Blood-Tied

by Wendy Percival

  ‘But it was midnight. Who in their right mind would fall for a con under those circumstances?’

  ‘Maybe she knew him,’ said the constable. He shuffled and turned pink. ‘I don’t mean he was a friend. I mean he could have chatted her up in a bar, or something. Opened a door for her and got talking, so she recognised him when he drove by.’

  ‘It was all part of a plan, you mean?’ said Esme.

  ‘It could be. The other thing is they found her car’d been tampered with.’

  Lucy continued the scenario. ‘So he comes along, knight in shining armour, to give a lift to a damsel in distress with a broken-down chariot.’

  ‘And because she’s met him before she doesn’t smell a rat,’ finished Esme. ‘Malicious bastard.’ She stormed over to the window and stared out into the gloomy lane. Earlier, a heavy mist had all but eliminated the view of the Georgian house over the road. Now with darkness falling, the mist had become an impenetrable black thickness.

  Esme thought back to Lucy’s comments a moment ago. What were his demands going to be? And what would he threaten to get them? He must know that his identity wasn’t in question. How did he think he’d get away with it? Perhaps he didn’t expect to. Maybe it was a matter of revenge.

  At 1.15 a.m. they thought it wise to get some sleep. They had sat zombie-like through several mind-numbing television programmes until Esme had been on the point of screaming. She had even debated doing some gardening in the dark, but then decided she’d feel vulnerable and unnerved in such a surreal situation, so she dismissed the idea.

  She showed Lucy to the spare bedroom and then lay on her own bed without undressing. If there was a call in the middle of the night, she’d feel more able to deal with it fully clothed. She fell into a fretful sleep and woke before light, wishing she’d gone to bed in the usual manner. Her clothes were twisted around her, she was shivering and when she threw her legs over the bed to stand up, they felt twice the weight they usually did. She didn’t even want to look at her face in a mirror. Her scar itched and she knew she would be more affected than usual by the sight of it, should she catch her own reflection in the glass. Instead she crawled off to the bathroom for the solace of a hot shower.

  It was close to six o’clock by the time she’d showered and changed. She came down stairs to find Constable Harris pacing about waiting for his relief to arrive. Esme supposed that he had been up all night but it seemed likely he would have snatched what sleep he could in the armchair.

  Lucy emerged from downstairs and they commented on how awful they both looked. It prompted some much-needed relief in the form of laughter as they exchanged insults. Constable Harris’s replacement arrived and he went outside to brief her.

  The temporary humorous outburst fizzled out as Esme and Lucy faced the fact that there had been no progress in the situation. They were exactly in the same position as yesterday.

  ‘How long is he going to play about with us?’ snapped Esme.

  She frowned with annoyance at the collection of used mugs which adorned her desk. Didn’t the police force train their minders to wash up after they’d helped themselves to tea? And drinking chocolate she noted. And goodness knows what had been in the last one. She peered in to the grunge at the bottom and sniffed it. It smelled of tomatoes. Some sort of instant soup. He must have brought that with him, she didn’t keep in such disgusting substances. Perhaps he’d needed the E numbers to keep him awake. She snatched up the mugs more in frustration with the situation than any genuine annoyance with the officer, but her action was careless and her elbow caught the heap of papers stacked on her desk. Before she could stop it the pile slipped over the edge and cascaded to the floor.

  ‘Oh, that’s all I need,’ she cried. She banged the mugs back down on the desk and knelt down by the chaos. Lucy appeared from the kitchen and helped her collect them up.

  ‘The Shropton Canal?’ commented Lucy as she glanced at one of the pages.

  ‘A research job. Some guy wanted to know about it. They’re hoping to restore it.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve a friend who’s on the committee. They’ve just got funds for a feasibility study on it.’

  ‘My brief was to find out about the canal and where they’d got to on the project, amongst other things. I assumed my client was planning to make a donation.’ She continued gathering up the papers and passed a batch up to Lucy.

