Hand in Glove (43 page)

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were not yet quite despondent enough to admit: that Samantha was beyond their help.

They returned to Tunbridge Wells via Cheltenham, where Lulu Harrington gave them tea and her fulsome apologies for being unable to remember the full name and address on Beatrix’s fourth letter.

Something neither short nor long, beginning with V. Somewhere in or near Paris, though how near could be at the mercy of French postal zoning. There was even the possibility that it was Mademoiselle V

rather than Madame. As to the addressee being a woman, she was adamant. Or was she? The more they pressed her, the more confused she became. They left with their path ahead no clearer. Indeed, the path ahead could scarcely be said to exist. In every direction lay dead ends. Even the route they had followed to this point seemed now to have closed behind them.

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TWENTY-TWO

Charlotte passed a glum and largely sleepless Sunday night, unable to restrain her mind from rummaging again and again through the clues that always led, however often they were re-examined, to the most hopeless of conclusions. Monday dawned still and misty, with a promise of autumn sunshine. Gazing out at the grey sky turning slowly blue, or glancing aimlessly through the newspaper’s parade of politics, fashion, commerce and sport, Charlotte felt a numb remoteness from the wider world. It would whirl on regardless to October the eleventh and beyond. And at some point in those looming weeks space would be found to report what had become of Samantha Abberley, only daughter of the recently deceased chairman and managing director of Ladram Avionics.

MIRACULOUS RESCUE. UNEXPLAINED RELEASE. STILL MISSING. FOUND

DEAD. Charlotte could almost suspect the headline had already been

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selected, the outcome already determined. It was as if only she was not yet to be told which it was to be.

When the doorbell rang shortly before ten o’clock, she assumed it was the postman and answered it ill-prepared for the face that greeted her. It belonged to Chief Inspector Golding. And he was not smiling.

“Could we have a word, Miss Ladram?”

“Certainly. Come in.”

They went into the lounge. An offer of coffee—even of a seat—was declined.

“What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?”

“I’ll come straight to the point, Miss. Your sister-in-law, Mrs Abberley, has informed us of your recent contact with her daughter’s kidnappers.”

Charlotte was aware of Golding’s eyes watching her closely to gauge her reaction. She could not suppress a reddening of the face, though it was occasioned more by anger than discomfort. However anxious Ursula might be, there could be no excuse for this. If she had insisted on telling the police, Charlotte would not have objected. But to do so in this way was to make her appear the villain of the piece. As was perhaps the purpose.

“I take it you don’t deny speaking to them?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Or trying to persuade Mrs Abberley to keep it to yourselves?”

“We agreed . . . for the present . . . in view of the doubts you’d expressed . . .”

“The doubts
I’d
expressed?” Golding treated her to a scornful look. “Have you any idea how irresponsible you’ve been, Miss Ladram? Mrs Abberley is under a great deal of stress. By taking advantage of her vulnerable condition—”

“I didn’t take advantage of her. And I didn’t persuade her to do anything against her will. Irresponsible or not, it was a joint decision.”

“That’s not Mrs Abberley’s version of events.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

He frowned at her. “Have you and she . . . fallen out?”

“You could say so, yes.”

“About what, might I ask?”

“You may already know.”

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“Ah! You mean the private detective’s report and the tape recording which Mrs Abberley said you passed on to Mr Fairfax?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” He deliberated for a moment, then said: “Whoever persuaded who, the fact is you both behaved very foolishly.”

“Perhaps we did, but—”

“Not to mention criminally. You could be charged with obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.”

Charlotte made to reply, but suddenly felt exasperated and wearied by the hoops she had been obliged to jump through. With a tired little toss of the head, she turned away and sat down in an armchair, motioning for Golding to do the same. After some hesitation, he did so.

“Well,” he said, more moderately than before, “there won’t be any charges of course. But it’s as well Mrs Abberley made a clean breast of it when she did, especially since the tape recording confirms—so she tells me—the existence of the letters which . . . which has been called into question in certain quarters.”

