Hand in Glove (53 page)

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doing here? What could she possibly want? “Can I come in? I don’t have long and . . . There’s something I have to tell you.”

“All right. Come in.”

Charlotte led the way into the lounge, took her visitor’s coat and offered her a chair. She was wearing a smart black suit and pink blouse, but for all the immaculacy of her appearance there were dark shadows beneath her eyes and a tremor to her hands and voice. An offer of coffee was declined. She sat forward in her chair, slightly hunched, revolving her wedding ring on its finger with the thumb and index finger of her other hand.

“What . . . er . . . is this about, Mrs McKitrick?” Charlotte asked after a momentary silence.

“Your niece.”

“Sam?”

“Yuh. You said . . . her kidnappers had set a deadline.”

“Yes. The eleventh.”

“And today’s the sixth.” She stared at her feet for several seconds, then said: “Emerson doesn’t know I’m here. I’m spending a week with my sister in Germany. Her husband’s stationed with the Air Force there. I flew across this morning. In secret, I suppose you’d say.”

“To see me?”

“Yuh. To see you.”

“About Sam?”

“Listen to me.” She looked up, her face suddenly hard and intent.

“I can’t bear to think your niece may die because I haven’t told you what I know. It may help. It may not. But in case it does . . .”

“I’m listening.”

“OK.” She stopped flexing at her ring and laid her hands flat in her lap. “Emerson lied when you came to see us in South Lincoln.

Leastways, I think he did. You asked him if he’d told anybody about Tristram Abberley’s letters to his sister and he said only me. But I don’t think that’s true. He went to Spain, you see, between leaving England and returning to Boston over the summer.”

“Spain?”

“Yes. He hasn’t admitted it, but I can see something’s eating at his conscience, something to do with your niece, I guess, and whatever he did in Spain.”

“How do you know he was there?”

“His American Express card statement for August showed 378

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payments to Iberia Airlines and to a hotel and a couple of restaurants in some place called Santiago de Compostela.”

The connection was made, the pattern complete. McKitrick was Delgado’s informant. It had to be so. Revenge for Maurice’s deceit of him might have been the motive, but more likely it was simply money. Charlotte felt sorry for Holly, sorry and grateful for her attempt to retrieve what Emerson had done. “What was he doing in Santiago de Compostela, Holly?”

“I can’t be sure. But when he was in Spain researching his book on Tristram Abberley—years ago, before I knew him—he met somebody who offered him a stack of money for any letters or papers Tristram might have left behind concerning his time in the International Brigade.” She smiled bitterly. “He’s probably forgotten telling me about it. He was smashed at the time. But I wasn’t. And after your visit I remembered what he’d said. Besides, he’s just ordered a new car. The latest Pontiac Firebird. And he’s talking about a skiing vacation in Colorado this winter when he’s ordinarily content with weekends in Vermont. I’ve asked where the money’s to come from, but all I can get out of him is that royalty income’s well up. But it isn’t. I’ve checked. So, where
is
it coming from?”

“Somebody who paid him handsomely for identifying my brother as the holder of the letters?”

“That’s how I see it.” Holly bit her lip. “Emerson’s selfish, I know.

God, do I know. But he isn’t malicious. He couldn’t have realized these people—whoever they are—would go to such lengths to get what they want.”

Charlotte could not forget what Emerson had done to her, how he had played on her emotions to feed his academic reputation. Whether Holly would be as charitable if she knew everything her husband had done during his summer in England Charlotte doubted. But she would not be the one to inflict such knowledge upon her. “I suppose not,” she conceded with a consoling smile.

“I only wish I could tell you who Emerson went to see in Spain, but he’s never—”

“There’s no need.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

Holly stared at her in amazement. “So . . . you’ve found out who’s holding your niece?”

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Charlotte nodded. “I’ve suspected for some time. Now, thanks to you, I know for certain.”

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SEVENTEEN

Still smarting from Frank’s use of his name on the letter to Delgado, Derek lay on his bed at the Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos, listening to the drip and splatter of the rain in the courtyard beyond his window. He could not help feeling annoyed that the ploy made so much sense. There was a slim chance Delgado might have heard of Frank, none at all that he might have heard of Derek. Besides, Derek had expounded the case for cool-headed negotiation and the letter had given him the chance to carry it out. What he really resented, of course, was the exposed position it placed him in. He was no longer anonymous, no longer able to claim neutrality whenever it suited him. And he suspected there was more to Frank’s reasoning than he had admitted. Why did he suddenly want Derek to take the leading role? Why was he willing to step aside?

