“Can I speak to Mr Derek Fairfax, please?” The gruff voice was vaguely familiar, but Charlotte could not quite place it.
“No…I mean, he isn’t here.”
“Who am I speaking to, may I ask?”
“I…I might ask the same of you.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. My name’s Albion Dredge. I’m Mr Fairfax’s solicitor. Well, his brother’s solicitor, to be precise.” Now the vagueness vanished. She had heard this man pleading on Colin Fairfax’s behalf in Hastings Magistrates’ Court last June, when the desirability of Beatrix’s Tunbridge Ware seemed sufficient explanation of her murder. How naïve such an explanation appeared now, how absurdly and attractively naïve. “I need to speak to Mr Fairfax on a matter of some urgency. When will he be back?”
“Not for some time.”
“Before tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Can you give me a number where I can contact him?”
“No.”
“Oh dear. How inconvenient. Let me see. I take it you are a friend of his, Miss…”
“I’m a friend of his, yes.”
“Then you will be aware of his brother’s…predicament?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any way you could pass a message to Mr Fairfax concerning his brother?”
“Well…perhaps.”
“He’ll be appearing before Hastings magistrates tomorrow morning, you see. The police have dropped their objections to bail and I shall reapply for it to be granted. When I first applied, Mr Fairfax offered to act as surety.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. “You mean you need him to do so again? You need him to be in court?”
“Not necessarily. If the magistrates read between the lines, they’ll realize it’s only a matter of time before the charges are dropped altogether. Then they’ll be happy to grant bail on the defendant’s own recognisance. But I like to play safe, Miss…Miss…”
“I’ll tell Mr Fairfax if I hear from him. But I may not. You think his brother will be released anyway?”
“Probably.”
“That’s all right then, isn’t it?”
“Er…Yes. But—”
“Goodbye, Mr Dredge.”
“If I could just—”
Dredge’s words were cut off abruptly as Charlotte put the telephone down. She stared at it for several seconds, wondering if she should call Derek and tell him what had happened. If she did, he might take it into his head to contact Dredge, thus compounding the damage she had already done. Whereas, if she did not, nothing worse than a delay in Colin’s release could result. In any other circumstances, she would have been eager to help. But these were not other circumstances. For the moment, there was no help she could safely give. With a sigh, she rose from the chair and made ready to leave.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
May we come in, Miss Ladram?”
It was four o’clock that afternoon and the very last people Charlotte wanted to see were standing on the doorstep of Ockham House: Chief Inspector Golding, eyebrows critically raised as he surveyed her; Detective Constable Finch, elfin and severe; and a third officer whom she recognized, to her surprise, as Chief Inspector Hyslop of the Sussex Police. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Has something…happened?”
“Nothing to be alarmed about,” said Golding. “We’ll explain inside.”
Dredge had guessed who she was and told the police. They had identified Derek from their recording of his call to her that morning. Somehow, they had deduced what she was planning to do. Or else their visit was a coincidence. With this last thought she fended off her fears as she led the way to the lounge.
“You must be under a lot of strain,” remarked Golding, as he moved towards the window, placing himself between her and the light. “The eleventh is awfully close.”
“Yes. It is.” She turned towards Hyslop, eager to involve him in the conversation if only to prevent Golding dominating it. “It’s nice to see you again, Chief Inspector. To what…”
“I’d have been in touch anyway, Miss,” Hyslop replied. “Peter suggested I accompany him this afternoon.” He smiled towards Golding. “Minimize the disturbance, so to speak.”
“It’s no disturbance. How have your enquiries into my aunt’s death gone since you re-opened them?”
“Satisfactorily. Of course, when it all comes out in court, I’m afraid your late brother’s reputation is going to suffer considerable damage.”
“It will come to court, then? You’ve been able to construct a case against Spicer?”
“We’ve just had positive results in on some carpet fibres and blood stains found in his car. They link him to the scene of the crime and to the deceased. Since he’s never claimed an alibi, he really has no defence.”
“Have you charged him?”
“We plan to—when we find him.”
“I thought he was under arrest.”
Hyslop grimaced. “He was. But we had to release him for lack of hard evidence. That was before the tests on his car were completed. Since then…”
“He’s done a bunk,” put in Golding. “Probably realized the game was up.”
“Yes,” said Hyslop defensively. “But we’ll catch him. It’s only a question of time.”
“As in the matter of your niece’s abduction,” said Golding. “You seem to be coping remarkably well in the circumstances, Miss Ladram.”
“Well…There’s nothing I can do, is there? There’s nothing anybody can do.”
“Our enquiries have hit a brick wall, it’s true. That’s why we’re considering a change of tactics.”
“What sort of change?”
“One in which we need your assistance.”
“How can I help?”
“We have to communicate with the kidnappers, you see. At this late stage, there’s really no alternative. What we propose to do is to run the advert in the International Herald Tribune they spoke to you about. You remember—‘Pen pals can be reunited. Orwell will pay’.”