“Yes. It does.”

“I must ask for your assurance that there will be no repetition of this kind of conduct.”

“You have it.”

“And your co-operation in the monitoring of all future calls to this number.”

“You have that as well.”

“Finally, I shall require the immediate surrender of the report and the tape.”

“Mr Fairfax has them.”

“Yes. But I thought you might like to explain to him why he must give them up. Rather than let me do it.”

“Thank you. I would.”

“Very well. If you and Mr Fairfax come to my office at”—he glanced at his watch—“four o’clock this afternoon, bringing those items with you, we will regard the subject of your withholding them until now as closed. Is that agreed?”

“Yes. It’s agreed.”

“I can only express the hope that you’ve not endangered your niece’s life by such behaviour.”

“So can I.”

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“I shall of course require a full statement from you concerning your contact with the kidnappers.”

“I’ll make one out this afternoon.”

“Good. Well . . .”

“Is there something else?”

“No. Nothing else.” He rose. “Until four o’clock then.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll see myself out, Miss.”

Charlotte waited until she heard the front door close behind him.

Then she hurried into the hall and picked up the telephone, intent upon speaking to Ursula and demanding an explanation. But even as she framed the words in her mind, confidence deserted her. What was the point of further recrimination when Ursula’s motive was plain to see? The tape—and her disclosure of its existence—would gain her Golding’s confidence. It would focus his attention where it should be focused: on finding Samantha. To that extent, what she had done was understandable. Letting Charlotte take the blame was merely a side-effect, almost an after-thought, though one she might well have relished. Why give her the satisfaction of knowing her ploy had succeeded? Why give her anything at all?

Charlotte pressed the receiver down, then dialled the number of Fithyan & Co.

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TWENTY-THREE

An early lunch and a failure to return to the office afterwards was not how Derek would have wished to start the week at Fithyan & Co. Once he had heard of Charlotte’s predicament, however—explained to him in a quiet corner of the Beau Nash Tavern, Mount Ephraim—he realized there was nothing else for it. Reluctant as he was to part with evidence that went a long way to exonerating Colin, he knew surrendering it voluntarily was vastly preferable to having it seized. Accordingly, he drove Charlotte to his house straight from 308

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the Beau Nash. There they collected the report and the tape recording—and Derek paused long enough to telephone Carol with a flimsy excuse for his absence. Then they headed for Newbury.

Their reception at the police station was a bewildering mix of the gruff and the polite. Golding asked to speak to Charlotte alone and Derek was left on an uncomfortable chair in a busy corridor studying a LOCK IT OR LOSE IT poster for more than an hour before being summoned to join them.

Golding’s office was grey and cheerless, with the disorientating feature of being substantially higher than it was wide. The only source of colour was a multihued venetian blind, in front of which Golding sat at his desk, with a female officer beside him. On the other side of the desk sat Charlotte. Beside her was an empty chair towards which Golding flapped his hand.

“Take a seat, Mr Fairfax.”

“Er . . . Thanks.” Derek looked at Charlotte as he sat down, but all she could manage was the faintest of smiles.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, sir. There’s been a great deal to discuss. As I’m sure you can imagine. But I think I have the whole picture now. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Ladram?”

“I’ve certainly told you everything I know, Chief Inspector.”

“Quite so. Better late than never.” Golding grinned sarcastically.

“I’ve listened to the tape recording and I’ve perused the report. As I assume you’ve also done, Mr Fairfax?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not investigating the murder of Miss Beatrix Abberley, but I shall certainly pass on my tentative conclusions to the Sussex Police.

They may well feel the case against your brother is substantially weakened by what’s come to light. This fellow . . .” He sifted through some notes. “Spicer. The late Mr Abberley’s former chauffeur.”

“He phoned Ursula the day Maurice’s murder was reported in the press,” said Charlotte, glancing at Derek. “I’d forgotten about it till now.”