  ‘Did you know that the Shropton Canal went across the Monkleigh’s land?’ said Lucy absent-mindedly.

  ‘Did it? I don’t remember seeing it,’ said Esme, thinking back to the maps she’d studied.

  ‘No, I mean way back. During the canal era, in the late eighteenth century. The estate lands were more extensive in those days.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She picked up the last of the sheets of notes and stood up. ‘It was a bit odd, this job. He instructed me to do the work, to e-mail him regularly with progress reports, then a couple of weeks after I’d started he suddenly told me to stop.’

  ‘Did you ask him why?’

  ‘Well I e-mailed him, but he didn’t reply. I wondered if he’d decided he couldn’t afford my fees, but then he knew the score before I started. He paid a retainer quite happily.’

  ‘Did he pay you for what you’d done?’

  ‘Oh yes. There was no problem there. In fact,’ Esme began ferreting through the letter rack on the desk, ‘his last cheque’s here somewhere. I haven’t paid it into the bank yet.’ She produced it and studied the handwriting as though it would reveal something.

  ‘A bit of a coincidence, though, don’t you think?’ said Lucy.

  ‘What is? That the canal is on what was once Monkleigh land? You said yourself that it was a couple of centuries ago. It’s a bit tentative.’

  ‘What was he like, this client?’

  Esme shrugged. ‘No idea. Never met him. Never spoke on the phone even as I would normally with a new client. E-mail only. He was most insistent on it.’

  The two women looked at one another.

  Esme pulled a face. ‘I see what you mean. Given the circumstances, it does sound suspicious.’

  ‘Should we mention it to the inspector?’ said Lucy.

  ‘Mention what? That one of my clients seemed a bit odd? He’ll think I’m just being neurotic.’ She looked over at the untidy heap of notes now back on the desk. ‘Perhaps I’ll trawl through that lot, though, and see if it triggers something.’

  Suddenly the telephone rang out. They both looked at one another. The front door opened and Constable Harris returned with a woman constable in tow.

  ‘I heard the phone,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit early for a social call.’

  Galvanised by his words Esme pounced on the phone and picked it up.

  ‘Yes?’ She could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Any harder and it would give out.

  His voice was sneering. ‘Your meddling, Mrs Quentin, has denied me my right to land which should have come my way.’

  Anger exploded out of her. ‘What have you done with Gemma, you creep?’

  ‘Come now, Mrs Quentin, we won’t get anywhere trading insults. As I said, you have been the cause of my loss. I am now unable to acquire the land so you are going to buy it from me.’

  ‘What?’ He had clearly dropped into some sort of fantasy world. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t buy it from you. It’s not yours to sell, as you have just pointed out. I want to talk to Gemma. I want to know she’s all right. Put her on the phone.’ There were echoing sounds as the phone was moved around. Esme cast an anxious glance at Lucy who was leaning against the receiver so she could overhear.

  ‘Esme?’ Gemma’s voice was shaky.

  ‘Gemma, are you all right?’

  ‘He tricked me,’ sniffed Gemma. She was almost in tears. ‘What’s going on, Esme? I’ve told him, I don’t know what he’s on about but he won’t believe me.�
��

  ‘Where are you?’ Esme desperately tried to think what she should be doing to try and help locate where he was holding her.

  There were more noises and Esme heard Gemma’s distant voice complaining that she hadn’t finished talking.

  ‘Two million sterling should do it,’ said Nicholson.

  ‘What? Are you mad? Where am I going to get that sort of money? You haven’t kidnapped a millionaire’s daughter, you know?’ But the line had gone dead.

  31

  The new constable was PC Williams. She had a gentle Welsh accent and came from an unpronounceable village in South Glamorgan. She quickly settled into a routine of tea making and communicating with the rest of her team. The inspector and his sergeant had been and gone, presumably off to follow up leads and source information. Nicholson’s call had been traced to a call box so no doubt witnesses were being sought. The waiting game continued.

