Robert Goddard — Borrowed Time

by Unknown

  Suddenly, the telephone rang, making me jump with surprise. As I moved towards it, the answering machine cut in and I heard Sarah’s recorded voice addressing the caller. “This is Bristol 847269. I’m afraid I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Please speak after the tone.”

  It was the secretary I’d talked to at Anstey’s. I recognized her at once. “This is Dorothy Gibbons here, Sarah. Mr. Anstey’s most anxious to speak to you. Please contact him the minute you return. You can phone him at home if necessary. Thank you.”

  The machine clicked off and silence resumed. Then I pressed the replay button, waited for the tape to wind back and listened as the accumulated messages replayed themselves in sequence. A girl called Fiona, inviting Sarah to a New Year’s Eve party. A bookshop, reporting the arrival of some paperback she’d ordered. Bella, sounding suitably urgent. Bella again, after drawing a blank at Anstey’s. Then, something odd.

  “Katy Travers here, Miss Paxton. Hewitson Residential. I’m sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Simpson—I think you’ve met her—keeps badgering me about her mail. She seems to think some of it may have gone astray. Perhaps you could give her a call on 071 624–8488. I’d have phoned you at Braybourne Court, but apparently the line’s been disconnected and I didn’t think you’d want me to give her your Bristol number. I’d be most grateful if you could have a word with her. I’m sure there’s been some simple misunderstanding. Thanks a lot. ’Bye.”

  There were a few more messages after that, including a third from Bella, but I paid them little attention. Instead, I rewound the tape and listened to Katy Travers again. What the devil was she talking about? Who was Mrs. Simpson? Where—and what—was Braybourne Court?

  I switched off the tape, picked up the telephone and dialled Mrs. Simpson’s number.

  “Hello?” She sounded well-bred, elderly and potentially tetchy.

  “Mrs. Simpson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a friend of Sarah Paxton’s. I—”

  “Oh, good. I want to speak to Miss Paxton. I’ve been trying to contact her for several days, but she seems distinctly elusive. The agency refused to give me her telephone number, you know. Extraordinary behaviour.”

  “Yes. That’s why—”

  “I have friends and relatives all over the world. Many of them will have sent me a Christmas card. But to my old address. That’s the point. A substantial quantity must have arrived, but I’ve seen nothing of them. It really is too bad. It was distressing enough to have to leave my lovely flat without this. After that exorbitant rent increase, it’s adding insult to injury to find that my successor can’t even take the trouble to forward my mail. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I called round the other day, which I found a most upsetting experience in view of all the happy times my late husband and I enjoyed there, but Miss Paxton wasn’t in. Of course, I suppose she uses the flat merely as a pied-à-terre. And very agreeable too. But for those of us on fixed incomes—”

  “Mrs. Simpson!” I shouted.

  “Yes?” she responded, briefly cowed.

  “Are you saying Sarah’s taken over the lease of a flat you used to occupy?”

  “I don’t understand. Surely you must know she has. Ah, Braybourne Court.” Her tone became wistful. “Such a charming corner of Chelsea.”

  “Chelsea, you say?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Where exactly in Chelsea?”

  “What an extraordinary question. Surely Miss Paxton’s told you.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, she hasn’t. She, er, neglected to give me the address. Which is awkward, since I’ve promised to visit her there. So, could you enlighten me?”

  She didn’t reply at once. I could almost feel her suspicion coursing down the line. “How did you say you got my number, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Timariot. Robin Timariot. I’d be happy to discuss your forwarding problems with Sarah, Mrs. Simpson. More than happy. I’m sure I could sort something out on your behalf. I can also give you her Bristol address and telephone number, which you might find helpful.”

  “Hmm. Miss Paxton doesn’t seem to be a very well-organized young lady, I must say.”

  “Quite so.”