“Which means we can find out where he called from,” said Golding. “Mrs Abberley’s phone was being monitored by then. All calls were automatically traced.”

“I see.”

“I have one of my men working on it. We should have the result soon.”

“Er . . . Good. I . . . I’m grateful.”

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“I think you can rely on my colleagues in Sussex dealing with the case energetically. It promises to be rather more straightforward”—he grinned—“than my own enquiries.”

“How will those be . . . taken forward?”

“I can’t be specific at the moment, sir. No doubt we shall consult the Spanish police, since it seems clear matters Spanish lie at the root of this. We may also ask the French police for help in tracing Madame V. But it’s a tall order. There’s not much time left and a great deal we still don’t know.”

“I’ve already apologized for withholding the information, Chief Inspector,” said Charlotte edgily. “Several times.”

“So you have, Miss. Nevertheless—” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. A middle-aged man eased his way into the room.

“Yes, Barrett?”

“We’ve traced the call, sir. He rang just before midday on Tuesday the eighth. Identified himself as Spicer. Which is how Mrs Abberley addressed him. He was calling from a pay-phone in a pub at Burnham-on-Crouch in Essex. The Welcome Sailor.”

“The Welcome Sailor,” mused Golding. “And the missing chauffeur. Thank you, Barrett.” The door closed again. “Well, Mr Fairfax, as you can see, we’ve already made more progress than you managed on your own.”

“Yes. So it seems. I—”

“Mr Fairfax only did what I asked him to do,” put in Charlotte.

“He didn’t persuade me any more than I persuaded Ursula.”

“Maybe so.” The sarcasm drained from Golding’s face and was replaced by a steely earnestness. “But I want to make it clear to both of you—as I shall to Mrs Abberley—that any further information you come across touching on this case should be communicated to us immediately. We shan’t be so tolerant if this happens again. There must be no more going it alone.”

“I’m sure—” Derek began, only to be cut short by Charlotte.

“There won’t be, Chief Inspector.”

“Good, because—” Golding broke off, then made a vague temporizing gesture with his hand and said: “Well, perhaps the point is made.” He sighed. “You can go now, Mr Fairfax. I just need Miss Ladram to sign her statement.”

“Oh, right. I . . .” Derek rose, looked uncertainly at Charlotte, then turned to confront Golding’s slack-jawed stare. “Well, thank you, Chief Inspector.”

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“Don’t mention it. Only doing my job.” His stare hardened. “
My
job. Not yours.”

Derek waited for Charlotte in the car park. When she emerged, looking tired and exasperated, he made various consoling remarks, most of which she seemed not to hear. She had lapsed into gloomy self-absorption, perhaps in reaction to Golding’s interrogatory methods.

Whatever the cause, it placed her beyond Derek’s reach. He could only wait patiently for her to draw closer once more.

“Do you want to go home, Charlotte?”

“Not yet. Unless you’re keen to get back.”

“No.”

“Then could we drive to Walbury Hill? It’s only a few miles away.”

“Where your brother was . . . Where you found him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you want to go
there
?”

“I’m sure.”

It was a cool and breezy evening of clear air and limitless horizons.

There were only a few other cars in the lay-by at Walbury Hill and their occupants had scattered far and wide. Of the scene Charlotte and Ursula had confronted two weeks before there was neither sign nor trace. Charlotte stood on the spot where Maurice’s car had stood that morning and gazed to the north, her coat buttoned to the collar, scarf wound around her neck. She looked cold and Derek wanted to put his arm round her, to give her some measure of warmth and comfort. But he only shifted his feet uneasily beside her and broke the silence with a banal remark.

“Golding seems a good man. I’m sure he’ll do his best.”

“There’s nothing he can do.” Charlotte did not phrase her response as a rebuke, but it had much the same effect.

“They are the experts.”

“Not in what’s befallen Sam. They’ll question Frank again and maybe Lulu. They’ll consult the Spanish police. And time will slip by.

And come October the eleventh, they won’t know any more than we know now.”

“You mustn’t give up hope.”