Hand in Glove (32 page)

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 assemble 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 bloody 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-shirt and jeans, holding up a copy of the
International Herald Tribune
so the date on the front page was clearly visible: Friday 4

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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. God 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 cassette 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.”

“It is stupid, not impossible. Very very stupid. He has broken his
word.”

“No. He can’t have done.”

“But he has. Ask him and judge for yourself. Tell him also that we
do not react well to such behaviour.”

“What . . . What do you mean?”

“We shall telephone again twenty-four hours from now with instructions for the delivery of the remaining papers. If there is any further trickery, your daughter will be killed. Do you understand?”

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“For God’s sake—”

“For your daughter’s sake, Mrs Abberley, make sure your husband
does as he is told this time. It is your last chance. No more tricks. Good
afternoon.”

There was a click, then silence. Charlotte looked up at Ursula, seeking reassurance. “Is it true? Did he hold some back?”

“What do you think, Charlie? You’ve known him longer than me.”

“He wouldn’t. Not when Sam—”

“That was my reaction. As I put the ’phone down, I said to myself: Maurice couldn’t have done this. Not to Sam. Not to me. He just couldn’t. Nobody could. Not with their daughter’s life at stake. But I had to be sure, didn’t I? You do see that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte cautiously.

“Then come with me.”

Ursula led the way into the hall and marched up the stairs, with Charlotte following. They went straight into the master bedroom, where a leather briefcase stood open on the floor. Around it were scattered papers, pens and folders.

“That’s the case Maurice took with him to New York,” said Ursula. “I searched it, just to be sure.”

“What did you find?”

“Look in the inside zip pocket.”

Charlotte knelt beside the case. Along one side of the interior ran a zip-fastened pocket. She opened it, slipped her hand inside and pulled out an old frayed envelope. It was addressed, in a faltering hand, to
Miss Beatrix Abberley, Jackdaw Cottage, Watchbell Street,
Rye, East Sussex, Inglaterra
. And the barely legible postmark removed the last shred of doubt about who had sent it.
Tarragona,
República Española, 17 Mar 38
.

“It’s the last letter Tristram sent to Beatrix,” said Ursula.

“Maurice must have hoped the kidnappers would think the sequence had ended one earlier. That way he could have his cake and eat it too.

Sam free. And one letter still left to prove Beatrix wrote the poems.

The bloody fool!”

“How could they know there was another?”

“How could they know any of it? But they do. Every single thing.

Every move we make. It’s useless to try and deceive them. But Maurice had to, didn’t he? He just couldn’t help himself.”

“I’m sorry, Ursula. I really am.”

“Don’t be. It’s Maurice who should apologize. To all of us. And I

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mean to make sure he does. But first he’s going to have to stop lying.

Once and for all.”

“May I read the letter?”

“Be my guest. Be Maurice’s. After all, it’s only thanks to him you have the chance.”

C

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TWO

Tarragona,

15 (or 16) March ’38

Sis,

I’m too weak to write much, so this has to be brief. I’ve been going downhill for several days now. Blood poisoning seems the problem. Not surprising, really. The Spaniards are stronger on honour than hygiene. Where there’s life, etc., so don’t despair yet, unless— Well, you know. What I want to say is this. I’m sending you a document I’ve been keeping for a friend. I promised him I’d pass it on to his relatives if I could find them, anyway keep it safe in case he managed to get out too. He thought I’d soon be on my way back to England, you see. So did I. Now I’m not so sure. And I must do my best to keep my word while I still have the strength. From what I hear, he’s probably already dead. Maybe you can find out. I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sending you my translation of the document as well. So decide what’s best when you’ve read it. I know I can trust you to do that. I always could. The poems were your only real misjudgement, I reckon. We should never have let the world think I wrote them. Not when every word was yours. You should have had the credit. Maybe you will now. Claim it with my blessing, Sis. It all seems pointless now.

Such a foolish conceit, in both senses, eh? If this is my last word on the subject, I’m sorry it has to be so close to bathos, 230

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but that’s how I feel. Maybe hubris is nearer the mark. I don’t know. And I’m too tired to write any more.

All my love,

Tristram.

C

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THREE

F
or your daughter’s sake, Mrs Abberley, make sure your husband
does as he is told this time. It is your last chance. No more tricks.

Good afternoon.”

As the recording ended, Maurice rose, walked slowly across to the hi-fi and switched it off. Charlotte saw him glance out through the window and clench his teeth before turning back to face Ursula. He had bought some time for himself by refusing to answer any questions till he had heard the tape. But now time had run out.

“There’s no way they could have known there was another letter.”