  What would Leonard Nicholson’s tactics be? Was he seriously under the impression that Esme was in a position to put her hands on £2 million? The inspector had said not, that there was still much negotiating to do and this was only a starting point. The thought of the present uncertainty being long-drawn-out was agonising. Esme questioned her ability to handle it and wondered about the parents of child kidnap victims. Their sense of helplessness must be infinitely worse, with their particular vulnerability.

  The telephone sat like a malevolent force in the corner of the room. Esme felt her eye drawn to its threatening presence every time she walked near by. She needed something to distract her. She remembered their conversation about the client and the Shropton canal. She hadn’t been back to check his credentials. She walked over to her desk and booted the computer. Perhaps rereading his e-mails would throw up some ideas. From the outset she’d felt a sense of unease about the client but when her work was paid for so promptly she had dismissed her initial misgivings.

  Lucy had been gazing out of the front window. She turned round as the computer sang out its signature tune and looked questioningly at Esme.

  ‘Just checking on something,’ said Esme, with a loaded glance. Lucy picked up the message and came to look over Esme’s shoulder. Esme murmured ‘Shropton Canal client’ under her breath, as the screen went through its procedures and sat ready for instructions. Esme clicked on to the appropriate file and opened it to find the e-mailed brief she’d received. They both read through everything.

  Silently Esme pointed to the screen. The client had asked for the route of the canal, but the words Esme was indicating were, ‘and details of derelict buildings and their proximity to occupied properties.’

  ‘Maybe he was planning to do them up,’ whispered Esme, thinking of the development issue associated with Polly’s land. ‘He could be a property developer.’

  ‘But British Waterways still owns most of the canal buildings,’ answered Lucy. ‘He’d have to buy them first.’

  ‘He may have already done so. They do sell them off now and again and they’ve been involved in various partnership developments recently.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Lucy sounded unconvinced. ‘Or perhaps he was looking for a nice out-of-the-way place for keeping a kidnap victim.’

  Esme looked at Lucy aghast. ‘That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it? Anyway, this is his Plan B? The time scale doesn’t fit.’

  ‘But maybe development was the original idea but the information came in handy.’

  Esme took a quick glance at Constable Williams. She was looking out of the window, engrossed in something happening in the lane.

  Lucy rubbed her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Take no notice. I’m tired and I’m letting my imagination run away with me.’

  ‘But what if you’re on to something?’ asked Esme. ‘How could we establish whether there’s a connection?’

  ‘What’s his name? It’s obviously not Leonard Nicholson, but what about the same initials or something.’

  Esme shook her head. ‘Arthur Cranfield. A. C.’

  ‘Not even close.’

  ‘What other tricks do people use? What about family links?’

  They looked at one another. Esme stood up. It was time to consult.

  ‘I need to speak to your boss,’ she said to the WPC.

  By the time they’d tracked the inspector down Esme was convinced there was something in Lucy’s hunch. She hoped she wasn’t going to hear the wrong information. Leonard Nicholson could have taken any sort of random name, off a billboard, out of a magazine. There would be no way of knowing. At least Arthur Cranfield could be checked out. At least then they’d know if he was legitimate.

  ‘Why would he employ you, though, given your link?’ said Lucy as Esme waited for the inspector to come to the phone.

  ‘He wouldn’t have been aware of one, probably, until later. That’s when he dropped me.’

  ‘Amazing that he picked you though, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really. I’m the only professional researcher listed in the phone book in this area.’

  Lucy gave a wry smile. ‘Hobson’s choice, then.’

  Esme heard the line crackle and the inspector’s voice came on.

  ‘Mrs Quentin? What’s this? You need to know something?’ He sounded bemused.

  ‘What were Leonard Nicholson’s parents’ names?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Humour me, please, Inspector. It could be important. On the other hand it could be nothing.’

  ‘If it’s important you ought to explain.’

  Esme curbed her impatience and quickly summarised. ‘I had a strange client recently. There may be a link with the Monkleigh family. His name might be a clue, or tell us if he’s genuine.’ She willed him not to ask her to explain in what way she thought her client strange.

