“Yes,” said Charlotte, moved, though she knew she should not be, by the picture Kilmainham had painted. “It does.”
Frank glanced coldly at her, then said: “Still alive, after all that brutality. And still living on the estate he inherited from his wife?”
“Presumably,” Kilmainham replied.
“I’ll make a note of the address, if I may.”
“Allow me.” Kilmainham jotted the information on to an empty card and handed it to Frank. “Now, about your entry…”
“Could I ask you to look up one other person first?”
“Is that necessary?” interrupted Charlotte, suddenly guessing who the person was. “Surely we know enough already.” Derek frowned at her, but she ignored him. Frank’s intensity was beginning to worry her. The names and dates at Kilmainham’s disposal—the catalogued facts spilling from his index so freshly that the events they were based on seemed more real and recent than any number of memories—were feeding a long-starved desire. Not for justice, she greatly feared, but for revenge.
“I think it’s necessary,” said Frank.
“But—”
“And if our host doesn’t object, why should you?”
Kilmainham squinted at both of them in puzzlement. “I…er…I have…no objection.”
“Good,” said Frank. “What do you have on Vicente Ortiz, a Catalan anarchist?”
This time Kilmainham sorted through his shoe-boxes in silence, the pleasure he derived from displaying his wares crushed out of him. Charlotte hoped he would draw a blank but the sheer quantity of accumulated paperwork suggested the opposite. And so it proved. He pulled the card out and read its contents in a sulky monotone.
“Vicente Timoteo Ortiz, Catalan anarchist. Born Barcelona, 1905. Lorry driver and mechanic. Active member of CNT. Member of Durruti column, July 1936 to June 1937. Then transferred to the British Battalion, 15th International Brigade.” He glanced at Frank before continuing. “Captured during the retreat from Teruel, March 1938. Reported to have died under interrogation at…at Montalban, on or about 16 March 1938.”
“Why did you hesitate?” asked Frank.
“No…No reason.”
“Can I see the card?”
“Well…I hardly…” But it was snatched from his grasp before he could frame a protest.
“As I thought. ‘Reported to have died under interrogation at the field HQ of Colonel M.A. Delgado.’” Frank’s voice dropped to a murmur. “‘At Montalban, on or about…the sixteenth of March…’” His fingers released the card, which fluttered to rest on the table. “‘1938.’” Charlotte saw his jaw muscles clench and his eyes narrow. “End of story.”
“Frank—”
“I can’t talk to you now, Mr Kilmainham,” he blurted out. “I have to go.”
“But…You promised…”
“Sorry. I’ve made other promises which take precedence. I live at Hendre Gorfelen, near Llandovery, in Dyfed. Seek me out some time and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. If I’m still there to be sought.” He turned towards the door.
“This is outrageous,” cried Kilmainham, jumping up. “I’ve been misled. Come back this minute, Mr Griffith. I absolutely insist.” But it was too late. Frank was already hurrying out of the flat.
“Apologize to Mr Kilmainham for me, Derek,” said Charlotte. “I must go after him.” With that, she ran from the room, just in time to see the front door closing behind Frank. He was at the top of the basement steps and marching towards his Land Rover when she gained the open air. “Frank! Frank! For God’s sake, stop!”
He pulled up and rounded on her as she reached the pavement. “What is it?”
“We have to talk. We have to decide what to do.”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve found out where Delgado is, as I said I would. Now we go after him.”
“We can’t. It’s too risky. It’s a job for the police.”
“I disagree.”
“Sam’s my niece, not yours. It’s for me to judge what’s in her best interests.”
“This isn’t about your niece any more.”
“No. It isn’t, is it? Not for you. For you it’s about vengeance. Which is exactly what Beatrix spent fifty years trying to save you from.”
The mention of Beatrix’s name seemed to penetrate his defences. He hesitated for a moment. His expression wavered.
“You’ve done enough. Leave it to others now. It’s all so long ago. And he’s suffered as well since then.”
“Suffered?” Frank stared at her and she realized her mistake. By that one remark—that one false comparison—she had made up his mind. “He hasn’t begun to.”
“We must tell the police everything. We must let them handle it from now on. It’s the only—”
“Do as you damn well please!” Violence bubbled beneath his voice, just as it simmered behind his eyes. “I’ll go anyway. It’s time Delgado answered for his actions, then and now. I mean to make sure he does. And nothing you can say or do will stop me.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
It took Derek fully ten minutes to pacify Sylvester Kilmainham. In the end, only the surrender of his address and telephone number made an unharassed withdrawal possible. When he reached the street, he was dismayed to find Charlotte waiting beside his car while Frank sat stony-faced in the Land Rover two parking spaces behind.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Frank’s agreed to stay at Ockham House tonight,” Charlotte replied. “I suggest we start back for Tunbridge Wells right away. Frank will follow.”
