Hand in Glove (57 page)

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“So do—”

“Goodbye, Miss Ladram.”

Charlotte slammed the telephone down, hurried across the dining room, released the lock on the patio doors and slid one panel open.

Her action seemed to confuse Colin, who stepped back uncertainly.

“Mr Fairfax,” Charlotte said as calmly as she could, “I am here with your brother’s knowledge and consent, so there is no need to create a disturbance.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“My name is Charlotte Ladram.”

“Bloody hell! You’re Maurice Abberley’s sister.”

“Yes. And I greatly regret the injustice you’ve suffered on his ac -

count, but—”

“Was it
you
Dredge spoke to on the blower? I thought it must be some . . . Where
is
Derek? And why wasn’t he in court this morning?

You
were supposed to tell him about it.” Each remark was accompanied by a stab of the forefinger and an ominous lowering of the brow.

“Derek’s in Spain.”

“Spain? But . . . According to his office, he’s supposed to be down with flu, being nursed by a cousin in Leicester neither of us has. Do you mean to say I might have had to stay in chokey just because he’s decided to have an illicit week in the sun?”

“Of course not. He’s not on holiday. And you’ve been released anyway, haven’t you?”

“Small thanks to Derek. If he’s not on holiday, what
is
he on?”

“He’s doing something for me.”

“For
you
?”

“Yes. But I don’t have time to explain. When he gets back—”

A ring at the front door-bell stopped her in mid-sentence. She whirled round, hoping against hope . . . But there
was
a car in the drive now and another in the road, its blue light and Thames Valley Constabulary markings clearly visible. They had come, as she had known they would. But they had come too soon.

“Oh, God, it’s the police.”

“The police?” There was a second and longer ring at the door.

“What do they want?”

“Me.”

“You? Come off it.”

Time was running out. If she was lucky, she had a few minutes left, a few minutes which she had to put to good use. To call Derek 406

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now was impossible, especially with Colin firing questions and accusations at her. But maybe, just maybe, Colin might be her saviour.

“Come inside,” she said, grasping at his forearm. “Quickly!”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Listen to me. Please.” Charlotte slid the door shut behind him and locked it. “I did my best to make up for what my brother did to you, didn’t I? I handed over the evidence of his guilt to the police. It’s because of that evidence you’ve been released.”

“I suppose so, but—”

“Now I need to ask you a favour in return.”

“A favour?”

There were three sharp rings at the door, followed by several raps of the knocker. Charlotte ran back to the telephone and grabbed the sheet of paper on which she had recorded Galazarga’s instructions.

Colin walked slowly after her, his face creased by a puzzled frown.

“Aren’t you going to let them in?”

“Not yet. There’s something I have to tell you first. I need your help, Colin. Desperately.”

“
My
help?”

“Yes. And when you understand, I can only pray you’ll agree to give it.”

One o’clock was a deadline Derek had imposed on himself an hour earlier to calm his nerves. As it passed, his patience snapped. He picked up the telephone and began dialling, deliberately avoiding Frank’s gaze as he did so. There was a delay of several seconds, then the ringing tone, followed almost immediately by an answer.

“Tunbridge Wells 315509.”

It was not Charlotte. It was not even the form of words she had said she would use. It sounded disturbingly like a policewoman.

“Hello?”

He slammed the telephone down and looked across at Frank. “It wasn’t her,” he said numbly. “Somebody else answered. Somebody who . . . I think it’s gone wrong, Frank. I think it’s gone disastrously wrong.”

Two o’clock found Charlotte sitting at a metal table in a bare strip-lit interview room at Newbury Police Station. On the other side of the

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table, Golding leant forward in his chair, scanning her face for some kind of reaction while Superintendent Miller prowled the lin-oleumed space between them and the door, venting his anger at Charlotte’s conduct. Behind him stood a woman police constable, staring expressionlessly at the opposite wall.

“You’ve thrown away our best chance of saving your niece. You’ve ensured we can’t contact her kidnappers as we’d planned, can’t reason with them, can’t negotiate at all. Why, Miss Ladram? Why do such a stupid thing?”

