Hand in Glove (44 page)

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“Why not?” She turned to look at him. “I’ve been thinking about Sam in the same way as Maurice and Beatrix recently. No longer here.

Nor ever likely to return.”

“But Sam isn’t dead.”

“Not yet. That’s what makes it worse. I can’t help it, Derek. If nothing can be done to save her, I almost wish she was already dead.”

Her chin drooped. “There, I’ve said it. I’ve said what I should never even have thought.”

“It’s understandable.”

“No. It isn’t. Nothing has been since . . .” She swung round, confronting the patch of chalk and turf where the Mercedes had been.

“Since Maurice heard them coming for him that night.”

“I’m sorry, Charlotte.” Tentatively, Derek touched her elbow.

“Really, I’m so very sorry.”

She pulled away. “It’s September the twenty-first today,” she declared. “Three weeks from now, it will be all over. Maurice’s folly will have run its course.” Her tone altered as she glanced at Derek. “I’d like to walk to the top. It’s only a little way up the track. Will you wait for me in the car?”

She did not want his company. She had no use for it. That was clear. He murmured his agreement and watched her walk across to the bridlepath and start up it towards the dome-shaped summit. Did it end here? he wondered. Was this a more than merely temporary parting of the ways? The wind was tugging at her hair, the setting sun turning it to false and fleeting gold. His brother was to be given a second chance. But for her brother there could be no reprieve. On this hilltop, she walked in his shadow. And in the shadow of events yet to be. Which Derek could neither alter nor prevent.

P A R T

4

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ONE

Every morning was the same. Samantha woke and for a split second imagined she was still at home, still free to stretch and rise and walk and wash, still at liberty to heed her instincts and indulge her whims. Then reality closed its cold hand around her and she remembered her captivity as one seamless procession of days that had begun just like this.

The air was chill. She could see her own breath as she exhaled.

Each day the sun rose later and weaker and with it her strength too seemed to ebb. Along with hope in a future not bound by the rough blankets rubbing at her chin, the cobwebbed ceiling above her head, the tiny window, the table in the corner, the hard wooden chair, the threadbare rug, the wax-choked candlestick, the bucket, the crucifix, the chain trailing from the bed-post to her wrist beneath the covers. As she stirred, so its heavy links sounded their familiar reminder.

What was the date? Wednesday the thirtieth of September or Thursday the first of October? She had felt so confident at the outset in her ability to keep track of time, but now it was beginning to desert her. She could ask Felipe, but he would probably only shrug and pretend he did not know. As for Miguel, he would treat her to a long stare with those soulful eyes and mutter something she did not understand.

Not that it really mattered. Whatever the precise date, she knew she had been here for the best part of a month, confined in this tum-bledown shepherd’s dwelling among the mountains. Which mountains was another question, but they were not so very far from the coast, to judge by how long it had taken to drive here from whatever 316

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port they had arrived in. Northern Spain, then, which the steadily falling temperature tended to confirm. Spain for certain. That much Miguel had volunteered to her at an early stage.

“You are in España, señorita.”

“Where? Where in Spain?”

“You will stay here—with us—until we have what we want.”

“What is it you want?”

He had not replied, then or later. Was it money? If so, surely her father would have paid long since. Or her mother would have forced him to. Either way, ransom would have been no problem. Yet a problem there undoubtedly was. For the first few days, they had been calm and relaxed. Then something changed. A man she had never seen before or since came at night. He was thin and softly spoken and smoked an expensive cigar. He had asked how she was. He had smiled. He had been a model of courtesy. Yet he had argued with Miguel. In Spanish, of course. She had not understood a word. Except her own name.

Abberley
. Repeated over and over again.

“What did he say?”

“He said you will stay here.”

“How long?”

No answer. No answer to that or any other question. She stayed and they waited. Every day the same. Or almost. Occasionally a third man, José, would take Felipe’s place for forty-eight hours. But Felipe would always return. She became more anxious than usual in his absence. José stared at her with greedy eyes and touched her and muttered suggestions of which no translation was necessary. Miguel often went away for hours on end, but never when José was there. Perhaps he too felt anxious about what might happen if he did.

After the coming of the man in the night, Miguel had grown glum and thoughtful. He too stared at her a lot, but in pity, it seemed, not lust. As for Felipe, perhaps his ignorance was not feigned. They played chess and draughts and she helped him improve his English.

He was cheerful and good-natured. But even he was being worn down by the uneventful march of days.

“What do you mean to do with me?”

“Do not worry. It will be OK.”

“Has my father paid the ransom?”

“I know nothing about ransom. I know nothing about anything.”

“Why won’t you let me go?”

“We play chess again , yes?”

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“I don’t want to play bloody chess!”

“But you will, yes? Just for me.”

She raised her hands behind her, grasped the brass rails of the bed-head, and squeezed them tightly, wondering how long it would be before Felipe came in with her breakfast. He and Miguel were up.

She could hear them yawning and coughing as they moved around.

How she hated the weary familiarity of those sounds. If only she had realized in time what was happening. Her only chance to escape had been at the beginning, when Miguel had loomed above her as she lay in the garden. She could have screamed or run. He had a gun, of course, but now she thought he would not have used it. Maybe not, at all events. She could have refused to write that note to her parents or walk obediently to the car and climb into the boot. She could have . . .

But she had been so frightened, so shocked, so bewildered by the sudden invasion of her life. And she had wanted so badly to stay alive.

