Hand in Glove

by Robert Goddard

  “Miss Abberley,” Frank cut in, “we’ve risked our lives to rescue you. We’ve made sacrifices you can’t possibly comprehend. Set against them, the lies we’re asking you to tell are trivial—and lily-white. So, why not stop feeling sorry for yourself, walk into that building and ask them to call the British Embassy?”

  His words were harsher than Samantha deserved. But their effect was salutary. The edge of hysteria in her voice vanished. “All right,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I am…grateful, you know. It’s just—”

  “We understand,” said Derek.

  “And remember,” said Frank. “You’re free.”

  “Yes.” Her face was suddenly lit up by a smile. “I am, aren’t I?” She rubbed her eyes and sighed, then announced: “I think I’m ready to go now.”

  “Good.” Derek opened the door and climbed out to let her pass. The policeman standing on the station steps was picking his teeth, oblivious to the significance of what was about to happen. Yet still Derek was eager to have done and be gone.

  “Thank you, Mr Fairfax,” said Samantha. “I’ll thank you again when I know what you really did.” She started walking towards the police station and Derek climbed back into the Land Rover.

  “Poor kid,” he murmured. “None of this was her fault. When she finds out about her father—”

  “But you’re no friend of hers,” growled Frank. “She said so herself. Save your concern for those who are—or were.”

  Derek knew at once who he was referring to. But, in a perverse attempt to exorcise the ghosts still clustering around them, he asked: “Who do you mean, Frank?”

  Ahead of them, the policeman stopped picking his teeth and held the station door open for Samantha, who vanished inside without a backward glance. Frank started the engine. He offered no answer to Derek’s question, unless it was the remark he made as they pulled out into the traffic and headed away from the centre of the city. “It’s time you told me what Delgado said, boy. I want to hear every word.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  The morning glowed with autumnal refulgence, or seemed to, as Charlotte leant back in the cracked leather seat of Colin’s Jaguar and watched the golden glades of Surrey flash by. What she felt was a vast multiple of the joyful irresponsibility the end of a school term had inspired in her as a child, but which adulthood had somehow driven out. As the cares and fetters of the recent past fell away, the sensation grew, filling her with confidence and generosity, convincing her that all disputes could be resolved, all wounds healed, all antagonisms ended. Samantha was safe and her mother should not be denied the pleasure and relief of knowing she was. If Charlotte and Ursula could share nothing else, they could share the happiness of this moment.

  The sunlight was sparkling on the water as they crossed Cookham Bridge and casting its mellow balm across the lawn of Swans’ Meadow. At Charlotte’s direction, Colin slowed and turned into Riversdale. As he did so, Charlotte caught sight of Aliki, cycling towards them along the road. She asked Colin to pull up so that she could speak to her and leaned out of the window to attract the girl’s attention.

  “It’s me, Aliki! Charlotte.”

  “Charlie!” Aliki skidded to a halt beside her. “I did not recognize the car. And…You look so ’appy.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Is it…Is there…”

  “There may be good news. But I must speak to Ursula first. Is she in?”

  “Oh yes. She ’as ’ardly gone out since…since it ’appened. She is…so sad.”

  “Are you going shopping?”

  “Yes. But only in Bourne End.”

  “Well, by the time you come back, Ursula may not be so sad.”

  “Really?”

  Charlotte held her finger to her lips. “Wait and see.”

  With a puzzled smile, Aliki cycled off, leaving Colin and Charlotte to head on along the road, then turn down the drive to Swans’ Meadow.

  “Quite a place,” said Colin, as he pulled up in front of the house. “Your brother didn’t stint himself, did he?”

  “Let’s not talk about Maurice, please.”

  “All right.” Colin shrugged his shoulders and grinned indulgently. “Shall we go in?”

  “I think I’d better go in on my own to break the news. I’ll come and fetch you when I’ve explained everything.”

  “Suits me.”