The denial was as stubborn as it was futile. “If I’d thought there was—”

“You think too much, Maurice, that’s your trouble!” Ursula’s interruption was almost a scream. “You can’t stop twisting and scheming and now Sam’s life is in danger because of it.”

“No, no. It won’t come to that.”

“It already has! Do you think these people are playing a bloody parlour game?”

“Of course not. But I couldn’t let them have the last letter. You must see—”

“I
see
, all right. I see even our daughter is expendable to you when it comes to safeguarding those bloody royalties.”

“It’s nothing to do with the royalties.” Maurice looked hurt at the very suggestion and suddenly Charlotte felt she was seeing beyond what had once been opaque but was now transparent into the cogs and coils of her brother’s mind. She realized that the mechanics of his deceitful nature would function whatever he truly felt, that the conveyor-belt of lies would continue to be fed even when the demand

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for them had ceased to exist. “I was just playing safe,” he protested.

“The letter mentions a document Tristram was sending to Beatrix, a document I don’t have. I was afraid the kidnappers would think I was holding it back. So, it seemed wiser—”

“Bullshit!” shouted Ursula. “I know why you kept that letter and you know I know.”

“Well, if you’re not going to listen to reason . . .”

“You listen, Maurice!” Ursula strode to within a foot of her husband and stared straight at him. Charlotte could see her hand shaking where it held the cigarette, this time with rage rather than fear. “I don’t care who these people are or why they want the letters, but when they phone tomorrow you’re going to agree to whatever they demand. Is that clearly understood?”

“What else would I do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine. But then I can’t imagine why you took such a risk with Sam’s life in the first place.”

“I’ve just explained.”

“Let me explain something! If, thanks to you, my daughter comes to any harm, I’ll make sure the world knows every detail of how and why she came to be in danger.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? I’ve closed my eyes to your activities long enough. Well, they’re open now. And what they see I’ll tell, unless Sam’s back here soon, safe and sound.” With that, Ursula turned on her heel and marched out of the room, throwing the parting remark, “I need some air!” behind her as she went.

Maurice stared after her for a moment. Then, when the back door slammed, he looked down at Charlotte. There was a fleeting nakedness to the silence hanging between them, an admission of all her worst suspicions and beliefs, a hint that Maurice might now be prepared to confess. Then he drew back. “I’m afraid Ursula’s rather upset,” he said, attempting a smile. “It’s understandable, of course, but it means she’s not being very rational.”

“You can hardly expect her to be.”

“Exactly. Which means I have to be rational on her behalf. I can’t afford to give way to my emotions. You do see that, don’t you?”

“I . . . suppose so. But—”

“Who are they, Charlie? That’s what I have to ask myself. Who are they and what do they want?”

“They want the letters. All of them.”

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“But why? If I understood their motive, I could try to . . . to negotiate . . . to reach some kind of . . . compromise.”

“Why not just give them what they want?”

“Because I’m not sure what that is.” He grabbed the letter from the bureau. “Just this scrap of paper in exchange for Sam’s life? It doesn’t make sense.”

He was vulnerable now, Charlotte sensed, more vulnerable than he was ever likely to be again. If there was a time to gain his confidence, this was it. “Why
did
you keep it, Maurice?”

He was tempted, she could see, tempted in his weakness and despair to lay his sins before her, to release the secrets bottled within him. But his nature was stronger than his conscience, his instinct more powerful than his reason. He replaced the letter on the bureau.

“Who knew about them, Charlie?” he said, staring down at it. “Who knew I had them? You, Frank Griffith and Emerson McKitrick. Plus Fairfax, of course. But he hasn’t the nerve for this kind of thing. Nor has McKitrick. Besides, neither of them could have known how many there were.”

“You’re not suggesting Frank Griffith kidnapped Sam?”

“No. I’m not. I’ve had him . . . checked, so to speak. He’s at Hendre Gorfelen—alone.”

“How do you know?”

“Never you mind.” Resilience was the key to Maurice’s existence, Charlotte realized. He could be knocked back on his heels, but never for long. He could be defeated, but never demoralized. “I’m sorry you should have become involved in this, Charlie. It would have been better if you hadn’t.”

“I didn’t choose to be.”

“No. That’s true, of course.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“What Ursula wants. Wait for them to call again. When they do, agree to their terms.”

“And abide by them?”

But Maurice ignored the question. “Until then, I’d be grateful if you stayed here. Ursula would benefit from your company.” It would also mean, as Charlotte knew, that awareness of what was happening would remain under one roof, that her judgement of what should and should not be done could be neutralized along with Ursula’s. “Will you do that for me, Charlie?”

Even now she felt sorry for him, unable to fix at the front of her