  “Very well, Mr. . . . er . . . Marriott. Braybourne Court is an apartment block in Old Brompton Road. My flat—Miss Paxton’s, that is—is number two hundred and twenty-eight. Though what kind of a friend you count her as if she can’t be bothered to supply you with such information herself I really can’t imagine.”

  “No, Mrs. Simpson. Neither can I.”

  The rain was unceasing, drifting in sheets across the dank green fields of Wiltshire and Berkshire as I drove towards London. I cursed the traffic and spray that slowed my progress, watched the clock tick round and the meagre light drain from the louring sky . . . and wondered. What would I find at 228 Braybourne Court? Why the secrecy? Why the cunning manipulation of events? What was it leading to? They’d been so clever I still couldn’t see beyond the ruse itself. But for Sir Keith’s death, of course, they’d still be safe from detection. And but for Mrs. Simpson’s obsession with some allegedly missing mail that could just as easily be caught up in the Christmas rush, there’d be no trail to follow. Only bad luck—only the unforeseeable intervention of the unpredictable—had defeated their precautions. Or had given me the chance of defeating them. For that’s all it was. An outside chance. One I had to take.

  It was the last full shopping day before Christmas and London was at its clogged and crowded worst. Wearying of the crawl in from the M4 that had stretched the journey from Clifton to nearly four hours, I abandoned the car near Baron’s Court tube station and started walking through the deepening twilight. Red lights bleared at me from winding rows of cars and glimmered on Christmas trees in drawing-room windows. Danger winked out its warning as darkness gathered its strength. But I hurried on, following Louise into the forest even as night began to fall.

  Braybourne Court was a large red-brick Edwardian mansion block near Brompton Cemetery, with separate security-locked entrances, each serving a dozen or so flats, spaced around its four sides. The entrance leading to flats numbered between 225 and 237 was in a quiet side-street. All I could see through the double glass doors was a plushly carpeted hallway, dividing discreetly after twenty feet or so. If I moved back to the steps spanning the basement area, I could catch a glimpse through the lofty ground-floor windows of corniced ceilings and flock-papered walls. An entry-phone system was in place to ensure this was as much of a view as unwelcome visitors ever got of the interior. Braybourne Court evidently placed a premium on privacy. And charged accordingly, I had no doubt. Sarah could easily be paying seven or eight hundred pounds a week for a pied-à-terre here. Which would have seemed absurdly extravagant—if that’s what I’d believed she wanted it for.

  But it wasn’t, as the blank name-panel next to the buzzer for flat 228 somehow confirmed. Privacy wasn’t the point. Secrecy was nearer the mark. Absolute secrecy. Which I was about to penetrate.

  I pressed the buzzer, got no response and pressed it again with the same result. I waited a few moments, then tried three short sharp rings. Still nothing. But somehow I wasn’t discouraged. She was there. And so was Paul. Why I didn’t know and couldn’t guess, but the intricacy of their deception convinced me of their presence. They might hope I’d give up and go away, but they’d be hoping in vain.

  I pressed the buzzer again and this time kept my finger on it, counting the seconds under my breath. Before I’d reached forty, there was a click from the speaking grille and a voice I recognized with a surge of relief said: “Yes?”

  “Sarah? It’s Robin. Can I come in?”

  “Robin?” She sounded horrified as well as amazed.

  “Yes. Can I come in?”

  “What . . . How did you get here?”

  “I’ll explain inside. It’s pretty cold and wet out here.�
��

  “No. I . . . I can’t see you, Robin.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not being. Please . . . Please go away.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Please, Robin. Leave. It’s best, believe me. Goodbye.” There was another click as she put the phone down. I pressed the buzzer instantly, reckoning she couldn’t just walk away while it rang. Sure enough, she picked up the phone again. “There’s nothing more to be said, Robin. I want you to—”

  “Paul’s with you, isn’t he? I know he is, so don’t bother to deny it. The police are looking for him.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Let me in and I’ll explain.”

  “Do they . . . have this address?”

  “No. But if I have to walk away from here, they will have it.”