  Charlotte climbed out and hurried to the door, suppressing a desire to skip at every pace. She had expected a swift response to the bell, but there was none. She tried twice more with the same result. Yet Aliki had been quite specific. Ursula was there. She could not have left after Aliki without passing them. Could she be out of earshot in the garden? It seemed the only possible explanation. Miming her intentions to Colin, she walked round to the side of the house.

  As she entered the garden, she saw at once that, short of hiding in the shrubbery, Ursula could not be there. At the same moment, she remembered the July afternoon when she had arrived in search of Emerson McKitrick and followed these same steps, only to find far more than she had bargained for. But she was now the one bearing surprises. There were surely none left to lie in wait for her. A little irritated by having to go to such lengths, she tried the kitchen door and was relieved to find it open. Yet she was also perplexed, since it suggested Ursula really was at home and had simply chosen not to respond to the bell. Calling out her name and receiving no reply, she walked through to the hall and turned into the lounge.

  She saw Ursula, seated stiffly and expressionlessly on the sofa, a split-second before she saw the reason for her blank and staring silence. A man was standing near the window, dressed in jeans, short leather jacket and sweater. He was stockily built and bull-necked, with a craggy weather-beaten face and crew-cut hair. Charlotte recognized him instantly as Brian Spicer, Maurice’s former chauffeur. He was holding a blunt-nosed revolver in his hand and it was pointing straight at her. She had never seen anything smaller than a shotgun before and for a moment thought it might be a toy. But Spicer’s cold unblinking gaze and the nervous motion of his tongue between his lips told her it was not.

  “Spicer,” she said numbly.

  “Miss Ladram,” he sneered. “Sit down beside her ladyship.” He waved her towards the sofa with his gun.

  Ursula looked up at her. “Do as he says, Charlie. He’s quite capable of using that.”

  Charlotte obeyed, moving slowly and cautiously. As she settled on the sofa, the frantic pace of Ursula’s breathing became apparent to her. Then she realized her own was equally fast. Her heart was racing too, beating like a drum inside her head. “What…What’s going on?” she asked.

  “We were having a private chat,” said Spicer. “I’d waited for Aliki to go out so we wouldn’t be disturbed. I didn’t know you were going to barge in.”

  “Why are you here, Charlie?” asked Ursula, clutching her hand for comfort.

  “Never mind why,” snapped Spicer. “Maybe she can be more illuminating than you.”

  “About what?”

  “He thinks Maurice stored a large quantity of cash here,” said Ursula. “I’ve tried to convince him he didn’t, but—”

  “I know he had some stashed away here,” interrupted Spicer. “Ready cash for the sort of transactions he specialized in. Ones that didn’t go through the books. Pay-offs. Back-handers. Sweeteners. You know the kind of thing.”

  “We don’t,” said Ursula. “Unless you mean the sort of work you did for him.”

  Anger flared in Spicer’s eyes. He moved closer to them, then stopped and said: “Yeh. That sort of work—since you mention it. I’m still owed some. Which I intend to collect—plus enough to set me up abroad. Thanks to Maurice, I’ve got the police on my tail, trying to pin the old girl’s murder on me. So, I need to make myself scarce. And I need spending money to do it with.”

  “Take whatever you like,” said Ursula. “But there’s no hoard of cash.”

  “Pull the other one. I want all of it. And I want it now.”
>
  Could it be true? Had Maurice hidden money somewhere in the house? Was it the source of what he had foolishly offered Delgado’s men at their meeting on Walbury Hill? If so, Ursula probably did not know where it was. But Spicer would never believe that. Desperate to distract him, Charlotte said: “You were responsible for Beatrix’s death, then?”

  “What do you think?”

  “And for the robbery at Hendre Gorfelen?”

  “The Welsh job? Yeh, that too.”

  “All at Maurice’s bidding?”

  “I did what I was paid to do.”

  “Including planting the stolen Tunbridge Ware in Colin Fairfax’s shop?”

  “Yeh. So what?”

  “Your dismissal for drunkenness was just a charade?”

  “I didn’t take much persuading. What Maurice had in mind was preferable to touching my forelock to this bitch.” He nodded at Ursula.

