Hand in Glove (55 page)

H A N D I N G L O V E

391

way they had come, walking fast, eyes trained ahead. As Derek caught up, he said: “Move, boy. We don’t have long.”

“For what?”

“Packing our bags, paying the bill, retrieving Vicente’s statement from the safe-deposit—and clearing out of Santiago.”

“To go where?”

“It doesn’t matter. Somewhere they can’t find us.”

“What if they follow us?”

“With any luck they won’t know what we’re driving. If they do, we’ll just have to lose them.”

“But . . . I don’t understand . . . What can we accomplish by leaving now?”

“More than we can accomplish by staying. Like Galazarga said,
we
have the advantage. And we mustn’t lose it.”

“The advantage? I still don’t—”

“We’re going to call Delgado’s bluff, boy. We’re going to see whose nerve is really the stronger. And believe me, I don’t intend it to be his.”

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

TWENTY

Hello?” “It’s me.”

Charlotte caught her breath, knowing Derek could only be telephoning her at Ockham House if something had gone drasti-cally wrong. It was not yet ten o’clock on Thursday morning. Another nine hours were due to have elapsed before they spoke again. She wanted to ask what had happened, but could contrive no way of doing so without arousing the suspicion of any of Golding’s men who might be listening. And the recent increase in whirrs and clicks on the line had convinced her they
were
listening—all the time.

“Don’t say anything,” Derek continued. “Just be where you would be at seven—in half an hour. We’ll talk then.”

392

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

In his hotel room in Corunna, Derek put the telephone down and looked across at Frank, profiled against the picture-windowed vista of sea and sky. “So far so good,” he said. “I wonder how she’ll react when I tell her what you have in mind.”

“What
we
have in mind,” growled Frank. “You agreed it was the only course left open to us.”

Derek could not deny he had. But that had been last night, after he had found his room at the Reyes Catolicos ransacked and they had quit the hotel in a panicky scramble; after they had driven fast along winding roads up into the hills north of Santiago and taken to rough forest tracks until they were sure nobody was following; after they had waited and watched for hours in the inky darkness until they were absolutely certain they had made good their escape. At dawn, they had headed for Corunna, the provincial capital, a modern city crouching grey and wind-scoured on the rocky rim of the Atlantic Ocean. Here, a busy urban populace had supplied much-needed camouflage and a couple of rooms in a high-rise hotel overlooking the sea an ideal sanctuary. And here Derek, his nerve and judgement patched together with food and rest and hot running water, had begun to question the strategy to which he had earlier given his unqualified consent.

“Having second thoughts?” asked Frank.

“No. Not exactly. It’s just—”

“It’s just you can hardly believe now you were in that back-alley, with a knife at your throat. Or that sweet reason isn’t going to win Delgado over.”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, you were. And it isn’t.”

“Will your way work any better?”

“I’m not sure.” Frank turned and stared out for a moment at the gulls wheeling and screeching over the harbour. Then he said: “But, if it doesn’t, nothing else will.”

Ten minutes after Charlotte had reached Derek’s house, the telephone rang and she found herself talking to him again, this time more freely. When she heard what form Delgado’s answer had taken, she did not know who to feel more anxious for: Derek, whom she had led into greater danger than either of them had anticipated; or Samantha, whose freedom now seemed more unattainable than ever.

H A N D I N G L O V E

393

Her instinctive reaction was that the time really had to come to tell the police everything they knew. But, to her surprise, Derek did not agree.

“Frank thinks—we both think—there’s one other approach worth trying. We reckon it stands an excellent chance of success.”

“What is it?”

“It’s why I phoned you this morning rather than this evening. We can’t risk any further direct contact with Delgado. But he does take us seriously now. He’s bound to. So, if we could negotiate with him indirectly, through an intermediary . . .”

“What intermediary?”

“You, Charlotte. Frank’s plan is to place an advert in tomorrow’s
International Herald Tribune,
using the wording the kidnappers stipulated, but specifying they should telephone you there—on my number. That should keep you one step ahead of the police. You could call us here to tell us their response.”

“Their response to what?”

“Our terms. Release Samantha immediately or we’ll take Vicente Ortiz’s statement to the Spanish press.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Delgado must believe we would. You must persuade him.”

“But . . . the risks are . . .”

“Appalling. As they have been all along.”

“You think they’re worth taking? I mean
you,
Derek.
You
think this is what we should do?”

There was a lengthy pause, during which she sensed rather than heard him bite back several possible replies. Then he said: “If we go to the police now and name Delgado, there’s insufficient time left for them to make discreet enquiries. They may well end up alerting Delgado to their suspicions long before they’re able to establish where Samantha’s being held. What happened last night leaves me in little doubt how Delgado would respond in such circumstances.”

She realized then, as she supposed Derek must already have realized, how irrevocable their decision to go it alone had proved. At some stage of which neither had been fully aware, they had passed the point of no return. There was no way back now. There might indeed be no way out at all. But, if there was, Frank’s plan offered the only hope of finding it. “All right,” she said. “We’ll do it.”

394

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

Charlotte telephoned the
International Herald Tribune
offices in Paris straightaway. After parting with her credit card number, she obtained a guarantee that all editions of Friday’s paper would carry, prominently displayed in the personal column of the classified advertisements: PEN PALS CAN BE REUNITED. ORWELL WILL PAY. CALL

44–892–315509. Then she called Derek again to confirm it would appear.

“Well done, Charlotte. I’ll buy a copy here. After our brush with them in Santiago—and our subsequent disappearance—I don’t think they’ll be able to resist making contact.”

“And when they do?”

“You must convince them we mean what we say. There really is no other way.”

He was right. But Charlotte suspected he would have preferred to be wrong, would infinitely have preferred, like her, to find some safe and secure alternative. When the telephone rang a few moments after she had put it down, she thought for an instant he might have done just that. In her eagerness to believe he had, she grabbed at the receiver and said “Derek?”

“Tunbridge Wells 315509?” a gruff male voice enquired.

“Er . . . Yes.” Charlotte winced at her own stupidity. She should have claimed he had the wrong number, put the telephone down and refrained from answering when it rang again.

“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?”

H A N D I N G L O V E

395

“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.

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

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

H A N D I N G L O V E

397

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 398