  “Don’t do this, Robin.” Her tone had altered. She seemed to be pleading with me—as much for my sake as hers. “You have no idea what you’re getting involved in.”

  “Open the door, Sarah.”

  “Please, I—”

  “Open it.”

  Several long speechless moments passed, during which a faint buzz from the grille assured me she was still on the line. Then there was a much louder buzz from the lock on the doors. And when I pushed against them they yielded.

  I stepped inside. The doors swung shut behind me. Warm air and insulated silence wrapped themselves around me. I walked down the hall to the point where it divided, glanced left and saw a brass plaque on the wall inscribed 225–226; LIFT TO 229–237. Glancing right, I saw another plaque, inscribed 227–228. I headed that way, turned left, passed flat 227, rounded a bend in the corridor and saw the door to flat 228 at the far end.

  It was fitted with a viewing lens, through which Sarah must have been watching out for me. The handle turned as I approached and the door slowly opened. But she didn’t move into view. All I could see inside was a stretch of carpet and a bare wall, dimly lit. I called her name, but she didn’t answer. I hesitated for a moment and called again. Still she didn’t respond. Not that it made any difference. I knew what I was bound to do. It was too late to turn back now. I reached out and touched the door. It creaked slightly on its hinges. Then I stepped forward and crossed the threshold.

  C H A P T E R

  TWENTY-THREE

  There was a window to my left, admitting some grey remnants of daylight. Ahead, the entrance hall narrowed into a passage, lit by two bare bulbs and the glare from a third beyond the right-angled corner at its end. Three or four doors stood open along the passage, but the rooms they led to were in darkness. The flat looked what I sensed it to be—carpeted and curtained, but otherwise unfurnished.

  I heard the front door click shut behind me and turned to find Sarah looking straight at me. She was dressed all in black—pumps, tights, mini-skirt and polo-neck sweater. Her eyes were wide and staring. She was breathing with audible rapidity. And she was holding her right arm behind her back at an awkward angle, bizarrely reminiscent of a suitor concealing a bunch of flowers from his beloved.

  “Hello, Sarah,” I ventured. “Where’s Paul?”

  “Never mind Paul,” she replied breathlessly. “How did you get here? And why did you come?”

  The how was easy to explain. And I did. But the why? Something in her manner—something in her dilated eyes—stopped me telling her there and then that her father was dead.

  “Mrs. Simpson,” Sarah muttered when I’d finished. “The stupid stupid woman. What do her bloody Christmas cards matter compared with—” She broke off and her tone became more controlled. “Why was Bella so anxious to contact me? Why isn’t she with you?”

  “It’s your father. He’s . . . not well. Bella is . . . with him.”

  “In Biarritz?”

  “Look, can we—”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Why don’t we go somewhere more comfortable?”

  “No. Tell me now. Tell me here.”

  “I’m sure it would be better if—”

  “Tell me!” Her cry—of pain as much as impatience—echoed in the empty hallway.

  “All right. Calm down.” I moved towards her, but she stepped smartly back, bumping against the wall behind her. I saw a muscle tighten in her cheek. Her gaze narrowed.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah. Really I am. But the answer’s yes. Your father’s dead.”

  She half-closed her eyes and tears sprang into them. Her head drooped. Her voice faltered. “How? How did it happen?”

  “It’s not entirely clear. Some kind of—” I stopped as her right arm slipped from behind her back and fell to her side. Then I saw what she was holding in her hand. A snub-nosed revolver, its barrel and chambers glistening in the cold electric light. “Sarah! What in God’s name—”

  There was a movement—a shadow across my sight—further down the passage. I whirled round and saw Paul standing at the end. He was wearing jeans, trainers and a dark green sweat-shirt. And he too was holding a gun.

  “Paul?”

  “Leave now, Robin,” he called to me. “Walk out and forget you were ever here.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “This isn’t your affair. Don’t get involved.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “Just go. While you still can.”