“Aren’t we going to the police?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
For what Derek promised himself would be the last time, he stifled his objections and climbed into the car. He headed towards the Finchley Road and made sure Frank was keeping up before risking another question. “Is there some problem?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Frank’s the problem. I don’t know what to do about him.”
Derek glanced across at her. “You’re going to have to explain, Charlotte. I don’t understand.”
“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. Frank intends to see Delgado. To go out there and confront him. Ostensibly to demand Sam’s release. But I’m not sure that’s the real reason.”
“Why, then?”
“To avenge Vicente Ortiz. Didn’t you see how he looked when he read the entry on his card?”
“Yes, I did, but surely he wouldn’t…I mean, it would be madness.”
“Revenge is a form of madness. Beatrix feared Frank might be susceptible to it. And I’m very much afraid she was right.”
“Good God.” Derek looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the Land Rover trailing behind them, with Frank hunched expressionlessly over the wheel. “Hasn’t he considered your niece’s safety?”
“He says a direct approach to Delgado is the best way of saving her. It may be true, though I know you disagree. But, even if it is…”
“Yes?”
“I’m worried about what will happen when they meet. Delgado has Vicente Ortiz’s blood on his hands—and the blood of God knows how many other men Frank fought alongside fifty years ago. Will Frank negotiate calmly for Sam’s release? I don’t think so. He’s never even met her. But he has met some of Delgado’s victims. They were his friends. And he’ll remember them when he looks their executioner in the face.”
“Then he mustn’t be allowed to. He mustn’t go at all.”
“How can we stop him?”
Derek drew up behind a queue of cars waiting to turn on to the Finchley Road and once more studied Frank Griffith’s sphinx-like demeanour in the mirror. “Go to the police. Warn them he may impede their investigations.”
“I can’t. He intends to set off tomorrow. If I contact the police, he’ll simply bring his departure forward. I’m not even sure they’d take such a warning seriously.”
“We’d have to persuade them to. We can�
��t let Frank and the police go after Delgado. They’d be bound to get in each other’s way. The result could be—”
“Fatal to Sam. Exactly.”
“What are you suggesting, then?”
“That I go with him.”
“You can’t mean it.”
“I am. There has to be somebody with him, Derek, somebody to keep him on the rails. I actually think his approach might work. But only if all the bad blood can be stopped from spilling over.”
Derek looked at her. “I won’t let you go, Charlotte.” He was surprised by the vehemence with which he had spoken, the certainty he could command on this point if on no other.
“Neither will Frank.” She stared ahead. “He pointed out something I’d overlooked. Whatever happens, we may need to contact the kidnappers using the procedure they stipulated. If we do, I have to be in a position to take their call.”
“I’m glad he sees reason about something.” Derek edged forward to the junction and waited for a gap in the traffic.
“Unless you agree to take the call,” Charlotte said hesitantly. “If it became necessary, I mean.” She looked round at him, uncertain, it seemed, whether to make her appeal overt.
“Me?”
“Who else can I ask?”
“But…They’d be expecting to talk to you. How would they react to a stranger?”
“I don’t know. It’s a risk, I agree, but it’s one we’d have to take if I’m to accompany Frank.”
“But you’re not going to accompany him.” A two-car space appeared in the southbound stream and he pulled into it, glancing up into the mirror to confirm the Land Rover was following. “Are you?”
“I have to. He’s determined to go and I can’t stop him. But I can’t let him go alone. So, what choice do I have but to go with him?”
“It’s out of the question. I couldn’t allow you to.”
Charlotte raised one hand to her forehead. “I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me, Derek, really I am. And I appreciate your concern for my welfare. But this is something I have to do. I’m not asking for your permission.”
Derek could not have specified which of several factors prompted him to react as he did. A momentary rebellion against a lifetime of caution? A refusal to be pushed back into the margins of Charlotte’s thoughts? A loss of patience with the inexorability of events? Or a surrender to their logic? Whatever the cause, he snapped down the indicator, swerved to the side of the road, pulled up with a jolt and said: “Damn it all! If the old fool insists on going, I’ll go with him.”
Charlotte stared at him in amazement. “No, no. I didn’t mean…You can’t.”
“Why not? You have to stay and he”—Derek gestured towards the rear—“has to go. So, like you said, what choice do I have?”
“But…Sam’s not your niece.”
“No. And Vicente Ortiz wasn’t my friend. Perhaps that’s just as well.”
“But I don’t want you to. It’s not—”
“My mind’s made up!” To Derek’s surprise, his decisiveness was acting like an intoxicant, filling his brain with confidence. “Let’s settle it, shall we?” Flinging open the door of the car, he jumped out and marched back towards the Land Rover, ignoring the blaring horns and angry glares of obstructed motorists. Frank frowned at him and opened the window.
“What are you playing at, boy?”
“Your game, Frank. But not according to your rules. Charlotte tells me you’re determined to track down Delgado.”
“What’s that to do with you?”