Fear had been at its pitch during the first few hours and days. It was the fear of death and all the ways in which it might arrive: shooting, strangulation, suffocation. At night, she still dreamt of the endless drugged hours she had spent jolting and rolling in the darkness of the car-boot, the hours of motion on land and sea of which she had only been dimly aware. All they had led to was the squalor and isolation of this room they kept her in, and the one beyond, and the yard outside they sometimes let her walk in, and the empty hillside, and the whitewashed wall of the barn against which she had stood to be photographed, clutching the
International Herald Tribune
for 4 September.

Even 4 September seemed an age ago now, part of a deluded past when she had believed her abduction was a simple crime committed for gain, when she had thought her release was imminent, her restoration to the pampered life she had led merely a matter of time and money. She knew better now. Or worse.

“When are you going to let me go, Miguel?”

“When we are told to.”

“Have you spoken to my father?”

“You ask too many questions,
señorita
.”

“He’d pay you well to release me.”

“It is too late for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . We wait as long as we have to.”

“But
how
long?”

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Always the same circular conversation, leading, through every variation, back to where she had started and seemed likely to remain.

She sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blew irritably at a hanging strand of her hair. It was filthy, she knew, and quite possibly lousy. As were her clothes. As was her whole body. When she thought of the baths she had wallowed in at home, the scented soaps and thick towels, the perfumes and the lotions, she wanted to cry. At least here there was no mirror to show her what she looked like.

Though the lack of one gave her little comfort as she glanced at her arms and noticed the fresh red flea-bites of the night. Why was she still here? Why had her father not yet bought or won her freedom?

“What are you waiting for?” she murmured, imagining his face set in a stubborn frown. “Get me out of this. Please. For God’s sake. I don’t think I can stand much more. What are you waiting for, Dad?

What is it?”

Abruptly, the door opened and Felipe advanced into the room, carrying a tray. He smiled at her and said,
“Buenos días, señorita,”
as blithely as if he were bringing breakfast to her room in a Costa del Sol hotel. He set the tray down on the table and she identified the predictable ingredients: coffee in a bowl and a hunk of bread smeared with honey.

“Is there any news, Felipe?”

“Bilbao won last night.”

“What?”

“El fútbol.”
He grinned.

“About me!”

“Ah!” He scratched his stubbly chin. “
Lo siento
. There is no news about you.”

“How much longer is it going to be?”

“I do not know.”

“You must have some idea.” Ignoring her, he turned away.

“What’s the date today, Felipe? The thirtieth of September or the first of October?” He looked at her and shrugged. “Why won’t you tell me?

It’s not much to ask.”

“
La fecha?
I do not know.”

“It’s one or the other, isn’t it? Which?” There was a hint of weakness in his expression. She decided to persist. “Please, Felipe. Just the date.”

He moved to the bedside and leant over her. She caught a gust of

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cigarettes and stale garlic on his breath. “You will say nothing to Miguel?” he whispered.

“Nothing. You have my word.”

He deliberated a moment longer, then said:
“Es el primero de
octubre.”

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TWO

I’m afraid Chief Inspector Golding’s out, Miss Ladram,” came D.C. Finch’s voice down the telephone. “Can I help?”

“I’m simply calling to see if there have been any developments.”

“None, I’m afraid. Hasn’t Mrs Abberley been keeping you up to date?”

“I haven’t liked to trouble her.”

“Ah. I see. Well, there’s been no response so far to the appeal in the French press for Madame V to come forward. And nothing’s come to light in Spain either. So . . .”

“We’re none the wiser.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Urgent enquiries are continuing. No effort’s being spared.”

“I’m sure. But it’s a month today since my niece was kidnapped, isn’t it?”

“Er . . . Yes. Yes, it is.”

“And still nothing.”

“Would you like Chief Inspector Golding to call you when he returns?”

“No, thank you. I have to go out myself. I’ll ’phone him. Later.”

They were doing their best, Charlotte knew. But their best was pitifully inadequate. As soon as she had put the telephone down, she headed for the door. A journey to Rye lay ahead of her. She had not visited Jackdaw Cottage since putting it on the market two months ago. But the estate agent had now found a buyer, one who was eager to 320

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move in as soon as possible. The emptying of the house could therefore no longer be postponed and Charlotte had decided to put matters in hand without further ado. Part of her was glad to have a practical task to address. It was a distraction her mind badly needed.

At Lewes Prison, Colin Fairfax was grinning broadly at his brother across a bare table in the visiting room, which was otherwise deserted.

“Word’s got round,” he announced. “I can do virtually whatever I like here now. They know I’m not staying long.”

“According to Dredge,” Derek replied, “things certainly look promising.”

“Promising? I should say so. Spicer’s been arrested, hasn’t he? It’s only a matter of time now before they find some forensic evidence linking him to the scene of the crime.”

“Is that what Dredge told you?”

“They know he did it, Derek. Where did he get the money to set himself up with a yacht in Burnham-on-bloody-Crouch if it wasn’t a pay-off from Maurice Abberley for services rendered?”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

“No. But I do have to thank you. Dredge tried to hog the credit, but it’s clear to me where it really belongs. With you. You’ve done more to help me than I ever deserved. And to think I doubted your commitment! You’ve come up trumps, Derek. I’d be proud of you if I weren’t so grateful.”

“There’s no need to thank me.”

“But there is. It’s why I was so glad you could come today.”

“I was on my way to an auditing job in Newhaven. It was no problem to stop off.”

“Tough job, is it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then why are you looking so glum? To judge by your face, you’d have thought I’d just been sentenced to hang, not thrown a lifeline.”

“Because . . . Well, it was Charlotte Ladram who supplied the tape recording and the private detective’s report. Without them, the police would never have started looking for Spicer.”

“And it’s good to know one member of that family has a conscience. But so what?”

“
So what
?” Derek bridled. “She’s lost her brother as well as her