Chapter Four
When Mountjoy returned from a visit to the supermarket, Samantha Trott was motionless under the tartan blanket.
Dead?
Only a few red curls were visible, ominously still against the pillow. He stood in the doorway facing the possibility that she had suffocated. To gag her he’d used a strip of linen torn from the bedsheet instead of an adhesive strip. If it had worked its way up against her nostrils, she’d have been unable to pull it down, because her arms were tied.
He was on the point of flinging back the blanket and ripping off the gag when she stirred.
No panic after all.
Back off then, he told himself in a sharp reversal of tactics. Leave her asleep. After the supermarket, his nerves were frayed. He needed more time to himself before submitting to another bout of conversation.
He removed his shoes prior to creeping away, for the floor was like a drumskin. Gently he set down the carrier bag he had brought back. It was a long time since he had eaten, but he would wait. Waiting was one of his specialties now, the chief accomplishment he’d mastered in Albany.
As it happened, this was not unlike a cell with its foldaway furniture. In fact it was smaller. On the side opposite the bed there was a narrow bench that let down from the wall. He released the catch and drew it down, careful to avoid making the seat creak as it took his weight.
Bliss.
He sat stiffly in the silence, knowing he was safe. The shopping had been a challenge and only now did he realize how tense it had made him. He’d tried to appear as self-absorbed as everyone else in the supermarket, turning his face to take an interest in the stacks each time anyone approached. At least it had been safer than going to a corner shop. The only major risk had been the checkout. He’d looked along the cashpoints, none of which was busy, and selected a young woman chatting to a friend on the adjacent till as she was passing the goods across the sensor. He’d got through without exchanging a word. His face hadn’t registered anything with the cashier, he was certain. And he’d returned to the caravan park by a devious route that involved pushing the motorbike across a field; tiring work, but necessary.
A funny kind of freedom, this. He kept coming back to the idea that he’d exchanged one cell for another. The only difference was that he shared this one with a woman. So what’s wrong with that, you lucky bleeder, most of Albany would be saying if only they knew. What are you, a woofter? No, I am not. But sex isn’t included in my plan. Believe it or not, you libidinous old lags, there is something more important at stake, something that requires me to respect Samantha Tott. I’m fighting for justice, and the other can wait.
The place was cold, colder than Albany, which was why he’d given her the blanket. Maybe they’d both feel warmer with some food inside them. He’d been tempted to buy vodka or whiskey, which would have been ridiculous, using up all the money. He’d gone out with a little over twenty pounds. Five hard-earned in Albany and fifteen from the back pocket of Samantha’s jeans; after all, he was feeding her. For the next two days they would have to subsist on corned beef, bread, powdered soup, bananas, chocolate and tea. He’d also bought milk and sugar and there was a packet of ginger biscuits, long past their sell-by date, left in the kitchen cupboard. The place was equipped with a kettle and a saucepan and there was gas left in the cylinder, thank God, and he knew where to get water. As an old lag had once told him, we’d all go bananas without a brew, a bed and a bog.
Yes, this was not a bad bolt-hole for a few days so long as he remained alert. He’d remembered the site from years back, when the farm had sold strawberries on a pick-your-own arrangement. The caravans, none of them occupied, had been lined up in the field beside the rows of fruit. The owners paid the farmer a fee to park them there. In the time Mountjoy had spent in Albany the field might have been put to some other use, so he’d driven out to check that it was still there before snatching Samantha.
Snatching Samantha. What a high-risk operation that had been, patrolling Stall Street, one of the busiest in Bath, staking out the buskers who played violins in quartets, trios, duets and sometimes solo with a recorded orchestra as backing. The city was overstocked with classical musicians. They took two-hour turns in the most favored pitches along the pedestrian walkway. On the first morning he’d heard enough Vivaldi to last him a lifetime. He’d practically given up hope after her ladyship didn’t appear for the first two days. On the Saturday afternoon he’d spotted her. No mistake: she was just like her picture in the Express. Pale, soulful face that lit into a smile whenever someone dropped a coin into her violin case. Way-out hair-literally way-out, a great frizzy mop that he hadn’t realized was flaming red, but then the picture in the paper had been black and white. He’d listened many times over to the stuff she played on her fiddle, judging the best moment to approach her, just as she was about to pack up. He’d done it with conviction, told her he owned a new restaurant in Batheaston and was willing to pay twelve pounds an hour if she’d agree to play there. It might not be as much as she earned busking on a good day (he judged it finely) but in October it would be warmer indoors and more civilized, and she might get tips from the clientele if she played requests. He’d given his mythical bistro a French-sounding name and said that the waitresses were all students and invited her to come and see it straightaway. Taken in by his polished spiel, she’d walked with him to the Orange Grove, climbed on the back of his bike and been driven away to her prison.
Now she moved again, turning her head on the pillow and freeing a mass of auburn curls from under the blanket. Her eyes opened, large, blue-green eyes, dark-shadowed not with mascara, but anxiety and exhaustion.