Whatever the answer, it was too late to do anything about it.

An hour ago the telephone had rung and Derek had found himself talking to a cultivated English-speaking Spaniard called Norberto Galazarga, none other, it transpired, than Delgado’s private secretary.

“I am Señor Delgado’s eyes and ears, Mr Fairfax. I act for him in
all matters. I am entirely in his confidence.”

“Good. Now, has he—”

“Señor Delgado has read your letter and has asked me to meet with
you in order to discuss your proposal.”

“I haven’t made a proposal.”

“But you will, will you not?”

“Perhaps. I—”

“Would eleven o’clock tomorrow morning be convenient?”

“Well, yes, I suppose—”

“I will call upon you at your hotel. I look forward to our discussion.”

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“Er . . . Well, so do—”

“Buenos tardes, Mr Fairfax.”

And so the die was cast. One intermediary would meet another under conditions of truce. Delicately and with infinite caution, they would edge towards an understanding. Or so Derek hoped. Though how he would phrase his “proposal” he did not know. To what kind of approach would Delgado—or his syrup-tongued secretary—be most receptive? To what form of logic would they yield?

Such issues might not be so intractable if he knew more about Delgado. His blood-stained past was one thing. But what of his present? What kind of man had fifty years of peace produced? Frank had insisted they return to the bar in Lerezuela after leaving the pazo in search of precisely such information, but the little they had learned from its lugubrious proprietor and the less reticent among his customers had been neither helpful nor encouraging.

Delgado, it seemed, was held more in awe than affection by the locals.
El guante férreo,
he was nicknamed—the iron glove, a twisted reference to his artificial right hand that was also a metaphor for his pitiless nature. Several families had been turned off Vasconcelez land to make way for Delgado’s forestry projects, linked as they were to his wood-pulp business in Vigo. He was believed, indeed, to have a metallic finger in every branch of Galician industry, accumulating thereby a considerable fortune to add to what he had acquired by marriage.

The pazo was said to be fabulously furnished, a fortress for his long retreat from the world. Since his son and grandson had been killed by ETA terrorists, he had grown ever more reclusive, to the extent that now he was seldom seen, though staff at the pazo said he was still in good health. His affections were reserved for his allegedly beautiful eighteen-year-old granddaughter, Yolanda, to whom no extravagance was denied. She was at a finishing school in Switzerland, where all traces of her Galician roots were being expensively eliminated. As for Delgado’s Civil War record, everybody professed an eloquent ignorance. By their reactions, one might have supposed no such war had taken place.

“What I’d expected,”
Frank had said during the drive back to Santiago.
“Money. Power. But not much love. It’s the reward his type
normally reap.”

“If he’s so wealthy, why should he care about the gold?”

“Because he’s greedy. Because he can’t stand to lose what he plotted
long and hard to gain.”

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“But he’s nearly ninety years old, for God’s sake. He’ll be dead before he can spend it.”

“He doesn’t want to spend it. He just wants to have it. I told you—I
know his type.”

This Derek did not doubt. It was one of the thoughts that would not leave his head. Frank knew. But he did not. Frank understood. But he would be the one who met Galazarga tomorrow morning and tried to strike a bargain. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, studying the mobile pattern the rain made against the shutters, as serpentine and shifting as the problems his mind could neither master nor discard. Everything was so simple and straightforward according to Frank, everything was cut and dried before it was done.

“Make it clear to Delgado’s secretary that we have the means to destroy his employer’s good name and won’t hesitate to do so if the girl is
harmed. Then offer him a straight swap under secure conditions: the
statement in exchange for the girl.”

“But what about the map?”

“Tell him the truth. Tell him he can have everything we have—but
that doesn’t include the map.”

“And if he doesn’t believe me?”

“Make him believe you.”

“It’s easy for you to say. Not so easy to do. We may be barking up the
wrong tree, remember. We may be offering Delgado something he
badly wants in return for something he doesn’t have.”

“No. Delgado has the girl. You can bank on it.”