“They may still call on Mr Fairfax’s number,” Charlotte replied.

“You can negotiate with them then, can’t you?”

“But you won’t be there to answer.”

“Well, that’s because I’m here, isn’t it? That’s
your
decision.”

“We can’t trust you any more, Charlotte,” said Golding. “Surely you understand that. How can we when you’ve gone behind our backs like this?”

“I simply didn’t see the need to wait until tomorrow.”

“You didn’t see the need to let us know what you said to the kidnappers,” shouted Miller. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? You wanted to strike a
private
deal with them.”

“Why, Charlotte?” Golding gently enquired. “What were you trying to hide?”

“Nothing.”

“What made you think you could do better on your own?”

“I just . . . wanted to try.”

“If you
were
on your own, of course. Where’s Derek Fairfax?”

“I don’t know.”

“His brother said you refused to offer any explanation for his absence—or for your presence in his house.”

“He told you the truth.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” bellowed Miller, bringing the flat of his hand down on to the table so suddenly that Charlotte jumped.

“You were there yesterday morning as well. Why?”

“Derek asked me to look in from time to time while he was away.”

“Away where?”

“He didn’t say.”

Miller snorted and turned away. But Golding’s gaze did not shift from her face. “Did the kidnappers ring this morning, Charlotte?”

“No.”

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“Do you think they’ll ring later?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Samantha? What do you reckon will happen to her now?”

“I
don’t
know.”

“In short, you don’t know anything?”

“Nothing I haven’t already told you.”

“We don’t believe you,” growled Miller.

“And until we do,” said Golding, “you won’t be leaving here.”

Frank’s argument that they should wait until nightfall before assuming the worst was wearing thin as far as Derek was concerned. His inability to suggest an alternative course of action was in fact the only reason why he had not left the hotel room, which uncertainty and lack of information had turned into a prison he longed to escape.

When the telephone rang, he grabbed at it instinctively, wanting nothing so much as to hear Charlotte’s voice at the other end. But he did not.

“Hello?”

“Derek?”

For a second, he did not believe his own senses. It sounded like Colin. It undoubtedly
was
Colin. But how? Why? “Colin? Is that really . . . What . . . I mean . . .”

“I was released this morning. Since nobody seemed to know where you were, I called at your house. I met Charlotte Ladram there.

She told me how to contact you.”

“Charlotte did? But . . . Where is she?”

“In police custody.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Derek. You know very well why. Drop the pre -

tence. It won’t wash. She told me everything. Well, she didn’t really have much choice. It was either that or . . .” Colin sighed. “Against my better judgement, like the soft-hearted fool I am, I agreed to act as her messenger. I’m at the shop now. By some miracle, the phone’s not been cut off. But I certainly can’t afford too many international calls.

So, pin your ears back. I’ve a lot to tell you.”

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

TWENTY-THREE

They had arrived half an hour ago. Since then, the morning had strengthened its chill grasp on the valley. But there had been no other change, no breath of wind to blunt the silence, no hint of movement to lessen the isolation. Derek shifted in his seat and gazed around once more, at the sheer slopes on either side and the flat unbroken body of water between, at the ever bluer gulf of sky above their heads and the narrow winding road down which they had come.

They had left Corunna the previous afternoon and covered the 230 kilometres to Castro Caldelas by early evening. There they had spent the night in a miserable room above the village’s liveliest bar, before setting off again at dawn, following the prescribed route down into the deeply cut gorge of the Sil river, zig-zagging round the terraced vineyards and rocky outcrops until they had reached the reservoir at the foot of the gorge and the concrete bridge across it which was their destination.

Frank had turned the Land Rover round to face uphill. He had not explained why and Derek had not asked him to, for the possibility that they might need to make a speedy departure required no explanation. Derek was glad, in a way, not to be able to see the bridge from where he sat. He would see it soon enough, when Galazarga and his men arrived and he would have to set out across its slender span to meet them. Or to meet one of them. Whichever one it was.

If Charlotte had asked him outright to do this, he would surely have refused. But she had not asked him. She had promised he would because she could do nothing else. And now he was about to keep her promise for the same reason. How strange it seemed, how foolish—and yet how inescapable.