“A great deal. You see, I’m coming with you.”
“No you’re not.” Frank shook his head stubbornly.
But Derek too could be stubborn. “Set off without me and I’ll make sure the police are on your trail before you reach Spain.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Take it from me, I would. We’re going to be travelling companions, Frank. And, if it’s any consolation, I don’t like the idea any more than you do.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Early the following morning, with dawn still scarcely discernible beyond the window, Charlotte and Derek said their farewells in the kitchen of Ockham House after a breakfast neither of them had had much stomach for. Both looked as they felt—tired, edgy, uncertain whether what they had agreed to do was for the best, unwilling to express their doubts in case they were too abundantly shared. At any minute, Frank would come in and announce the Land Rover was as ready as it would ever be to commence its thousand-mile journey to Galicia. Very soon, each would have to take their leave of the other. Yet neither could bring themselves to admit the enormity of the moment. Afraid to say too much, they were in danger of saying too little.
“You should have flown,” Charlotte remarked with a nervous smile. “It’s far quicker. And you could have left later.”
“I agree. But Frank refused point-blank. He says planes frighten him.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“So do I, but…Well, it seems we have to humour him.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She felt responsible for the position Derek found himself in, but she could see no way of extricating him from it. She would gladly have gone herself, but circumstances had conspired to prevent her. It was not her fault Derek was to go in her place. Yet she could not help wondering if he thought it was. “It’s still not too late…I mean, I’d quite understand if you…”
“Pulled out? No, I shan’t be doing that.” His gaze conveyed more than his tone. It hinted at the real reason why he was determined to do something he clearly believed was unwise and ill-judged. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we tread carefully every step of the way.”
“And you’ll keep in regular contact?”
“I’ll phone at seven o’clock each evening without fail. All you have to do is be waiting at my house when I call.”
“I will be.” It was an essential precaution, since Chief Inspector Golding had virtually admitted they would tap her telephone. “If you seem to be getting nowhere…”
“I won’t hesitate to tell you if I think we should inform the police. After all…” His words trailed into silence and fused with a self-mocking smile.
“After all, you would inform them now?”
“Probably. But I could be wrong. So could Frank. Delgado might not be the guilty party. Despite what Kilmainham said, he might be dead. We could easily be wasting our time.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“No.” He looked away. “I suppose I don’t.”
“Tell me your plan again.”
“Contact Delgado. Put it to him that he’s responsible for Sam’s abduction. Offer him the document. Explain why he can’t have everything he wants. Threaten him, if necessary, with exposure. Negotiate terms for an exchange: the document for Sam. And maintain a calm and businesslike front. Hope we’re right. And pray we’re successful.” He grinned ruefully. “A piece of cake, wouldn’t you say?”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“No.” His grin froze. “Neither would I.”
She stepped towards him. “Derek, I…” Even as she began to speak, she sensed his eagerness to respond, his absurdly repressed desire to please her. Affection for him—for all his characteristics that were so like her own—swept over her. But, before she could yield to them, Frank Griffith entered the room.
“I’m ready.” His announcement was bleak, his glance at them unsympathetic—or, more likely, unaware.
“Let’s go, then,” said Derek.
“Before you do—” Charlotte began.
“No more words,” said Frank. “There have been too many already.” His face was blank and hard, the lines as stark upon it as the crevices in a cliff. “I’ll wait for you outside.” With that he turned and walked out, leaving Charlotte and Derek smiling at each other in bemusement.
“I’d better be off,” said Derek. “If we’re to be at Dover in good time for the ferry—”
It was impossible, in the end, to let him go without some acknowledgement of what she felt. Rushing forward, she kissed him and was glad when he kissed her back and encirled her with his arms. “Be careful,” she murmured. “Please be careful.”
“That’s what I told you once. Do you remember what you replied?”
“‘Being careful won’t help Sam’?”
“Exactly. Nevertheless, I will be. Very.”
“There’s something else, though. Another reason why you should be. I—”
“Don’t say any more.” He pressed his fingers gently against her lips. “Frank was right. There have been enough words. Many more and I shan’t be able to go through with this. But I must. We both know I must. So…” He stepped back and released her. “Goodbye, Charlotte. Don’t wish me luck. I’m very much hoping I won’t need any.”
Ten minutes later, Charlotte was alone, oppressed as much by doubts about the wisdom of what they had decided to do as by the knowledge that now there was nobody she could confide in. If their plan was to succeed, she would have to keep her own counsel as the days ebbed away towards 11 October and whatever it might bring. She would have to pretend she was as helpless as everybody else to save Samantha, while contending silently with the possibility that she was wasting their only chance of doing so. And there was another secret she had to protect now, one she would have shared with Derek if he had not stopped her, one that preyed guiltily on her mind as the solitary morning slowly passed and drove her ultimately to pick up the telephone and dial a well-remembered number.
“Bourne End 88285.”
Hand in Glove Page 41
