fourth drink and began to feel very sorry for herself. Why couldn’t he have taken her with him? Why was it — she wondered over a fifth drink — that half an hour before leaving the flat he’d gone into one of the spare bedrooms? There wasn’t, as far as she knew, anything in there but some suitcases and he’d not taken one of those with him. She remembered how she’d wandered into that room soon after moving into the flat and he’d ordered her out in a way that had her running. Was there something in the cases to explain his movements?

  The door of the bedroom was locked. She had had enough to drink to find that a challenge and not a warning. The locks of flats — even luxury flats — were not usually very complicated and it occurred to her that a key from one of the other doors might open this one. The second bathroom key, with a little persuasion, did so.

  As expected, the bedroom was empty of anything but furniture and the suitcases. Just for a moment she became too scared to go on, but then the alcohol restored her courage. She checked the suitcases. Four were empty, the fifth one was heavy and locked.

  After a moment, she remembered the keyring Val normally wore on his trousers and which she hadn’t seen on the freshly laundered pair he’d had on when he left. She went through to their bedroom and checked the trousers which had been left folded on a chair: the keyring was attached to them.

  Back in the bedroom she unlocked the suitcase and opened it, to discover it was filled with English money. Amazed, she picked up some of the loose notes and crinkled them in her fingers. However much was there in the case? If that were hers, she’d never again have to be scared about the future.

  She picked up a bundle of twenty-pound notes. She didn’t know how much was in that bundle, but it must total many, many times as much as she’d ever before held in her hands. Yet he was always refusing to buy her things… He deserved to ‘lose’ some of it… But God in heaven, if ever he discovered what she’d done! Yet with so much money could he ever know that just a few notes were missing?

  From the middle of the bundle she pulled out five twenty-pound notes. If she changed the money into pesetas right away he never could discover anything.

  *

  Rook spoke wearily over the telephone to the county liaison officer. “Have you tried again to tickle up the Spanish police to get them to check up on Steen?”

  “Cyril, no word of a lie I’ve been on to them so often the phone bill’s going to wreck our budget.”

  “Then what in the name of hell are they doing? It’s weeks since I made the first request.”

  “I’d say the trouble is that they’ve made the enquiries once and now they’re taking the fresh request as a reflection on their efficiency.”

  “Haven’t you told them…”

  “I’ve soft-soaped them in words of one syllable.”

  “Stick a ton of dynamite under their tails.”

  “Can’t you get the chief constable to grant a priority signal? That would get quicker action.”

  What chance was there of that, thought Rook bitterly, when the expenses of the case were already far too high? And now there were dozens of other cases, of much more immediate priority in the chief constable’s judgement since the bank job was history. “There’s not a hope of that, Steve. There must be some way of waking them up.”

  “I’ll go on trying and I suppose eventually they’ll come down off their high horse and have a second check on the death of Silas Steen. But until that happens, Cyril, you’re just going to have to hold your horses.”

  “You can take all those bloody horses… All right. Take no notice of me, I’m just an old man who gets too excited.”

  Rook said goodbye. As he replaced the receiver, Young came into the room. “There’s a bit of news fresh in from Spain.”

  “Yeah,” said Rook sourly. “I’ve just heard it. There is no news.”

  Young stared blankly at him.

  “Forget it.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Forget whatever it is you’re to forget.”

  Young shrugged his shoulders. “D’you know a place called Estopella?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a tourist development on the Costa Brava, up near the French border.” Young sat down on the edge of the desk. “Originally it was a marsh and they’ve drained that and dug a load of canals. If you’ve got a yacht…”

  “Which I haven’t.”

  “We can’t all be rich… Five twenties from the bank job have turned up there.”

  Rook silently whistled. “Do we know who?”

  “A woman called Veronica Armstrong. The police have her passport number from when she changed the money at the bank.”

  “Any history on her?”

  “We’re running her name through Records now.”

  “I wonder…” Rook became silent. It seemed to be defying the fates to hope that they were finally closing in on the money.

  *

  Vives had been about to open a drawer and bring out a bottle of brandy, but he checked himself and leaned back in the chair in his office as he looked again at the three paintings which Steen had leant against the far wall: a fourth one had been left, facing away from the desk, by the chair. “Señor, I do not understand. Are these paintings not to be the same? I will hang them and you will pay me?”