He was on the point of looking at his watch to see how much longer they would have to wait when Frank laid a restraining hand on his arm. “They’re here,” he murmured.

And so they were. Two vehicles, one a sleek black limousine, the other a small red van, had appeared on the road and were heading 410

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

down towards the bridge. No other traffic had passed them in either direction. It had to be them.

Derek watched, transfixed, as the two distant objects moved steadily on, obscured briefly by boulders and bushes, but clearly visible more often than not as their descent continued. Then he did look at his watch. The time was eight fifty-three.

Frank opened his door and climbed out. Derek did the same and joined him at the back of the Land Rover. He could not avoid looking at the bridge now, at its stolid grey legs planted in the water above their own reflections, at the blurred line of the railings which he would shortly follow to its centre.

The two vehicles slowed as they reached a flat stretch of road at the water’s edge, vanished behind one last outcrop, then reappeared, cruising to a halt ten yards or so short of the bridge. It was eight fifty-five exactly.

“Prompt, aren’t they?” said Frank.

“Let’s hope they stick as closely to all the arrangements.”

“Nervous?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s not too late for you to back out. I’d happily go in your place.”

“But they specified me. So, it has to
be
me, doesn’t it? If anyone’s to break the agreement—”

“Let it be them, eh?”

“Let it be nobody. That’s all I ask.”

Doors opened and closed on the other side. A figure recognizable as Norberto Galazarga conferred with the driver of the van, who climbed out, walked to the back of his vehicle and pulled the double doors wide open. A girl scrambled out, dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater. Was it Samantha? Derek had met her only once, in vastly different circumstances. He could not say for sure. But he wanted it to be her. Very much.

“It’s nearly nine,” said Frank.

“I’ll move when it’s
exactly
nine. Not before.”

“All right. But keep calm. And be careful.”

“I will be. Very careful.”

Galazarga walked forward to the limousine and leant in for a word with one of the occupants. Then he stepped back to allow his in-terlocutor to climb out. He was a tall frail-looking man wrapped in a

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large overcoat. Derek had just begun to wonder who he might be when Frank said: “It’s nine on the dot.”

Derek started walking. He patted his jacket pocket and heard the rustle of the envelope containing Ortiz’s statement. He did not hurry, but still rounded the bend sooner than he had expected and found himself gazing along the length of the bridge, judging with his eye the point at which he would stop. He looked neither to right nor left, ignoring as best he could the watery expanse on either side, the walls of boulder and scrub ahead, the untouchable ceiling of blue above.

He measured each pace as he took it, yet with each one the ground seemed to grow less solid, the information feeding his senses less reliable.

Then he saw the other man, entering his field of vision at the opposite end of the bridge. It was the frail figure in the overcoat, his height exaggerated by his emaciated frame. He was silver-haired and stooping, gingerly in his movements and clearly very old. Something about the way he held his right arm established his identity beyond question.

Derek reached the middle, stepped on to the kerb at the side of the road and placed one hand against the railing. The old man came on. His face was hook-nosed and narrow, lined with a mosaic of creases like the dried mud of a drought-stricken river. One corner of his mouth and the corresponding eyelid drooped as if he had suffered a stroke, but his chin jutted stubbornly and his gaze was unwavering.

Beneath the overcoat a starched white collar and tightly knotted black tie could be seen. As he walked, the sunlight caught a gold signet-ring on his left hand, standing out even more prominently than his swollen knuckles. His right hand was gloved and rigid, swinging at his side. Derek wondered if Frank had yet realized who he was. He had come a long way to settle a debt with this man. And now he was expected to stand aside and waive the debt, while Derek bargained for the life of a stranger.

“Mr Fairfax?” the old man asked as he stopped a few feet away.

His voice was faint and reedy, as lightly accented as Galazarga’s, but with none of the insinuating sweetness of tone. His watery eyes roamed across Derek’s face, searching for clues, probing for signs of weakness.

“Señor Delgado?”

“Yes.” He moved on to the kerb and laid his right arm along the 412