Hand in Glove (33 page)

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mind the full extent of what she believed he had done. It was absurd, but still she could not quite suppress the sisterly instinct to help him.

“Yes, Maurice. I’ll stay.”

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FOUR

It seemed to Charlotte as if she did not sleep at all that night, though her subsequent recollections of dreaming about telephones and disembodied voices suggested otherwise. At all events, she was awake with the first streaky light of dawn. And the faint sound of movement from below told her she was not the only one.

By the time she reached the hall, it was clear the sound was coming from the study. As she moved in that direction, she glanced into the kitchen and caught sight of the clock. It was a quarter to six and seemed even earlier because it was Sunday. The world held its breath.

Maurice was sitting sideways behind his desk, feet up on the radi-ator beneath the window, one hand flexing his lower lip while the other trailed across the blotter. He was fully dressed, his shirt creased enough to imply he had not been to bed at all. In front of him on the desk lay what looked improbably like a holiday brochure.

“Maurice?”

He started and swung round, blanched visibly, then recovered himself. “It’s you, Charlie,” he said, passing a hand across his forehead.

“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

“No. That is . . . The dressing-gown made me think . . . just for a moment . . .”

“Ursula lent it to me.”

“It’s an old one of Sam’s.”

“Oh, God. I am sorry. If I’d known—”

“Never mind. Trouble sleeping?”

“Yes. You too?”

“I haven’t tried. I’ve been thinking.”

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“About the kidnappers?”

“You heard the tapes. Do you think the man who rang is Spanish?

The fellow I met at Heathrow never spoke. He just handed me the photograph of Sam, then took the letters and walked away. He was young. Mid-twenties, I should say. And tough. Dark-haired, with sal-low skin.”

“Perhaps they are Spaniards, then. Foreign, certainly.”

“But Spain’s the point, isn’t it? Something’s snaked its way out of their Civil War—from fifty years ago—to wrap itself round our throats.”

“Surely not.”

“I picked this up from a travel agent in Marlow yesterday afternoon.” He held up the brochure. “It lists car ferry sailings from Plymouth to Santander, on the north coast of Spain—the only direct link. There are two a week, on Mondays and Wednesdays. The crossing takes twenty-four hours.”

“What of it?”

“I’ve been working it out, Charlie. Why did they wait two days before making contact? Sam vanished on Tuesday. They didn’t phone until Thursday afternoon. Well, suppose they took her to Spain.

Drove her there, I mean, trussed up in the boot of a car. Either aboard the ferry from Plymouth to Santander or across the Channel and down through France. They’d have had to wait until she was in Spain before showing their hand. That would explain why they used the
International Herald Tribune
in the photograph. A Spanish paper would have given the game away and an English one would have been out of date. It would also explain the delay in releasing her after handing over the letters.”

“Wouldn’t the car have been searched?”

“Mine never has been at a Channel port. And I don’t suppose they’re very strict at the Franco-Spanish border.”

“Then yes, I suppose it is possible. But—”

“And another thing. Have you ever heard Uncle Jack refer to a Spaniard calling at Jackdaw Cottage while we were staying there in the summer of 1939?”

Charlotte had. Indeed, Jack’s account had floated into and out of her mind several times in the course of the night.
“Not exactly the
Spaniard who blighted my life, but he looked like he’d blighted a good
few others.”
There was no reason to connect this distant visitation with what had now occurred, yet Charlotte could not suppress the

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suspicion that such a connection existed. And evidently Maurice felt the same. “Uncle Jack told me about him only recently,” she said.

“Surely you don’t—”

“He’d known Tristram. And he had business with Mother and Beatrix. What business, eh? Who was he? What did he want?”

“We’ll never know, Maurice. It’s nearly fifty years ago. He’s probably dead by now.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” His eyes drifted out of focus. “In the letter, Tristram said ‘I’m sending you a document I’ve been keeping for a friend.’ Did he mean he was enclosing it? Or sending it separately? Or intending to send it later?”

