The Silver Falcon (11 page)

‘You've got a reason,' Farrant said. ‘Why don't you trust me –'

‘Because my reasons are none of your business,' Richard said gently. ‘Let's have that drink and then I'll beat the hell out of you in eighteen holes.'

It was Richard who suggested they went deep-sea fishing. Tim had arranged to play golf with Farrant, and the Garvins had gone off to spend the day at the Farrants' beach cabin.

‘I don't know anything about ordinary fishing, let alone deep sea,' Isabel protested.

‘You don't have to know. I'll fish and you can watch if you don't want to try it. We can hire a boat and they take you right out. It's great fun. Come on, let's go.'

She took a picnic in the buggy and they drove down to St Peter's, where the boats were hired out. Richard picked a neat motor cruiser with a single crewman. He was an elderly Negro, his hair bleached white under a faded cap with the peak turned up; he helped her into the boat and she settled in the bows as they cast off, and the engines started up. Isabel had never liked the sea. She could swim moderately, in the simple style of someone who spent occasional holidays on the English coast, but she had never felt at home in the water. She disliked the sense of isolation in a small boat surrounded by ocean and sky. But the morning was beautiful and as they left the coast there was a pleasant breeze. Richard was standing with the skipper; he took a turn at the wheel. He looked experienced and relaxed, his legs braced against the pitch of the boat. He called to her over his shoulder.

‘Are you all right? Enjoying it?'

‘Yes,' she called back. ‘It's lovely. I'm glad we came.'

‘Wait till you hook a nice big marlin! Then we'll see some fun –'

The skipper took over for the last quarter of a mile. He throttled back and very slowly drifted into neutral. Richard helped him drop the anchor. Isabel watched the chain playing out; it seemed to go on for a long time. They were in very deep water. He came back and dropped into the little canvas chair beside her. He fished in the picnic basket. ‘Let's have a drink,' he said. ‘I asked Patsy to put something special in for us.' He brought out a large metal cold box; inside it was a bottle of Saran Nature, perfectly chilled. ‘I love this stuff in the morning,' Richard said. ‘Get the glasses out while I open it.' He poured a small tumbler full of the still champagne. It was one of the most expensive wines in the world. ‘Ah,' he sipped it and leaned back closing his eyes against the sun. ‘This is the life – sun, sea, good wine and a beautiful stepmother beside me. Who could want anything more?'

He looked round at her and smiled. ‘You're an attractive woman, Isabel. It's all very well living at Beaumont with my old man's shadow over the place. But how much of this is really you? Have you ever faced that? You should.'

‘I love Beaumont,' she said. ‘And I don't feel any shadow. I'm looking forward to my life.'

‘Racing my father's horses,' he said. He filled their glasses again. ‘Living with the Grogans and good old Tim. He forced you into it, Isabel. Whether you realize it or not, he committed you to his kind of life regardless of whether it suited you. Tell me the truth – do you really want to go to England and go through this Derby performance? Wouldn't you rather take time off, travel a bit, find out exactly what you want to do with your life?'

She shook her head. ‘I can't do that. I promised him. I've got no other objective. You talk about travel – it wouldn't be much fun on my own. I've never been close to my family; all my friends are at Beaumont. I'll admit, I did feel strange at first – even overshadowed if you like. But it's my background now, my home. I love the horses; I want to make a success of it. And I'm going to try and win that race.'

‘He certainly got his hooks into you, didn't he?' Richard said.

‘He was very good to me,' Isabel said. ‘And I promised. It's a funny thing; he said you'd try and persuade me not to run the horse. That's what you're doing, aren't you?'

‘I suppose I am,' he said. ‘Let's finish the bottle. But not because I want to spite him or thwart his dying wish. Simply because I've got very fond of you. And I hate to see him pulling the strings on people. I'm frightened you'll end up as just another leathery lady, probably married to Tim and knee-deep in manure for the rest of your life. You're worth more than that.'

‘Wait till after the Derby,' Isabel answered. ‘And please don't start marrying me off to Tim.'

‘Okay,' he said. He stretched. ‘If you're quite certain that's what you want. I won't say another word.'

‘I am certain,' Isabel said. ‘And nothing is going to change me.' He shook his head and smiled at her.