  “Sarah?” I turned and looked at her. She raised her head and dabbed away her tears with the knuckles of her left hand. She was holding the gun firmly, her forefinger curled round the trigger. And her jaw was set in a determined line. “Sarah?”

  “You don’t understand, Robin. But you will. Later. Just tell me how Daddy died. Then go.”

  “I’m telling nothing and going nowhere until you two tell me what the hell’s going on here.”

  “It’s best if you don’t know. Believe me.”

  “That’s right,” Paul cut in. “Believe her.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Just do it!” He leant against the wall behind him, glanced along the passage to his right, then looked back at us. “I’ll give you five minutes to get rid of him, Sarah.” With that he pushed himself upright and moved out of sight.

  “Where’s he gone?” I demanded, turning to Sarah.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “But I am asking.”

  “This is nothing to do with you.”

  “Oh, but it is. I’ve seen through your deception, you know. Paul’s confession. The faked corroboration. The whole elaborate game you’ve been playing.”

  She stared at me incredulously, something in her expression signalling that she didn’t intend to deny it. “How?” she murmured.

  “Never mind. What I want to know is: why did you do it? Why the secret address? Why the guns, for God’s sake?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “No. I can’t.” I peered down the passage. There was no sign of Paul. But there’d been a sound—a groan and a chink of metal. “Paul?” I called. There was no response. Except the same faint metallic rattle. I started towards it.

  “Robin!” Sarah cried after me. “Stop!” But I didn’t stop. I don’t think I could have done. The passage drew me on down its carpeted length, dream-like and surreal in the low-wattage light, with the black gulfs of empty rooms to either side. I had to know now. I had to see for myself.

  I reached the corner and looked to my left. At the far end of the passage, bright light spilt from an open doorway. A shadow moved across it. I glanced round at Sarah, who was slowly following me, shaking her head, as if to urge me even at this stage to turn back, to reconsider, to leave well enough alone. Then I walked on.

  It was a bathroom, blue-walled and chill. The view through the doorway was of a wash-hand basin and a frosted sash window. Propped incongruously on the window-sill was a bulky black tape recorder. As I stepped into the room, my view broadened to encompass a half-open door in the far corner, a wooden-seated loo visible in the gloom beyond. The bath
was to my left, an old roll-top cast-iron tub with ball-and-claw feet. The tap end was out of my sight for the moment, behind the wide-open door. Paul was leaning against the wall near the other end, his right arm crossed over his chest, his left hand supporting his elbow while he nestled the gun against his cheek. I didn’t know what to make of his narrow-lidded stare, but a phrase of Bella’s came into my mind—“extremely clever as well as seriously insane”—and fear suddenly descended on me, like some unseen and unsuspected creature leaping onto my back.

  “You shouldn’t have come down here,” he said matter-of-factly. There was a moan and a rattle from behind the door. I stepped forward and turned my head. And then I saw.

  Shaun Naylor, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a denim jacket, was on his knees in the bath. His wrists and ankles were shackled together behind him, the shackles held fast by a chain tied round the tap mountings and stretched taut to eliminate all freedom of movement. His arms were bound so tightly that his shoulders had been dragged back and his chest pushed forward. His chin was lolling against his chest, but he raised it to look at me. One of his eyes was swollen to the point of closure. There was a gash on his forehead and drops of congealed blood round the neck of his T-shirt. A broad strip of adhesive brown sealing tape had been stuck across his mouth. He was breathing hard through his nose and sweating profusely, either from panic or the vain struggle to escape. He strained at the chain as I watched, his brow creasing with the effort, his eyes swivelling up to meet mine. The hollow noise of metal on pipework was what I’d heard from the hall. But his knees slid no more than an inch forward or sideways and he gave up, slumping against the wall of the bath and groaning in protest.

  “He thinks he can fight his way out of this,” said Paul with a snigger. “But he can’t. Hear that, Naylor? There’s no way out this time, you stinking bastard.”