“We’ll never know that either.”

“But what if it’s the document they’re after, Charlie? Not the letters at all.”

“Then they’d have said so, surely?”

Maurice looked directly at her. “If there
is
a connection, I’m dealing with—” Then he broke off and his gaze slipped down to the car ferry brochure. Across its glossy cover, his right hand was stretched wide, the fingers straining towards some unattainable circumference.

“Never mind,” he murmured. “I’ve no choice but to go through with it. Speculation’s pointless.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee? I thought I’d make some.”

“Yes.” Maurice sighed. “Let’s drink some coffee and wait in the time-honoured fashion.”

Charlotte was glad of the excuse to leave him and busy herself in the kitchen. Samantha’s abduction in itself had left her curiously un-moved and she could not understand why. Perhaps if she had been seized by orthodox kidnappers, demanding millions of pounds in ransom, it would have been different. Or perhaps, as Charlotte was reluctant to admit to herself, some part of her secretly approved of this blow at the heart of Maurice’s greed and Ursula’s complacency.

Besides, too much had been laid bare in the wake of Samantha’s disappearance to be forgotten however soon she reappeared. For six weeks, Charlotte had sustained the pretence that her suspicions about Maurice could somehow be stifled. But he had himself confirmed them now, too blatantly for her to ignore them any longer. When and if Samantha was restored to her father, he would have to face another kind of reckoning. Whether he realized that Charlotte did not know.

But she knew. And the knowledge drained her of desire for an end to their ordeal. For it would merely herald the beginning of another.

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“Remember the last time we waited together like this, Charlie?”

The sizzling of the water in the kettle had masked the sound of Maurice’s footsteps and Charlotte’s heart lurched at the realization that he was standing next to her, so close she could imagine he had read her thoughts.

“The . . . The last time?”

“When Mother was dying, I mean.”

“Oh . . . Of course. Yes.” It was less than a year ago, though it seemed far longer, that they had kept each other company at Ockham House during the long bleak hours it had taken Mary Ladram to die.

He was the Maurice Charlotte had always known then, the Maurice she had loved as a brother and trusted as a friend. And he still was.

The only difference was that she understood him now. But to understand Maurice Abberley was also to fear and to loathe him. For the moment, Charlotte could do neither. But already she sensed that in the end she would. “A lot’s happened since then,” she ventured.

“Hasn’t it?”

“Do you really think so?”

The kettle began to boil. She stretched across to switch it off, grateful for the distraction. “I’m not sure what I think,” she said. She spooned coffee into their cups and reached out for the kettle. “I just—” But Maurice was there before her. She jumped back in surprise as she felt his fingers beneath hers, twined around the handle.

“Sorry.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “This uncertainty is hard on the nerves, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.”

“But it won’t last much longer. After Sam’s been released, life will revert to normal.”

“Will it?”

“Oh, yes.” He filled the cups, then returned the kettle to the hob.

“I’ll make sure of that.”

“How?”

“The same way I always have.” He looked straight into her eyes, insisting by the force of his gaze that he could somehow persuade her to forget everything she had learned about him since Beatrix’s death.

“Trust me, Charlie. That’s all you have to do.”

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FIVE

B
ourne End 88285.”

“Mr Abberley?”

“Speaking.”

“Good afternoon

, Mr Abberley. I represent those who are
holding—”

“I know who you are, dammit.”

“Good. Then you will also know how stupid it was of you to attempt
to deceive us.”

“I never—”
Maurice broke off, then resumed in a calmer tone.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. And I won’t again.”

“No. You will not. Because this time we will take measures to protect
ourselves against your duplicity.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is what you will do. Refer to Ordnance Survey Landranger
Map 174. Drive to the parking area and viewpoint shown on the western
side of Walbury Hill, grid reference 370 east, 620 north. Arrive at midnight tonight. Come alone. And bring everything else you stole from
Frank Griffith.”

“There’s a problem. I—”

“The only problem is that we will kill your daughter if you do not
do exactly as you are told.”