‘Very determined lady, aren't you – let's go and swim, it's getting very hot.'

He stripped off his shorts and sweat shirt. He was powerfully built with muscled legs and arms. The back of his neck and shoulders was freckled by the sun. He dived off the side. When he surfaced he shouted up to her. ‘It's great – come on in!'

She climbed down the ladder at the side and slid into the water. The cold was a shock that took her breath away. It was as black as ink when she looked down. The boat idled above them; the anchor chain was upright as a stick in the water, its hook lost somewhere in the darkness below. She swam lazily, keeping close to the boat; Richard circled it, swimming powerfully. He came up to her and turned on his back.

‘Swim underneath with me.'

‘I can't swim underwater,' she said.

‘It's easy, I'll show you. Give me your hand.' He gripped very tightly; she couldn't have pulled away from him. He was drawing her towards the hull of the boat.

‘No,' she said. ‘No, I don't want to –' The sudden sense of panic was so strong that she began to struggle. ‘Please Richard, let go.…'

But her hand was in a vice. ‘Hold your breath,' he shouted, and then she was pulled under. The water closed over her head so suddenly that she swallowed some. Instinctively she closed her eyes; she was being dragged down and along by him, when she opened them she saw nothing for a second or two, then his pale reflection swimming a little ahead of her, towing her down and under the boat. Isabel had never panicked completely in her life, but she did so then. Her lungs were bursting; there was a hot pain in her chest. All she could see was a dark void around her with the black shadow of the hull above her head. The effect was totally claustrophobic. She began to kick out and thresh wildly with her free arm. The force drawing her forward checked. She could see his body close beside her. She gave a violent wrench to loose his grip on her. The next moment her hand was free. Her body shot upwards through the water. The pressure on her lungs was beyond control. She opened her mouth to gasp for air, and as her head cracked into the hull above her, she began to drown.

4

The first person she saw was Tim Ryan. She had a headache of such intensity that she could hardly focus on him.

‘Where am I?'

‘St Patrick's Hospital,' Tim said. ‘You were nearly drowned.'

She gripped his hand in remembered terror. ‘I was swimming – it was all black and I couldn't breathe –'

‘Apparently you hit the hull,' Tim said. ‘Richard and the skipper pulled you out. Richard gave you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He saved your life.' Isabel closed her eyes; the headache was excruciating. She remembered the water and the blind, horrible panic of fighting to breathe. Something had been stopping her, holding her back.

‘I'm muddled,' she whispered. ‘I can't remember how it happened.…'

‘You're concussed,' Tim told her. ‘You hit the hull with a hell of a crack. Don't talk any more. You'll be home by tomorrow. They just want you to stay in here tonight for observation. Richard was in a terrible state when he brought you in. Roy and Patsy send their love. He's coming to fetch you out tomorrow.'

‘Who's coming?' she asked. She felt sore and battered round the ribs. Breathing hurt her.

‘Richard,' Tim said. ‘He keeps saying it was his fault.'

‘He made me swim,' she said slowly. ‘I didn't want to.… I don't like the sea.…' He was alarmed to see tears rolling down her face. He beckoned the coloured nurse.

‘It's just a bit of a shock,' she whispered. ‘I'll give her something to make her sleep and she'll be fine by the morning.'

‘I'm going now,' he said. ‘Thank God you're all right. My heart bloody nearly stopped for good when Richard telephoned. Sleep well.' He moved aside for the nurse; she was soothing Isabel, and straightening the pillows. She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled.

‘Don't worry about her,' she said. ‘She's a very lucky lady. All she needs is a good long sleep.'

Andrew Graham didn't tell his wife he was going to New York. He timed the trip to coincide with one that she wanted to make to her sister in Southport; she left home believing he was spending two days with friends in nearby Alvis. His partner could look after the practice; the change would do them both good. Andrew disliked the North and especially New York, he found it brash and confusing, its inhabitants rude and alien. It had taken him some time to decide to go there; the temptation to seek help nearer home had to be resisted. New York was anonymous; the sort of assistance he needed was best found there. He landed at Kennedy and took a taxicab direct to an office block on West 68th. The driver was surly and grabbed at the tip without a word of thanks. For a moment Andrew hesitated. He looked up at the tall building with its rows of gleaming sunlit windows. It was going to cost money, but he had accepted that. It was wise to get the best. The office was on the seventeenth floor. He was surprised to find that it consisted of only two rooms. An outer office, presided over by a secretary who was answering the telephone when he came in, and an inner room with the lettering, F. MacNeil, in black on the glass.