Charlotte’s throat tightened. Golding was looking straight at her, but she could see little of his expression because of the glare from the window behind him. Was he testing her nerve? Was he dropping a far from subtle hint? Or was this merely a sensible proposal born of official desperation? There was no way to tell. “I remember,” she said hoarsely.
“If and when they respond, they’ll expect to talk to you. At least in the first instance. We can wean them on to a trained negotiator later, of course.”
“But the advert was to be placed if we were prepared to give them what they want. And we don’t have it.”
“No.” He paused and for a moment it was possible to believe he had asked a question rather than stated what he took to be a fact. “Well, the idea is for you to imply we do have it. To keep them talking until we can (a) trace the call and (b) persuade them to extend the deadline.”
Charlotte pleaded silently with her voice and eyes not to betray her as she spoke. “When…er…do you plan to run the advert?”
“Saturday.”
It was as much as she could do not to sigh with relief. If Golding had chosen Friday, her own placement of the advertisement would have been bound to come to light. Now there was a slim chance it would not—until it had served its purpose.
“By leaving it as late as possible,” Golding continued, “we hope to make the kidnappers think we’re giving in to the deadline.”
“I see.”
“So, will you help us? Without you, I doubt we’ll be able to keep them talking long enough to accomplish anything.”
“What does Ursula say?”
“Mrs Abberley? She’s happy for us to do anything we think may save her daughter.” His gaze narrowed fractionally. “I rather expected you to take the same view.”
“Oh, I do. I do.” Her thoughts whirled ahead of her words, shaping and assessing the consequences of Golding’s proposal. She was bound, of course, to agree to it. Therefore, the police would soon be i
n touch with the International Herald Tribune’s advertising sales office. With luck, nobody there would remember her call—or comment on it if they did. Her advertisement would still appear in the morning. And the kidnappers would see it. But so, sooner or later, would Golding. He would come looking for her. Failing to find her, he would establish whose number had been quoted. The question was whether he would act fast enough to prevent her reaching agreement with the kidnappers on her own account. She did not know the answer. She did not even know whether she would be able to reach such an agreement. But she did know that now, more than ever, she had to try. “I’ll help in any way I can, Chief Inspector. Any way at all.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
It was a windless morning in Speldhurst. Charlotte watched dawn break and spread its bleary greyness across the trim-lawned bungalows of Farriers. A couple of Derek’s neighbours had already set off for work in their company cars, speeding towards the bright office lights of normality, minds focused on today’s meeting and tomorrow’s round of golf. Not for them this eerie vigil she was bound to keep, hidden behind the net curtains of Derek’s lounge. Not for them the mind-numbing alternatives she knew she would have to face when and if and every time his telephone rang.
She crossed to the bookcase beside the television and cast her eye along the titles in search of one with which she might ease the tension of waiting. Economic theory. Photography. Natural history. Vintage cars. Fine art and poetry to balance the dog-eared yardage of pulp fiction. The mixture reminded her how little she really knew about him, how abnormal the manner was in which their paths had crossed. She wished it could have been otherwise. And then she saw, lying flat on a rank of paperbacks, Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography. She pulled it out and studied the face of its subject on the cover. What would he have done if he had realized the havoc his literary lie would wreak in the lives of his sister and his son and half a dozen others still unborn when he caught his last breath in Tarragona? It was too late to ask him. Just as it was too late to ponder what she would do if she could know for certain what the next few hours would bring.
In Corunna, Derek had had to walk a mile or so into the city centre to find a kiosk selling the International Herald Tribune. Now he hurried with it to a bench in the palm-treed park nearby and turned anxiously to the classified advertisements. PEN PALS CAN BE REUNITED, blared the boxed and capitalized words. ORWELL WILL PAY. And there was his own telephone number in England. It could not be missed. It could not be mistaken. It had begun. Rolling the newspaper in his hand, he rose and set off back towards the hotel.
By ten o’clock, Charlotte had been expecting the telephone to ring for the best part of an hour. Nevertheless, when it did so, she started violently before running to answer it.
“44-892-315509,” she said as slowly as she could.
There was no reply. She waited, then began to repeat the number. But, before she had finished, the line went dead. She glared at the instrument as if it were to blame, then slammed it down. She was still glaring at it when it rang again.
“44-892-315509.”
“Miss Ladram?” To judge by Derek’s description, the voice was Galazarga’s. But she knew better than to ask.
“Yes.”
“I represent those who are holding your niece, Miss Ladram.”
“I know.”
“We saw your advertisement.”
“Good.”
“Why the change of number?”
“Because the police may be listening on mine. This is safer.”
“I am glad to hear it. The subscriber is listed as D.A. Fairfax. We have recently had some contact with Mr Fairfax. I take it he is a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Then I advise you to be more careful in your choice of friends. We have found Mr Fairfax to be an unreliable man to do business with.”
Now, Charlotte knew, was the moment to be firm. Now was the moment to seize the initiative. But she had only to think of Samantha, alone and frightened, to hold back a little longer. “I am well aware of Mr Fairfax’s dealings with you.”