“And I will. It’s just—”

“Do you understand your instructions?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then there is no more to be said. Good afternoon , Mr Abberley.”

The tape clicked off and Charlotte looked across at Maurice, who had the relevant map spread open on his lap. Ursula was standing behind his chair. “Have you found it?” she asked.

“Yes. A few miles south-west of Newbury. About thirty miles from here.”

“When will you leave?”

“It’s less than a hour’s drive. But let’s say ten-thirty to be on the safe side.”

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“Let’s say ten o’clock. I don’t want there to be any question of you being late. And check the car this afternoon. Tyres, petrol, oil, everything. This has to go without a hitch.”

“It will. Don’t worry.”

“It’s not too late to inform the police,” put in Charlotte, pausing to study the other two’s reactions and finding them to be exactly what she had expected. Ursula wanted her daughter free at any price and did not mind what risks Maurice had to run to bring that about.

While Maurice had his own reasons for resisting police involvement in the affair. “I’m not saying you
should
inform them. I’m just—”

“Sam’s my daughter, not yours,” snapped Ursula. “I’ve no intention of allowing PC Plod to wreck our chances of getting her back.

All they want is this bloody letter and we’re going to give it to them.

Is that clearly understood?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Good.”

With a parting glare, Ursula stalked from the room, leaving Maurice to fold the map shut and smile across at Charlotte. “ ‘
My
daughter.’ Did you notice that, Charlie? Not
ours
.”

“She’s upset.”

“Aren’t we all? But I’m the one who’ll be waiting at Walbury Hill tonight, with nothing but my father’s last letter to his sister to buy Sam’s freedom with.”

“Which is why I mentioned the police. You said yourself the kidnappers might—”

“No! I have to handle this alone. There’s no other way. Holding the letter back was a mistake. Now I have to make amends.”

“But, Maurice—”

“Don’t say any more, Charlie.” He held up his hand to silence her.

“Not till Sam’s back with us, safe and sound. Then you can say whatever you like.”

The afternoon and evening seemed to pass with agonizing slowness, yet, when the time came for Maurice’s departure, it felt to Charlotte as if it had crept up and taken them by surprise. Little more had been said since the telephone call. They had each kept their own counsel.

What Ursula and Maurice were really thinking Charlotte could not tell. For her own part, she was filled with neither hope nor dread, rather a fatalistic inability to foresee the future. What would be would

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be. Samantha might be back home by the early hours of Monday morning. Or they might hear she had walked into a police station somewhere later in the day. Or she might call them from a telephone box on a lonely road. Or—

She watched from the unlit half-landing window as Maurice climbed into the Mercedes, its rear lights blurred and twin exhausts clouding in the misty air. The night was overcast and moonless. Up on the downs it would be dark as a velvet bag. She saw him take the envelope from his pocket and show Ursula the letter inside. There was no farewell kiss, merely a nod of mutual understanding. Though she knew he did not deserve it, Charlotte could not suppress a stab of sympathy for him. It seemed to her that, despite all he had done, Ursula might have spared him a word or gesture of encouragement.

But she did not. As he started the car and moved away, she turned and walked back into the house. Charlotte heard the front door close and realized she alone was watching as the white halo of the headlamps traced his progress along the drive. The brake lights flared suddenly red as he reached the end. Then he turned into Riversdale and vanished beyond the trees.

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SIX

They had not expected him back before one o’clock. It was not until two o’clock therefore that they became anxious enough to call him on his car telephone—only to find it had been switched off. By three both felt certain something was wrong and a nervous debate began about what they should do. Charlotte suggested contacting the police, but Ursula would not hear of it. Her own preference was for retracing Maurice’s route at first light in case he had suffered a breakdown or been involved in an accident. Reluctantly, Charlotte agreed, even though she was sure he would already have been in touch with them in such an event. Whether Ursula shared her growing sense of foreboding she did not know. Nor did she care to ask.

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