Part 49 (1/2)
”It won't take a second.”
Left alone, Charlotte walked slowly down the length of the room, debating with herself how much or how little Holly McKitrick might know. By the time she reached the fireplace, she was also beginning to wonder whether Maurice had known McKitrick was married. If so- 294.
R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
But speculation was cut off when, turning round to retrace her steps, she caught sight of a red sports car winding up the drive. She moved to the window and watched it pull up. Emerson McKitrick climbed out, dressed casually in jeans and a tennis s.h.i.+rt. He looked relaxed and carefree, singing under his breath as he lifted a bulging paper sack from the back seat, then started towards the house. But something made him glance up at the lounge window as he approached.
And the sight of Charlotte, staring down at him, stopped him in his tracks.
What followed was for Charlotte a demeaning and ultimately frustrating experience. She had planned to appeal to Emerson's better nature, or, if this failed, to argue that he owed her whatever a.s.sistance he could give in return for his earlier deceit of her. But Holly's presence ensured she could do neither. Instead, she was obliged to subscribe to Emerson's misleading account of their acquaintance. This he unveiled with grinning blatancy whilst clasping his wife ostentatiously round the waist. In defying Charlotte to contradict him, he was on safe ground, for she knew-as she felt sure he did-which of them Holly would believe.
The worst of it was that Charlotte had intended to emphasize how she had come in search of information, not confrontation. But the lies Emerson had told sprang up as a barrier between them, insur-mountable because they could not be acknowledged. When she explained what the kidnappers were after and asked if he had any idea where or what the doc.u.ment might be, his reply was predictably negative. Heard in the context of his and Holly's gus.h.i.+ng sympathy, it sounded very like the truth. But Charlotte would have needed to be alone with him, decks cleared of their differences, for certainty on the point. And that he seemed determined to avoid.
”I can't help you, Charlie. I've never heard of any of this before. A doc.u.ment written in Catalan and entrusted to Tristram by a friend.
Which friend? About what? And why, all these years later, would it suddenly matter so much?”
”I don't know. But the kidnappers know about the letters. So, they must have learnt about them from somebody. You're one of the few who was aware of their existence. If you mentioned them to a colleague or-”
”But I didn't. Holly here's the only living soul I told. The letters H A N D I N G L O V E.
295.
knocked a hole in my book about Tristram. Why should I publicize them?”
”Charlie's not saying you did, honey,” his wife put in. She smiled across at Charlotte. ”You're just checking every possibility, aren't you?”
”Yes. It's . . . er . . . not been made public, but the kidnappers have set a deadline of October the eleventh for handing over the doc.u.ment.”
Emerson's eyebrows twitched up. ”Failing which?”
”They say they'll kill Sam.”
”Oh, G.o.d,” murmured Holly.
”So you see-”
”That's tough,” said Emerson. ”She's a good kid. It'd be a tragedy if . . .” He shook his head. ”If there was any way I could help, believe me, I would.”
”But there isn't?”
”No.” He met Charlotte's gaze for a moment and it seemed to her that in this at least he was sincere. ”No way in the world.”
When she left, Emerson volunteered to escort her to her car at the bottom of the drive. Charlotte realized he was still stage-managing their encounter, moving Holly into and out of the wings as and when it suited him. Now, when there was a strict limit to how long he would have to talk to her, it was convenient-perhaps even imperative-to do so unimpeded by a third party.
No sooner had they set off than he said, in a tone completely different from the one he had used in Holly's presence: ”You shouldn't have come here, Charlie, you really shouldn't. You could have phoned.
There was no need for this.”
”I wanted to see you face-to-face.”
”Well, now you have. What have you gained from it?”
”Nothing. Unless you count nailing another of your lies.”
”Pretending I was unattached was Maurice's idea. He reckoned it would make you more . . . susceptible.”
”It's easy to say that now he's dead, isn't it? Easy to blame him for everything.”
”Yuh. It is. But it also happens to be true. He is to blame-for starting whatever the h.e.l.l it is Sam's kidnappers mean to finish.”
”And you really have no idea what that might be?”
”Not a clue. My researches into Tristram's time in Spain were 296 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
geared to the effect it had on his poetry. They never touched on anything even remotely like this. And I'm glad they didn't, if what happened to Maurice is any guide. One word of advice-” They reached the foot of the drive and paused. ”All I do know about the Spanish Civil War is it left a lot of scars that never healed. Feuds. Vendettas.
Debts of honour. And some of blood. If Maurice succeeded in calling one of those in . . .”
”Yes?”
”Then the only smart thing to do is to stay out of it. Right out.”
CHAPTER.
NINETEEN.
Charlotte had telephoned Derek from Boston late on Friday night to ask if he could meet her off the plane at Heathrow on Sat.u.r.day morning. Naturally, he had agreed. Only later had it occurred to him to wonder whether he should feel alarmed by Charlotte's anxious tone or flattered that she felt she could turn to him for advice. There was something about the mystery she seemed determined to solve which both excited and enthralled him. Until, that is, he remembered what had happened to Maurice Abberley.
Then the profit-and-loss column of his mind blared out its warning.
And sometimes he was inclined to listen.
Not, however, when Charlotte sat opposite him in an eerily empty airport cafe and described her experiences in the United States while gazing at him with an expression implying what he most wanted to believe: that she trusted him unreservedly. It was a miracle, given how often her trust had been betrayed of late. But it was a miracle, he well knew, born of desperation.
”I wanted to speak to you before I saw Ursula,” she concluded, ”because she might object to my giving you the private detective's report on Maurice's finances.”
”You're giving it to me?”
”Yes. And the tape I obtained from Natasha.”
”But . . . why?”
H A N D I N G L O V E.