The girl put down the receiver and smiled at him. She had beautiful teeth and was skilfully made up.

‘My name's Graham,' he said. ‘I have an appointment with Mr MacNeil.'

She glanced at the diary open in front of her, and ticked something off. ‘That's right. Twelve fifteen. I'll buzz him.' She did so and spoke into the intercom. ‘Dr Graham to see you, Mr MacNeil.' She looked up and gave him the toothpaste smile.

‘Go right in please.'

He didn't know what to expect. His imagination had nothing but old Bogart movies to draw on. He was subconsciously prepared for a seedy office and a shabby figure lounging behind the desk with a bottle in front of him. Frank MacNeil was in his late thirties; he wore a smart blue worsted suit with button-down shirt and a discreet red and blue tie. His brown hair was slicked down and neatly barbered. He looked like a Madison Avenue executive. He got up, held out his hand to Graham. He had a flat New York accent. ‘Dr Graham. Sit down, won't you. Cigarette?'

‘No thanks, I don't.' Andrew took a comfortable Swedish leather chair and wondered how to open the subject.

MacNeil smiled. He made an arch with his fingers.

‘Now,' he said. ‘What can I do for you? I take it this is personal business. And remember – this office is like the confessional. We hear everything and say nothing. We only have one interest and that is to satisfy our clients. With the maximum of discretion. Now, what exactly do you want investigated?'

Andrew took a piece of newspaper out of his wallet. It was a cutting from the
Kellway Gazette
. He gave it to the private detective. ‘This,' he said. He watched MacNeil read it; his lips moved silently.

It was a Reuters news item, and it had made minor headlines in the Kentucky paper.

‘Isabel Schriber escapes death'. It gave an account of the accident in Barbados, describing it as near fatal; it took place while Mrs Schriber was out deep-sea fishing and she was rescued by her stepson. They were guests of the wealthy English racehorse owner Roy Farrant. Mrs Schriber was recovering in hospital. MacNeil read it twice.

His tone was brisk. He had dropped the fancy manner.

‘Is this woman a relative?'

‘No,' Andrew said. ‘She's the widow of my greatest friend. I've been very worried since I saw that clipping. Especially since it happened when she was with her stepson.'

‘What do you suspect, Dr Graham?'

Andrew shifted in his seat. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I'm just uneasy. I want you to get all the details, find out what really happened on that boat.'

‘Hmm,' MacNeil leaned back in his chair. He said, ‘I'll keep this clipping for the file. And now, if you want me to take the case, you've got to give me the full story. Everything you know about the woman, the stepson, the family background – everything. Because, if I'm reading your mind, you think this could have been an attempted murder.'

‘Yes,' Andrew said slowly. ‘I think it could.'

He wondered whether MacNeil approximated enough to his fictional counterparts to keep a drink in his office. It was almost telepathic; the detective got up, went to a cupboard near the door and it opened out into a well-stocked bar. He was used to clients like the doctor; the more respectable they were the more difficult they found it to rattle skeletons.

‘What'll you have?'

‘Scotch,' Andrew said. ‘With a splash.'

‘Ice?'

‘No ice.'

They drank and looked at each other over their glasses.

‘It's not a nice story,' Andrew Graham said at last.

‘They never are,' MacNeil answered. He began to make notes while Graham talked.

Tim was a light sleeper. He woke instantly when the door to his bedroom opened. The curtains were open and the big West Indian moon shone into the room like a searchlight. He stayed quiet, watching the woman come across the floor. She came to the bed and stood, looking down at him. She wore a silk dressing gown. It was Patsy Farrant. She didn't speak; she pulled the tie round her waist and the gown fell open. She slipped it off and stood naked for a moment. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, ran her hands over his chest and shoulders and began to kiss him. She pulled back the cover and lay on him, her body moving. He submitted for a few moments, holding himself in check against the slow, rhythmic assault. Then he turned, pulling her over and underneath him. She gave a gasp of pleasure. ‘What the hell are you doing,' he said.