Hand In Glove Part 43

"Accordingly," said Miller, "I propose to hold a press conference this afternoon at which I'll reveal we're dealing with a kidnap as well as a murder."

"You propose, " said Ursula. "Are you asking for my agreement?"

Golding smiled at her. "Naturally, we hope you'll see the wisdom of taking such a step. Indeed, we hope you'll be willing to attend the press conference and answer questions."

"But it'll go ahead anyway," growled Miller. "I don't need your consent."

"Won't publicity frighten off the kidnappers?" asked Charlotte.

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"The embargo hasn't flushed them out, has it?" Golding countered. "We need a public response. Sightings. Suggestions. Tip-offs.

We need information."

"Shouldn't you wait a little longer?"

"Nine days is long enough," put in Miller.

"People forget quickly, Miss Ladram," said Golding. "We can't afford to delay."

"Very well," said Ursula. "Hold your press conference."

"And you'll attend?" asked Golding.

"Yes."

Charlotte was watching the two policemen as Ursula replied. She saw them glance at each other and exchange a conspiratorial arching of the eyebrows, compounded in Miller's case by the faintest of nods.

Ursula's partic.i.p.ation would evidently strengthen their chances of success. But what success represented to them she was no longer sure she knew.

Derek started watching the six o'clock news on television that evening in a distracted mood, only for his attention to be seized by mention of the name Abberley during the preamble to film of a press conference held earlier in the day at Newbury Police Station.

The reporter referred to sensational developments in the Abberley murder case. Then attention switched to a Superintendent Miller of pugnacious appearance, who described in clipped and guarded police-speak how twenty-year-old Samantha Abberley had been abducted nine days previously. Anybody who had seen or heard anything suspicious in the neighbourhood of her home on Tuesday 1st September was urged to contact Thames Valley CID. A photograph of the missing girl was displayed, looking wholly unlike Derek's single memory of her. Then, with Chief Inspector Golding visible in the background, Ursula Abberley made a personal plea for her daughter's release.

Her performance-particularly in response to questions-was not what Derek was used to when viewing such events. There was none of the customary tearfulness, no hint of hand-wringing despair.

Instead, she spoke calmly and rationally, more like a mediator than a mother. All the words were in place- "I would not wish this on my worst enemy"; "Sam's safety is my only concern"; "I appeal to the public to help in any way they can"; "I beg those who are holding her to let her go" -but the heart seemed strangely absent.

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Something else was also absent. Derek waited for Superintendent Miller to mention Tristram Abberley's letters but he never did. What the kidnappers wanted was not specified. What the police expected them to do was not hinted at. And by the end Derek was more confused than ever.

Charlotte and Ursula watched the broadcast together at Swans'

Meadow, Ursula nursing a gin and tonic as she did so. When it was over, she walked across to the television, switched it off, turned to look at Charlotte and said: "They made me sound like an unfeeling b.i.t.c.h."

"n.o.body will have thought that."

"Oh, yes they will. You're expected to behave as if you're in a soap opera these days. Floods of tears. Torrents of emotion. Self-control counts against you."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have taken part."

"How could I have refused? Imagine the capital Miller and Golding would have made out of it if I had."

"They're trying to help, Ursula."

"Are they? I don't think so. I think they're trying to do exactly the opposite."

"Oh, come on." Charlotte summoned a smile. "It's their duty to find Sam-and to protect her."

"No it isn't. It's their duty to find somebody they can convict of Maurice's murder."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"They don't think it is. Come into the garden with me."

"Why?"

"Come outside and I'll explain."

With a shrug of her shoulders, Charlotte rose and accompanied Ursula out through the kitchen and into the garden, where a calm and picturesque evening was spreading long shadows and rectangles of gold across the lawn.

"See the man feeding the ducks on the other side of the river?"

Ursula pointed towards the Cookham bank, where an unremarkable middle-aged man in a brown anorak was tossing crumbs to a quacking and splas.h.i.+ng circle of waterfowl. "Recognize him?"

"No."

"He's a policeman."

"How can you possibly know?"

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"Because I never saw him before Monday and I haven't stopped seeing him since. Him and a couple of others out of the same mould.

They're not looking for Sam, Charlie. They're looking for Maurice's murderers. And they think they've found them. Here. In this house."

"That's ridiculous."

