Hand In Glove Part 36

"The matter is Maurice. What a b.l.o.o.d.y fool I was to trust him even in this."

"In what? I don't understand."

"No. You don't, do you? Well, perhaps you should. He's your brother. And do you know what kind of a brother you've got, Charlie?

I mean, really know?" She stumbled away towards the lounge, neither forbidding nor encouraging Charlotte to follow. But follow she did.

Once there, Ursula poured more gin than tonic into a tumbler and drank at least a quarter of it in one gulp. Then she s.n.a.t.c.hed a cigarette from a box, her hand shaking so much she laughed at the difficulty she had in lighting it. Charlotte stared at her in utter amazement, for she had never seen-nor dreamt of seeing-her sister-in-law in such a condition.

"I have to tell somebody," she said, drawing deeply on the cigarette. "Who better than you? Perhaps not letting you know the party was off was a Freudian slip. Perhaps I wanted-" She whirled away towards the window and stared out at the garden. "Christ, what a b.l.o.o.d.y mess!"

"Why was the party cancelled, Ursula?"

"Because Sam isn't here."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. n.o.body knows. Except-"

"Except who?"

"She's been kidnapped."

"What?"

"Kidnapped. Abducted. Carried off. Call it what you b.l.o.o.d.y like.

Taken by some devils Maurice has managed to call up with his too-clever-by-half pat little schemes. It's his fault, all of it. Unless it's mine, for letting him-" She swung round and stared at Charlotte, who could see her jaw muscles straining with the effort of ensuring she did not cry. "Sit down, Charlie. Sit down and I'll tell you in joined-up sentences what your brother has managed to inflict on us."

Charlotte lowered herself into the nearest chair and watched Ursula lean slowly back against the window-sill, one hand grasping the edge tightly while the other held her cigarette.

224.

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

"Sam went missing on Tuesday. I was in Maidenhead and Aliki was out shopping. She left a note, saying she'd be away until Friday, but not why or where she was going. She'd taken some clothes, though scarcely enough, even for three days. I phoned all her friends, but none of them knew anything. Maurice suggested some mystery boyfriend and I thought . . . Well, maybe so. What else was I to think? I was worried, of course, but I a.s.sumed she'd explain herself when she came back. It was only three days. Young girls like to rebel a little. So, don't fight it. That's what Maurice said. That's what I said as well. Don't fight. Just wait. And everything will be all right. But it isn't, is it? It's not all right. It's all wrong. And Maurice- Sorry. You want the facts, in their proper order. Well, on Thursday afternoon, Maurice was phoned at the office by a man with a foreign accent who said he wanted to talk to him about Sam. You can hear their conversation if you like. Maurice has a gadget to record any telephone calls he wants to. He has one fitted here as well as at the office, so he need never be in doubt about agreements he reaches or deals he makes. I'll play you the tape."

Ursula crossed to the hi-fi cabinet, removed a small ca.s.sette from one of the units and slipped another one in, then pressed a b.u.t.ton.

"He switched on after they'd started talking, but you'll soon catch the drift."

There was a crackle, then Maurice's voice in mid-sentence: "-this is all about."

"It is about your daughter, Mr Abberley." The other man was certainly foreign, but he spoke excellent English, in a tone devoid of all expression. "I represent those who are holding her."

"Holding her? What do you mean? She's-"

"Our captive, Mr Abberley."

"I don't believe you."

"Then believe your own ears. Listen to this."

The quality of the recording declined suddenly, but not enough for Charlotte to doubt it was Samantha's voice she heard next. "Mum and Dad, it's me, Sam. I'm all right. I don't know where I am or who these people are, but they haven't harmed me. They just . . . won't let me go." She sounded frightened but not hysterical and somehow much younger than usual. "Do as they say and they'll release me. I don't know what they want, but give it to them, Dad, please. I just-"

The man's voice cut in. "Do you believe me now, Mr Abberley?"

"Yes."

H A N D I N G L O V E.

225.

"Good."

"What do you want?"

"Ah, you are going to be sensible. That is better still."

"How much do you want?"

"Not money. We know you have a lot. But we do not want any of it."

"What, then?"

"The papers you stole from Frank Griffith, Mr Abberley. They are what we want."

"What?"

"You heard. The papers you stole from Frank Griffith."

"You mean . . . my father's letters . . . to my aunt?"

"Everything he sent to her. Everything you have. All the papers.

Every one."

"You can't be serious."

"But we are. Extremely."

"There's been some . . . mistake. I don't have . . . I've never had . . ."