“Yes, I’m back,” Mountjoy said. “I’ll make tea.” And when she responded with a moan that was clearly asking to have the gag removed, he responded, “Presently.”
He took a couple of items to the kitchen, or galley, or whatever they called the tiny section where the kettle and cups were. “This is fresh milk,” he informed her. “It should taste better than that stuff from the tin. If you want a sandwich, I can now offer you bread and corned beef.”
It wasn’t malice or sadism that made him delay removing the gag; it was his conditioning. He wasn’t used to people talking to him. Samantha was probably no more loquacious than any other young woman of her age. He just found it difficult to think when someone was talking.
When the tea was in the pot he went to her and untied the gag, staying at arm’s distance, avoiding any more physical contact than was strictly necessary. This he had pledged himself to observe. After almost five years’ celibacy there was a clear risk of some unlooked-for incident undermining his plan. To give way at this stage would be madness.
Samantha rubbed her face against her shoulder. There was a band of pink where the gag had been. “Aren’t you going to untie my hands?”
“Turn over, then.”
“I don’t know why you had to gag me,” she said when she was facedown against the pillow. “There can’t be anybody near enough to hear me scream. Who’s going to be living in a caravan park in October?”
It was a try-on, probing for information, and he didn’t answer. She was constantly testing him out, trying to discover where they were. She seemed to have got over the fear and anger that was her understandable first reaction to being kidnapped and now she addressed him in almost friendly terms. That was another reason why he found conversation such a strain. He’d have coped better if she’d treated him with steady hostility. But she was clever, disarming him with a stream of apparently spontaneous remarks.
He poured her some tea. She sat up and put both hands around the cup to warm them. “Didn’t you get a newspaper?”
“In a supermarket?”
She gave him a sharp look. “They sell them in supermarkets now. Don’t you ever go shopping?”
She didn’t know-or wasn’t supposed to know-that he’d broken out of jail. Several times already she’d almost twigged.
He said, “The news doesn�
��t interest me.”
“It ought to if you’re in it. There might be a picture of me in the paper. ‘Massive Hunt for Missing Student.’
Mountjoy said, “You’ve got some hopes.”
“My dad will see to it. He’s the Assistant Chief Constable, or one of them, anyway.”
“I know.”
“You think just because he’s a top dog in the police he must have buckets of money, but you’re wrong. They don’t get paid much. What’s your job? What do you do, apart from kidnapping helpless women?”
“I make them sandwiches if they’re not too bloody inquisitive,” said Mountjoy.
“All right.” She tugged the blanket aside. “And I’ll need my legs untied.”
“What for?”
“Don’t be so dense.”
“Again?”
The bodily functions were embarrassing on both sides. Moreover, untying her created an additional hazard. She was a strong young woman and each time she used the toilet there was a risk that it was the pretext for an escape attempt, so the door had to remain open.
He let her loosen the flex around her ankles.
She said, “What do you think I would do if you left me untied? I’m not going to get far without shoes, am I?”
He didn’t answer. Just opened the toilet door and stood with his foot against it to prevent her from closing it. In his planning this large caravan had seemed ideal for his purpose. Civilized, even. He had no wish to cause unnecessary suffering. He hadn’t appreciated the physical constraints. Now they were increasingly stressful.
When she came out, she spoke his thoughts almost exactly. “How much longer does this have to go on?”
“Depends.”
“On my father?”
He said, “It can’t end soon enough for me.”
“But it’s got to end the way you want it?”
“Obviously.”
After an interval, she said, “Sometimes in the past I fantasized about being kidnapped, but it was always by someone like Harrison Ford, and there wasn’t a shortage of blankets and I didn’t even think about wanting a change of clothes or a hot dinner. Being a hostage is degrading and disgusting. Have you spoken to my father on the phone?”
“No.”
“How did you contact him, then? By letter? How will he know I’ve been kidnapped?”
“It’s under control.”
“You left a message with someone else?”
“Something like that.”
“And you’re certain he knows?”
“Positive.”
She brooded on this for a while.
“Doesn’t say much for my parents, does it, if they won’t stomp up? Are you demanding an impossible ransom?”
He said, “Did you, or did you not, want a corned beef sandwich?”
“I told you I did. You weren’t listening. Or is this bribery now? Do I have to stop asking questions before I get fed? I can fix it myself if you let me.”
He wasn’t letting her into the kitchen. He told her to get back on the bed. While he was winding flex around her ankles, she took a comb from her pocket and started working at her hair, separating the strands and teasing them out to restore the exuberant frizz.
Wanting to say something civil as he performed the unedifying task of tying her, Mountjoy commented, “How long have you had your hair that way?”
“Six months or so. It should be softer than this. It wants shampooing.”
“It looks fine.”
“It’s greasy and tangled and it feels horrible.”
“Is it natural?”
“Of course not. It takes ages in the hairdresser’s.”
“I mean the color.”
“That. Yes, I was born with it. I hated it when I was younger. You get called things all the time.”