  “Maurice must have paid you well.”

  “Not well enough. I’m here to collect what’s still due to me.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Ursula, “you’re not going to be able to.”

  “Want a bet? If you won’t give it to me in cash, I’ll have to take it in kind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ll get a life sentence if they do me for murder—which they will if I’m caught. But I can’t serve life twice, can I? A second murder—or a third—wouldn’t make much difference, would it?”

  “Of course it would,” said Charlotte. “You may be able to persuade the court you didn’t mean to kill Beatrix. You may—”

  “Shut up!” Spicer marched towards her and pushed the gun against her cheek. The coldness and the shock of it made her flinch. Tears started into her eyes. She had been so happy and carefree only a few minutes ago that the danger she was now in seemed monstrously unfair. She had thought it was all over, the last problem solved, the last risk run. But it was not. And this time there was absolutely nothing she could do.

  When Spicer spoke again, Charlotte was aware he was talking to Ursula, not her. “Listen to me, Ursula.” He stressed each syllable of her name equally in mockery of her accent. “I’m glad your sister-in-law’s turned up, because she makes this a whole lot simpler. She may not know where Maurice’s loot is, but you bloody do. So, either you tell me now or I pull this trigger—and make a real mess of your sofa.”

  “Spicer—”

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No. For God’s sake—”

  Ursula stopped speaking and a fraction of a second later Charlotte realized why. The front doorbell was ringing. And only she knew who was ringing it.

  At the same moment, in Galicia, Derek emerged from the terminal building at Santiago Airport and walked across to the Land Rover, where Frank was waiting for him, seated at the wheel.

  “Well?” the old man enquired.

  “I’m booked on a flight to Madrid leaving in just over an hour. It connects with one to Heathrow. I should be home by early evening.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. It’s a long drive back to Wales. I’d better make a start.” He turned the ignition and the engine spluttered into life.

  “Frank—”

  “What is it?”

  “About Delgado…”

  “Don’t say it, boy. Whatever it is won’t bring Vicente back to life—or his murderer to justice.”

  “I know, but…well, Charlotte was worried you were coming for…”

  “Revenge?” Frank nodded. “It was in my mind.”

  “Is it still?”

  “Yes. But that’s where it’ll stay.”

  “For Beatrix’s sake?”

  “For all our sakes—the living and the dead.”

  “Would it have been different if you’d met him on the bridge instead of me?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. If he’d stood in front of me and admitted torturing Vicente to death, I might not have been able to keep my hands from his throat. But what then, eh? What about you and the girl? If I’d avenged Vicente, who would have avenged Delgado? In the end, somebody has to call a halt. I don’t know whether I’d have been able to. And I never will now, will I? Nor will you.” He jerked the Land Rover into first gear. “I must go. When you see Charlotte, send her my regards.”

  “I will. But I’m sure she’ll want to thank you in person.”

  “What for? In the end, it was you who pulled it off. Pretty neatly, too.” One end of his mouth curled up in a concession to a smile. “Go home and make her happy, Derek. It’s good advice—for both of you.” With that, and the faintest of farewell nods, he released the clutch and moved off towards the exit road.

  Derek stood watching the Land Rover until it had vanished from sight. It was, he rather thought, the first time Frank had addressed him by his Christian name. If the purpose was to emphasize his parting piece of advice, it was hardly necessary. One reason for flying home was to see Charlotte as soon as possible. And he did not intend to do so simply in order to say goodbye.

  What was Charlotte doing now? he wondered as he made his way back into the terminal building. Colin would have conveyed the good news to her long since. Perhaps they were sharing a celebratory drink. Or perhaps not. Either way, he felt sure he would be able to persuade them to share one with him. There was, after all, a great deal to celebrate. For the first time in months, not a cloud was to be seen on any of their horizons.

  “They’re not going to give up, are they?” said Spicer, as the doorbell rang for the fifth or sixth time. “Who the bloody hell is it?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Ursula. “I’m not expecting anybody.”