"Do not deny stealing them, Mr Abberley. We know you have them.

If you refuse to give them up, your daughter will be killed."

"Good G.o.d."

"Do we understand each other, Mr Abberley?"

Maurice did not answer.

"Mr Abberley?"

"Yes. All right. I understand."

"We think you are storing the papers in New York. Is that correct?"

"How did you- Yes. It's correct."

"Then this is what you will do. Fly to New York tomorrow morning.

Collect the papers. Return on the Pan Am flight scheduled to reach Heathrow at seven fifty on Sat.u.r.day morning. Go to the chemist's shop in Terminal 4 called Waltham Pharmacy at nine o'clock. Stand by the external display of sungla.s.ses. A man will approach you. He will hand you an envelope containing a photograph of your daughter, which will prove she is alive and well."

"How? How will it prove that?"

But Maurice's interruption was ignored. "In return , you will hand him the papers, packed in a plain buff envelope. You will then leave.

Your daughter will be released within twenty-four hours."

"What if the flight's delayed?"

"We shall know if that is the case and we shall expect you to be late for our appointment. But no other excuse will be accepted."

"How can I be sure you'll release Sam?"

226.

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

Once again the interruption was ignored. "If you go to the police, she will be killed. Is that clear?"

"Wait a minute. I must have-"

"Is that clear?"

"Yes. Of course it's clear."

"Do you agree to our terms?"

"Yes. Dammit, yes I do."

"Then our business is concluded. Good afternoon , Mr Abberley."

There was a click as the machine switched itself off. Ursula stubbed out one cigarette and lit another while Charlotte stared straight ahead, trying to a.s.semble in her mind all the consequences of what she had heard. In the end, the only question she could frame was the simplest one of all: "What have you done about this?"

"What has Maurice done, you mean. I suppose I should be grateful he told me about the call at all, but he had to really, didn't he? Otherwise, I'd have gone to the police when Sam didn't show up yesterday."

"You haven't informed them?"

"Maurice wouldn't hear of it. To be fair, I was as opposed to the idea as he was, though not for the same reason. I just wanted my daughter back. If handing over the letters was what it took, then so be it. Maurice agreed. Or so he said. Like a fool, I thought Sam's safety meant more to him than those b.l.o.o.d.y royalties. I should have known better, shouldn't I? Nothing means more to your brother than having his own sodding way."

"What do you mean? Didn't he give the letters up?"

"He did and he didn't. We spent hours on the phone Thursday evening working through the guest-list to tell people the party was cancelled. As a member of the family, you wouldn't have been on the list. I suppose that's how we came to forget you. We packed Aliki off back to Cyprus for a couple of weeks. Paying her air fare ensured she didn't argue. Then Maurice flew to New York, as instructed. He'd lodged the letters in a bank there, apparently. He got back here late this morning, saying the swap had gone without a hitch and clutching the photograph of Sam we'd been promised. See for yourself."

Ursula crossed to the bureau in the corner, picked up a medium-sized brown envelope and handed it to Charlotte. Inside was a photograph of Samantha, standing against a whitewashed wall, wearing a baggy T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, holding up a copy of the International Herald Tribune so the date on the front page was clearly visible: Friday 4 H A N D I N G L O V E.

227.

September. Samantha looked tired, haggard and unkempt, but otherwise well, disorientated and distressed certainly, maltreated probably not.

"Maurice reckoned all we had to do was wait to hear of her release. He was confident there'd be no problem. So was I."

"But there was a problem?"

"Oh, yes. There was Maurice's greed, you see, his twisting, slippery, devious mind. That's what I'd overlooked. He went out a couple of hours ago. G.o.d knows where he went. He said he needed to think.

As it turns out, he had plenty to think about. Around three o'clock, the phone rang. As soon as I picked it up, I knew it was them-the kidnappers. I could just sense it. I was right. You can hear what was said on the other tape."

Ursula returned to the hi-fi, removed the ca.s.sette they had just listened to and loaded another. A second later, her own voice could be heard, raised and faintly distorted by the tape.

"Who's that?"

"Mrs Abberley?" It was the same man who had spoken to Maurice.

"Yes."

"I represent those who are holding your daughter, Mrs Abberley."

"Have you released her?"

"No."

"Why not? We had an agree-"

"Your husband broke our agreement, Mrs Abberley."

"What? I don't believe you."

"It is true."

"It can't be. He wouldn't-"

"He did. The papers he delivered this morning were incomplete. He is holding some back."

"That's impossible."