  ‘What’s his name? We’ll run a check on him.’

  Esme told him.

  ‘OK, wait a moment.’ Esme imagined him scratching around on his desk. She heard his voice in the background talking to someone. Lucy came and stood next to her. She pressed her ear to the phone.

  ‘We’ll run a check anyway but since you ask his father was Arthur Nicholson.’ So far so good. Esme held her breath. ‘And his mother was Lillian Monkleigh.’ She cursed. Of course it would be Monkleigh. She was Sir Charles’s sister.

  Lucy mouthed something at Esme.

  ‘Did his mother have a middle name?’ said Esme quickly. She thought for a moment that he was going to protest she was wasting his time, but he just sighed. There were voices again in the background.

  ‘I’ll have to call you back.’ He disconnected. Esme put down the phone and bit her bottom lip.

  ‘Well, the Arthur bit fits,’ said Lucy. ‘Even if the other doesn’t match up, at least they’ll be able to check him out.’

  Esme started pacing again. Constable Williams looked on from her post by the window. Lucy dropped into the armchair. The clock ticked. The voices of children passed by the window. School was out. A delivery lorry pulled up over the road and the sounds of the metal bolts being drawn back grated on the tense silence in the room.

  The telephone rang. All eyes looked at it and then at one another. Was this the inspector phoning back? Or Leonard Nicholson?

  Esme strode over and grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Leonard Nicholson’s mother,’ said Inspector Barry, ‘had two middle names, one unusual one. I’m told it was probably her mother’s maiden name.’

  ‘What was it?’ said Esme, clutching the phone.

  ‘Cranfield.’

  32

  ‘You’ll wear a hole in the carpet,’ said Lucy from the armchair. Esme was pacing again.

  She halted by the window. ‘It keeps me busy.’

  ‘And stressed. You must be pumping so much adrenaline.’

  Esme sighed. ‘I keep looking at that phone, desperate for it to ring
and yet terrified it will do.’ She looked out into the lane in an attempt to find something to divert her thoughts, but it was empty. Inside was quiet, apart from the sound of Constable Williams’s radio occasionally crackling into life in the kitchen.

  ‘Do you think they’ve set out yet?’ said Esme.

  ‘Give them a chance. You only told them five minutes ago. They will have barely had time to decide on their plan.’

  ‘I ought to have arranged to meet them out there, to show them where I’d researched. They might go blundering about all over the place and frighten him off.’

  ‘Esme, they’re quite capable of reading the map you faxed them. You’ve got to trust them. The trouble with you is you always want to be in the thick of it.’

  Esme shot Lucy a glance. It was a measure of the pressure Lucy must be feeling that she was so biting in her remarks.

  Lucy avoided Esme’s gaze. ‘Sorry, that was a bit insensitive.’

  Esme flapped her hand. ‘You’re trying to make me see sense, I know.’ She knew Lucy was only trying to protect her from stumbling into a perilous situation. Perhaps it would be better to sit by the phone and let the police do their job.

  ‘Anyway there’s no guarantee that that’s where he’ll be holding her,’ Lucy was saying. ‘It was only a wild guess.’

  ‘The fact that the inspector reacted must mean they think there’s a good chance.’

  ‘He’s probably glad to have a lead to follow.’

  Esme thought for a moment. She glanced towards the sound of radio exchanges and sat down on the sofa trying to calm her frantic thoughts.

  Her resolve lasted five minutes. She couldn’t simply sit around waiting for something to happen. She got up and perched on the arm of Lucy’s chair. She lowered her voice. ‘I want to go there. To the canal.’

  Lucy almost leapt out of her seat. ‘Are you mad?’ She nodded towards the kitchen. ‘She wouldn’t agree to it, for a start.’

  ‘She might not notice for a while. We could get a head start. It would be too late by then.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘But you’re supposed to be here, waiting for him to phone again.’