Part 65 (1/2)

”He's done a bunk,” put in Golding. ”Probably realized the game was up.”

”Yes,” said Hyslop defensively. ”But we'll catch him. It's only a question of time.”

”As in the matter of your niece's abduction,” said Golding. ”You seem to be coping remarkably well in the circ.u.mstances, Miss Ladram.”

”Well . . . There's nothing I can do, is there? There's nothing anybody can do.”

”Our enquiries have hit a brick wall, it's true. That's why we're considering a change of tactics.”

”What sort of change?”

”One in which we need your a.s.sistance.”

”How can I help?”

”We have to communicate with the kidnappers, you see. At this late stage, there's really no alternative. What we propose to do is to run the advert in the International Herald Tribune they spoke to you about. You remember-'Pen pals can be reunited. Orwell will pay'.”

Charlotte's throat tightened. Golding was looking straight at her, but she could see little of his expression because of the glare from the window behind him. Was he testing her nerve? Was he dropping a far from subtle hint? Or was this merely a sensible proposal born of official desperation? There was no way to tell. ”I remember,” she said hoa.r.s.ely.

”If and when they respond, they'll expect to talk to you. At least in the first instance. We can wean them on to a trained negotiator later, of course.”

”But the advert was to be placed if we were prepared to give them what they want. And we don't have it.”

”No.” He paused and for a moment it was possible to believe he 398 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

had asked a question rather than stated what he took to be a fact.

”Well, the idea is for you to imply we do have it. To keep them talking until we can (a) trace the call and (b) persuade them to extend the deadline.”

Charlotte pleaded silently with her voice and eyes not to betray her as she spoke. ”When . . . er . . . do you plan to run the advert?”

”Sat.u.r.day.”

It was as much as she could do not to sigh with relief. If Golding had chosen Friday, her own placement of the advertis.e.m.e.nt would have been bound to come to light. Now there was a slim chance it would not-until it had served its purpose.

”By leaving it as late as possible,” Golding continued, ”we hope to make the kidnappers think we're giving in to the deadline.”

”I see.”

”So, will you help us? Without you, I doubt we'll be able to keep them talking long enough to accomplish anything.”

”What does Ursula say?”

”Mrs Abberley? She's happy for us to do anything we think may save her daughter.” His gaze narrowed fractionally. ”I rather expected you to take the same view.”

”Oh, I do. I do.” Her thoughts whirled ahead of her words, shaping and a.s.sessing the consequences of Golding's proposal. She was bound, of course, to agree to it. Therefore, the police would soon be in touch with the International Herald Tribune's advertising sales office.

With luck, n.o.body there would remember her call-or comment on it if they did. Her advertis.e.m.e.nt would still appear in the morning.

And the kidnappers would see it. But so, sooner or later, would Golding. He would come looking for her. Failing to find her, he would establish whose number had been quoted. The question was whether he would act fast enough to prevent her reaching agreement with the kidnappers on her own account. She did not know the answer. She did not even know whether she would be able to reach such an agreement. But she did know that now, more than ever, she had to try. ”I'll help in any way I can, Chief Inspector. Any way at all.”

CHAPTER.

TWENTY-TWO.

It was a windless morning in Speldhurst. Charlotte watched dawn break and spread its bleary greyness across the trim-lawned bungalows of Farriers. A couple of Derek's neighbours had already set off for work in their company cars, speeding towards the bright office lights of normality, minds focused on today's meeting and tomorrow's round of golf. Not for them this eerie vigil she was bound to keep, hidden behind the net curtains of Derek's lounge. Not for them the mind-numbing alternatives she knew she would have to face when and if and every time his telephone rang.

She crossed to the bookcase beside the television and cast her eye along the t.i.tles in search of one with which she might ease the tension of waiting. Economic theory. Photography. Natural history. Vin-tage cars. Fine art and poetry to balance the dog-eared yardage of pulp fiction. The mixture reminded her how little she really knew about him, how abnormal the manner was in which their paths had crossed. She wished it could have been otherwise. And then she saw, lying flat on a rank of paperbacks, Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography. She pulled it out and studied the face of its subject on the cover. What would he have done if he had realized the havoc his literary lie would wreak in the lives of his sister and his son and half a dozen others still unborn when he caught his last breath in Tarragona? It was too late to ask him. Just as it was too late to ponder what she would do if she could know for certain what the next few hours would bring.

In Corunna, Derek had had to walk a mile or so into the city centre to find a kiosk selling the International Herald Tribune. Now he hurried with it to a bench in the palm-treed park nearby and turned anxiously to the cla.s.sified advertis.e.m.e.nts. PEN PALS CAN BE REUNITED, blared the boxed and capitalized words. ORWELL WILL PAY. And there was his own telephone number in England. It could not be missed. It 400 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

could not be mistaken. It had begun. Rolling the newspaper in his hand, he rose and set off back towards the hotel.

By ten o'clock, Charlotte had been expecting the telephone to ring for the best part of an hour. Nevertheless, when it did so, she started violently before running to answer it.

”44-892-315509,” she said as slowly as she could.

There was no reply. She waited, then began to repeat the number.

But, before she had finished, the line went dead. She glared at the instrument as if it were to blame, then slammed it down. She was still glaring at it when it rang again.

”44-892-315509.”

”Miss Ladram?” To judge by Derek's description, the voice was Galazarga's. But she knew better than to ask.

”Yes.”

”I represent those who are holding your niece, Miss Ladram.”

”I know.”

”We saw your advertis.e.m.e.nt.”

”Good.”

”Why the change of number?”

”Because the police may be listening on mine. This is safer.”

”I am glad to hear it. The subscriber is listed as D.A. Fairfax. We have recently had some contact with Mr Fairfax. I take it he is a friend of yours?”

”Yes.”

”Then I advise you to be more careful in your choice of friends.

We have found Mr Fairfax to be an unreliable man to do business with.”