  “No, not exactly. You see, things have unfortunately changed and I can’t afford to do it like that anymore. I was hoping you’d handle them as an ordinary commercial transaction? You said you were beginning to sell them.”

  Vives scratched the side of his face. “Señor, I… How shall I speak? I must be honest.” It was an unfortunate choice of words because it was doubtful if Vives could be wholly honest. “I sell two of your paintings because they are O.K. But these… these, señor, are not O.K. If I hang them… They do not help me or you.”

  Bitterly, Steen reflected that Vives was right. Over the past few weeks he had suffered a sense of utter despair and this had been transferred to these paintings so that instead of being bright and sunny, fair substitutes for ability, they were gloomy and completely amateurish.

  He tried hard to appear unaffected by the decision. “Thanks for looking at them, anyway.” He walked to the wall and collected up the paintings.

  “Señor, there is one you have not shown.”

  “It’s one I did in a different style… I don’t think it’ll be any good as these three aren’t.”

  “But permit me to look.”

  Reluctantly, because he was not a man who could take failure lightly or could easily sell himself, he turned the fourth painting round. It was not chocolate-box art. In the foreground was the old fisherman mending his nets and in the background was the harbour: the fisherman was not painted sympathetically — on his face was the look of a man who had cause to know how vicious the world could become, who had been beaten almost into submission yet who had found one last spark of resistance and so fought back.

  Vives stared at the painting. “That I hang! And that I sell for much pesetas. It is not Goya, but it is good. The face disturbs me. Señor, paint more like that and together we will make much money.” He pulled open the drawer and brought out the bottle of brandy and two glasses.

  Strangely, Steen knew no sudden flash of renewed hope. He just tiredly wondered by what paradox success could spring out of failure? For days before painting that picture he’d tried to get Penelope to understand his state of mind when he’d stolen the money in the strong-room and for days she’d struggled to understand and had failed. How had he ever dared risk so much? Thomas could have killed him. Didn’t he understand that his life and freedom were more precious by far to her than a few asthmatic attacks? Didn’t she, he’d cried in return, realise that her health was ten times paramount? In the end, baffled, upset because it seemed his sacrifices were resented when he might have expected them to be appreciated, he’d begun
this painting.

  Vives poured out two drinks. He passed one glass across.

  *

  They first learned the news when she read it out from the local English speaking newspaper, the Majorca Daily Bulletin. A second of the robbers from the siege in the Scranton Cross bank, Val Thomas, had been recaptured in Estopella, on the Peninsula.

  She said, before looking up, “It also reports that a lot of the money was recovered.” Then she looked up and when she saw his expression she drew in her breath. “Bill… Bill, what’s the matter?”

  He struggled to regain his composure. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t be stupid… Oh!” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s me who’s being stupid. He’s going to tell the police about you.”

  “He won’t do that.”

  “But if the police…”

  “He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

  “You… you really think he will?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “Thank God!” she murmured, knowing he was lying yet just for a moment wanting him to believe that she didn’t.

  *

  The taxi drew up outside the main gates of Alcubierrno prison and Rook climbed out. He buttoned up his mackintosh against the rain and wondered, as he paid the driver, where the Mediterranean climate had gone to? Didn’t the holiday posters promise blue skies and bikini-clad women the year round?

  A warder, pistol in holster at his hip, opened the small door to the side of the much larger ones and Rook said in English that he had an appointment at the prison with Superior Chief Baldo. At the third repetition of the name the guard understood and waved him in.

  In design, the prison resembled most other old ones that Rook had ever visited, but the atmosphere was noticeably different — prisoners doubled everywhere and the guards, all armed, were coldly watchful and clearly there was none of the backchat which now went on in English prisons.

  He was escorted to the nearest administrative building and shown into a ground floor room sparsely furnished and painted in the dull, depressing brown which seemed to be favoured by institutions throughout the world. Left on his own, he leafed through a couple of the magazines that were on the glass-topped table, but the words were meaningless and the photos almost all of people he’d never heard of. He sat back and smoked and watched the drips trickle down to the floor from his mackintosh, which he’d hung on the elaborate coat-stand.