But Derek was not convinced. It might still be a colossal misunderstanding. When all was said and done, there was no proof, no clinching evidence that Delgado was their man. As he stared up at the canopy of the bed, across which some medieval hunting party frolicked in embroidered abandon, the thought assumed a comforting dimension. So long as he could believe in the possibility of Delgado’s innocence, his meeting with Galazarga was not too dreadful a prospect. Any amount of embarrassment was after all preferable to—

The sudden bleeping of the alarm clock cut short his deliberations. It was seven o’clock and time to call Charlotte again. Sitting up, Derek snapped off the alarm, hoisted the telephone into his lap and dialled the number. Charlotte answered at the second ring.

“Derek?”

“Hello, Charlotte.”

“Is everything all right?”

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“Yes. We were turned away from the pazo but I’ve arranged a meeting tomorrow morning with Delgado’s private secretary.”

“You’re getting close, then.”

“Maybe. But don’t forget Delgado may have nothing to do with this.” He paused for Charlotte’s reply, but none came. “Charlotte?”

“I’m still here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly. It’s just . . . I have some news for you. What it amounts to is proof.”

“Of what?”

“Of Delgado’s guilt. There’s no longer any doubt about it, Derek.

He’s the one who’s holding Sam.”

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EIGHTEEN

Norberto Galazarga was a dapper little man encased in a perfectly cut three-piece suit complete with gold watch-chain and shot-silk lining. There was more hair on his upper lip, in the form of a trimmed jet-black moustache, than on the whole of the rest of his head. His broad and ready smile sent creases rippling up his brow and over his bald crown until they disappeared from view.

His eyes sparkled so noticeably Derek suspected he employed special drops to achieve the effect. And he wore enough cologne to seep through even the pungent aroma of the cigar at which he squinted and sniffed and very occasionally puffed. He embodied nearly every quality Derek felt least at ease with: subtlety and inscrutability complicated by foreign blood and a distracting bundle of affectations. He was so obviously Derek’s intellectual superior, so clearly prepared for his every remark, that conversation with him began to resemble a form of self-analysis in which he would periodically intervene with the lofty air of a bored psychiatrist.

“Abduction is such a brutal business, Mr Fairfax. So heedless of the family ties it threatens to sunder. Yet I suppose we could also regard it as a specialized form of commerce. Trade by coercion, so to

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speak. Naturally, it is easy for me to philosophize about such matters, when I have no personal experience of them. For your friends, the . . .

the . . .”

“Abberleys.”

“Quite so. For them, it must be altogether shocking. Too painful for words, I should imagine.” He raised his cup of chocolate as if to drink, then replaced it in the saucer untouched and leant back in his chair, toying with his cigar. “They have my sympathy, my heartfelt sympathy.”

Derek told himself, not for the first time, to relax, to view this tortuous discussion as a necessary preliminary to the desired objective.

Here they sat in the hotel’s plushly furnished lounge, reclining in softly cushioned armchairs beneath a huge gilt-framed portrait of some Hapsburg nobleman, talking their way back and forth in feath-ery undertones over the one subject neither could mention which was also the sole purpose of their meeting.

“I am surprised, I must confess,” Galazarga continued, “that you could find time to visit Spain on such abstruse business when your friends’ problem—their appalling dilemma—is so critically balanced. One might almost think you hoped to assist them by coming here, though how I cannot understand.”

“Perhaps I’ve not made myself sufficiently clear.”

“Perhaps not.” The words were accompanied by his characteristic smile.

“Then let me try again. Your response to my letter suggests Señor Delgado is very interested in obtaining the document I happen to have in my possession, a document written by Vicente Ortiz, a native of Barcelona, during the Civil War, in which he describes in detail certain events which took place in Cartagena in October 1936.”

“You have aroused Señor Delgado’s antiquarian curiosity, certainly.”

“Does he want it—or not?”

“Forgive me, Mr Fairfax, but it is premature to pose such a question. The issue at this stage is what you want in return.”

“Samantha Abberley’s release.”

Galazarga frowned. “Naturally you do. So do I. So, no doubt—if acquainted with the distressing circumstances—would Señor Delgado.

But he is no magician. He cannot wave a wand to grant your every wish. Nobody can.”

“Except the people holding her.”

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