  “Well, you’d better get rid of them. Stand up, Miss Ladram. Very slowly.”

  With the gun still only an inch or so from her face, Charlotte rose from the sofa. She did not know what to say or do and could only obey dumbly. There had to be a way out, surely. The conviction was almost as strong as her fear. After all that had happened, it made no sense for her life to end like this, snuffed out in a moment of panic and stupidity. Yet why should it make sense? To expect it to was perhaps her greatest fallacy. And perhaps also her last.

  “Walk ahead of us into the hall,” Spicer said to Ursula, stepping behind Charlotte and twisting back her left arm with his own while pressing the gun into the nape of her neck, where she could feel the barrel cold and hard against her skin. Ursula moved past them and a prod of the gun told Charlotte to follow. The door-bell rang yet again as they edged out of the lounge. “Open the damn thing! But only wide enough to tell whoever it is to sod off. Remember: try anything stupid and I’ll put a bullet through your sister-in-law’s head.”

  Ursula hesitated momentarily, then started towards the door. A vague and bulky shape could be seen through the panel of frosted glass above the letter-box. There was no doubt in Charlotte’s mind who it was. But Ursula would not recognize him. Nor would Spicer—unless he identified himself. The door was fitted with a chain, but Ursula left it hanging where it was as she turned the handle and moved to block the narrow opening.

  “Mrs Abberley?” Charlotte heard Colin say.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Where’s Charlotte?”

  “She’s not here. And I don’t know who you are, but—”

  “Colin Fairfax-Vane.”

  “What?” Spicer’s grip on Charlotte’s arm tightened. He too had heard the name.

  “Look, I know she’s with you. I saw her go in. Why don’t we stop playing games?”

  “This isn’t a game. Please leave.”

  “I’ve no intention of leaving.” Ursula tried to close the door, but without success. Colin’s weight was more than sufficient to prevent her. Then, as he pushed and she pulled, the handle slipped from her grasp and the door flew wide open, bouncing back against its stop. “All I want to do is—” Colin’s lips froze as he barged past Ursula and looked down the hall.

  “I’ve got a gun,” said
Spicer. “And I’ll use it if I have to.” He was frightened. Charlotte could tell as much by the panting of his breath in her ear and the vice-like intensity of his hold on her arm. He was frightened because the odds had changed, because events were running out of his control, because there was too much for him to watch and consider.

  “Who…Who are you?” asked Colin.

  “He’s Brian Spicer,” said Ursula from close behind him. “The man who framed you for Beatrix’s murder.”

  “What?” Colin’s frown of incredulity changed as Charlotte watched, disbelief hardening into anger. And Spicer too was watching, reading the same emotion in his face. In as many seconds as it had taken Ursula to speak, Charlotte’s frail hopes of a peaceful outcome had vanished. Why had Ursula done it? Why, unless she no longer cared what happened to anyone except herself?

  Just as this conclusion entered Charlotte’s mind, Ursula seized her chance. She pushed Colin hard between the shoulders. Caught off balance, he stumbled forward. As he did so, Spicer, clearly believing he was about to be charged, hurled Charlotte to his left and raised the gun. He fired as Charlotte fell. She heard the explosion somewhere above her as she struck the newel-post at the foot of the stairs and crumpled to the floor. Then, as she twisted round to look, she saw Colin spinning back against the opposite wall, clutching at his side, grimacing with shock and pain. Ursula had ducked out through the doorway and vanished. But Spicer, who must have realized she was the only one of them likely to know where Maurice’s cash had been hidden, was making after her, running down the hall and swearing as he ran. Charlotte and Colin did not matter to him now. Only Ursula—and the money he had to believe she could still lead him to—figured in his thoughts.

  As Spicer plunged out through the doorway, Charlotte scrambled to her feet and moved towards Colin, who had slid slowly down into a sitting position between the umbrella-stand and a console table, leaving a barometer swaying on its hook like a pendulum above him. There was blood oozing between his fingers where he was clutching his left side, but he seemed almost to be laughing as he gazed blearily up at her.