“If you want to be one of the crowd, why have a Style like that?”
“Oh, I don’t mind now. It’s a big plus to be noticed.”
“By men, do you mean?”
She reddened and stared at him, disturbed by the question. The sexual threat she had largely dismissed suddenly resurfaced. She said rapidly and stiffly, “I meant as a musician. Classical music is becoming just as competitive as pop, so far as image is concerned. You have to sell yourself, as well as your talent. So I went for a style that makes a statement.”
In a casual tone that was meant to restore confidence, he told her, “You make the statement: I’ll make the sandwich.” Making the sandwich wasn’t going to be much of a task-a square slice of corned beef between two slices of cut bread. No butter or mayonnaise. The cuisine didn’t run to such refinements.
She continued combing the hair. She’d worked on it like a cat ever since he’d brought her here.
She asked, “What will we do for food when the money runs out? You must have spent most of it already.”
He didn’t answer.
She said, “You’ll have to take my violin and go busking. Can you play? If not, I’d better give you lessons. It will help to pass the time.”
He handed her the sandwich on a plate, and asked her if she wanted more tea. There was some left in the pot.
She said she would like some. “I’m surprised you bought loose tea. Tea bags are more practical. That’s all I ever buy. You can get them in all varieties now-orange pekoe, Earl Grey, Lapsang souchong.”
That “now” was another dig. She’d worked out that he was on the run, he was practically certain. He told himself to be relaxed about it. It didn’t matter so much now. He hadn’t wanted to panic her at the beginning.
She asked, “What else is in the carrier? Did you get anything really delicious?”
“Chocolate.”
“Brings me out in spots, I’m afraid, but if I’m really hungry I’ll have some. May I see?” She dropped the comb and held out her hands for the bag, which still lay on the floor with some of its contents inside.
“No.”
“Why not?” She sounded quite hurt. “There’s no harm in seeing. I’m not going to take a bite of your precious chocolate, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
He picked up the bag and carried it to the kitchen.
“It was my money,” she pointed out. “I’m entitled to know what you bought with it.”
In the kitchen he started storing the things in the tiny cupboard. Not wishing to provoke her any more than was necessary, he said, “Two sliced loaves, four packets of chicken soup, a pint of milk, eight slices of corned beef, six bananas, some tea and some sugar. Satisfied?”
“And the chocolate.”
“And the chocolate.”
She said, “I don’t see why you have to treat a bag of shopping as a state secret.”
He said, “Because it’s boring.” And out of her line of vision he took the final item from the bag and tucked it out of sight on top of the cupboard.
It was a packet of hair tint, labeled Mocha.
Chapter Five
A whiff of fried bacon was in the air.
From deep in the bed came an utterance just comprehensible as, “You can chuck my clothes off the chair and leave the tray.”
“It’s five past eight, sir,” the cadet announced as he went out.
Diamond heaved himself up to a sitting position.
The breakfast had been a brilliant idea. He was less convinced about the sleep. Three hours had not been enough. He was left with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted as if it had Hoovered the carpet. He reached for the mug on the tray.
The tea tasted good. It hadn’t come from an urn. This was almost like home.
Out of curiosity he leaned toward the tray and lifted the cover. Some angel in the canteen had a long memory: two eggs coated pale pink on a slice of thick fried bread, with several strips of crisp streaky bacon, a sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes and a heap of fried potato.
Then it occurred to him that the last meal of a condemned man is supposed to be exactly what he desires. Were they telling him something?
Keith Halliwell looked around the door. “How do you feel, chief?”
“In need of some aspirin. No, before you get it, what’s new?”
“Damn all, really. Nothing on Mountjoy or the girl. There’s a car ready in case you…”
“… want to make a getaway?”
Halliwell smiled as if a couple of aspirin might also do him some good.
Diamond asked, “Is Tott still about?”
“Yes, and Mr. Farr-Jones is in.”
“Full dress parade, is it?”
“I’ll see to the aspirin for you.”
“Thanks. And, Keith…”
“Yes?”
“Keep the top brass out if you can. I want to eat this in peace.”
Just after eight-forty, with a clearer head and contented stomach, he looked into the nearest locker room. “Could anyone lend me a razor?”
He meant to have a wet shave, but one of the new sergeants on the strength seemed determined to lend him an electric shaver, not knowing the jinx he put on anything mechanical.
“This is neat. How does it work-like this?”
He slid back a cover on the side and one of the batteries fell out and rolled under a locker. “How about that? There’s an arrow thing on the side. What do they expect people to do?”
“You press the switch.”
“What switch?”
“On the side, sir.”
“Doesn’t work.”
“It won’t. It’s short of a battery now.”
“You wouldn’t be taking the piss by any chance, sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Where did it go, then-and what happens if you press this side?”
“Don’t.”
Too late, his thumb flicked off the head guard and shot it across the room. “Strewth.” He handed back what was left of the shaver. “Does anyone have one in working order?”
The Summons pd-3 Page 5