"Yes. But they don't realize it is. And there's nothing we can do to make them. So, while they watch us watching them . . ." Her voice trailed into silence. Her chin drooped. The tears she should have shed movingly on television but had not were there now, clear to see, br.i.m.m.i.n.g in her eyes, absurdly beautiful in the slanting sunlight. "While they play their b.l.o.o.d.y silly games and force us to do the same . . ." She swallowed hard and looked straight at Charlotte. "Sam's chances of coming out of this alive diminish all the time." Then she raised her head and shouted loud enough to make the man on the other side of the river glance towards them, "With every day they waste," before adding in a murmur: "The thread Sam's life hangs by grows thinner and thinner."

CHAPTER.

TWELVE.

On Friday, Charlotte went home. She justified her departure on the grounds that, with arrangements for Maurice's funeral on Monday now in place, there was nothing to detain her at Swans' Meadow. Ursula did not attempt to persuade her to stay, for which she was grateful. If pressed, she might have revealed just how eager she was to be gone. Although she had expressed doubts about Ursula's interpretation of the police's conduct, it had rung truer to her than she had cared to admit. What worried her most of all was that she might be held in equal suspicion. By returning to Ockham House, she could distance herself from events and reclaim a rea.s.suring degree of privacy.

She could not escape altogether, of course, as a clutch of telephone calls swiftly demonstrated. Several acquaintances and former workmates had seen the television broadcast and wanted to offer their 264 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

sympathy and advice, which was generally as well-intentioned as it was useless. Uncle Jack called to complain of being kept in the dark just when his expertise in such matters-of which Charlotte was unaware-might be most valuable. And Lulu Harrington rang to express her dismay at what had occurred, enabling Charlotte to confirm something Ursula had already deduced.

"The person in New York you sent a letter to on Beatrix's behalf-could her name have been van Ryneveld rather than van Ryan?"

"Why, yes, it certainly could have been. What makes you think so?"

"She's been in touch. But Madame V from Paris hasn't. I don't suppose you've remembered her name?"

"I fear not. I've racked my brains, but at my age there are precious few left to rack. I still can't call more than the initial letter to mind."

"You'll let me know if you do?"

"Most certainly."

After Lulu had rung off, Charlotte thought about the four letters Beatrix had left with her and reflected that the contents of two were still a complete mystery. Maurice must have known what was in the one to his mistress. At least, he must have known what she said was in it. But she was presumably as capable of lying as Ursula. Yet the tone of her telephone call to Swans' Meadow had implied she knew nothing of Samantha's abduction-or of what her kidnappers had demanded in return for her release. If so- The jangle of the telephone, by which Charlotte was still standing, fractured her thoughts. She grabbed at it in irritable haste.

"Yes?"

"Er . . . Miss Ladram?"

"Yes."

"This is Derek Fairfax." Guilt washed over Charlotte at his words.

She had given his name to Golding on Tuesday but had made no effort to contact him since to explain the situation. "I've been ringing you for days. The police have been to see me."

"Yes. They would have been. I'm sorry. That was my fault."

"Since then I've seen the broadcast about your niece. Nothing was said about ransom on the television, but the officer who interviewed me, Chief Inspector Golding, said Tristram Abberley's letters were demanded. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"But I don't understand. Who . . . Who could possibly-"

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"None of us understands, Mr Fairfax. If only we did."

"And Frank Griffith has denied the letters ever existed?"

"Yes. But we can't discuss this now." Yet Charlotte did feel the need to discuss it. And she suddenly realized that Derek Fairfax was one of the few people who would view matters in the same light as her. "Perhaps we could meet."

"Certainly. I'd like to."

"Can you come to lunch tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"All right, then. Let's say midday, shall we?"

"Fine, I'll see you then."

"Yes. Goodbye, Mr Fairfax."

Charlotte put the receiver down and pondered the mystery of why she had issued such an invitation. It would be folly to raise his hopes just when the loss of the letters had effectively dashed them.

Yet she badly needed an ally, a friend who would listen and advise.

Why look for one in Derek Fairfax? Because, she supposed, there was nowhere else to look. He was her last resort now as well as his brother's.

She wandered into the kitchen and began a.s.sembling a shopping list. Cooking lunch for a guest might at least take her mind off the intractable problem of Samantha for a while. When the telephone rang yet again, she was inclined not to answer it. But, when it showed no sign of stopping, she relented.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Miss Ladram?"

"Yes." The caller's voice was familiar to her, clipped and formal with the hint of an accent. She realized who it was a fraction of a second before he spoke again.

"I represent those who are holding your niece, Miss Ladram."

"What?"

"You heard. And I rather think you understood. Police surveil-lance has prevented us contacting your sister-in-law. We have therefore turned to you."

"Who do you represent?"

"It is better you should not know."

"Why did you kill Maurice?"

"Because he did not deliver all the papers. And because he had the effrontery to offer money instead."

"He gave you everything he had."