“In that case, you will be well aware of his failure to hoodwink us in the matter of the map.”
“We’re not trying to hoodwink you. My aunt destroyed the map before handing the document over to us. I wish she hadn’t, but I can’t change what she did. It’s gone. Only Ortiz’s statement remains.”
“We don’t believe you.”
“Fine. Don’t believe us. But believe this.” Deliberately, she hardened her voice. “We’ll hand the document over to the Spanish press unless you release my niece before the expiry of the deadline.”
There was a pause, then Galazarga said: “You are bluffing, Miss Ladram. And bluffing poorly. You would not take such a risk with your niece’s life.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t. But I no longer have the document. Mr Fairfax has it. He and his companion don’t share my scruples.”
“Who is his companion?”
The question was a sign of weakness. Charlotte knew she must exploit it. “A ruthless man. Just like Señor Delgado.”
She had named Delgado for the very first time, but, if Galazarga noticed, he gave no sign of it. “Where is this…ruthless man?” he asked.
“With Mr Fairfax. In hiding. I don’t know where. They thought it safer for me not to know. They can contact me, but I can’t contact them. They’re waiting to see if they have to carry out their threat. So am I.”
“Come, come, Miss Ladram. They will only do what you tell them to do.”
“Not so. Mrs Abberley and I agreed with them before they left for Spain that they would ignore any subsequent change of mind on our part. It was a precaution we felt we had to take, to protect us from our own weakness as the deadline approached. So, you see, nothing I say will stop them going to the press. Only you can do that.”
“By releasing your niece?”
“Exactly.”
There was a delay of several seconds before Galazarga spoke again. When he did so, Charlotte detected a trace of hesitancy in his voice. “Miss Ladram, this really—”
“What’s your answer?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have to know what to tell Mr Fairfax. Your answer, Señor Galazarga. I must have it now, please.”
He did not react to her use of his name any more than he had to her use of Delgado’s. “Very well. I will confer…with those I represent…and deliver their answer to you.”
“When?”
“This morning. By noon at the latest.”
“All right. But—”
“Goodbye, Miss Ladram.”
Derek walked across to the window of his hotel room and stared out at the harbour, where a red-hulled fishing boat had made no discernible progress towards the open sea since he had last observed it.
“We should have heard from her by now,” he said, turning back towards his companion, who sat in the only armchair, smoking his pipe and gazing at nothing.
“We should hear from her,” Frank said slowly, “when she has something to report.”
“They must have seen the advert hours ago. What are they waiting for?”
“If they’re waiting, it’s to test our nerves. Yours don’t seem to be standing up to the test too well.”
“Oh, for God’s—”
“Take some advice from me, boy. The advice of somebody who’s waited to go into battle often enough to be an expert. Waiting’s hard. But sometimes it’s a hell of a sight better than knowing.”
“Thanks, Frank.” With an exasperated shake of the head, Derek returned to watching the fishing boat. “Thanks a lot.”
Noon was still twenty minutes away when the telephone rang again. Charlotte forced herself to wait until it had completed two rings before picking it up.
“44-892-315509.”
“Miss Ladram?”
“Señor Galazarga?”
“My name does not matter, Miss Ladram. What matters is our answer.�
��
“And what is your answer?”
“We accept your terms.” Charlotte uttered a silent prayer of thanks. Four simple words justified every chance she had taken. But four words, it transpired, were not all Galazarga had to say. “On certain conditions which must be scrupulously observed. If they are not, the agreement is null and void. And your niece’s life is forfeit.”
“What are the conditions?”
“The document must be brought to a location we nominate, where it will be handed over in return for your niece, who must then be delivered to a police station as if she had been set free without explanation. She must know nothing of the reason for her release and those who do know must say nothing, now or in the future.”
The arrangements for exchange were crucial. They might conceal a carefully planned deception. Charlotte knew this only too well. She had to weight her eagerness to agree against the possibility of further trickery. But she had no sooner began considering the problem than a ring at the doorbell interrupted her. Rising from the chair with the telephone pressed to her ear, she peered out through the net-curtained window. But no car was visible on the drive or in the road. If, as she greatly feared, it was Golding, he had arrived on foot, which scarcely seemed likely. But somebody had, as a second ring of the bell confirmed.
“Well, Miss Ladram? Do you accept our conditions?”
“I must know more about them. Where…Where would the exchange take place?”
“We have chosen somewhere offering privacy and security to both parties.”
There was a tapping on the window. When Charlotte looked round, she saw a bulky figure crouching close to the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes in an attempt to penetrate the screen of net.
“Miss Ladram?”
“I…I’m sorry. When…When do you envisage…”
“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“So…So soon?” It was a stupid remark and she instantly regretted it. Looking round again, she was relieved to see that the figure had vanished from the window. She could only hope he had given up and gone away. “I’m sorry. Tomorrow morning is fine.”
Hand in Glove Page 45
