9

THE FIRST TELEPHONE call Derek Fairfax received after reaching the office on Wednesday proved what he had begun to suspect: that the death of Maurice Abberley amounted to rather more than the newspapers had revealed.

‘Fairfax.’

‘Good morning, Mr Fairfax. My name’s Golding. Detective Chief Inspector Golding of Thames Valley CID.’

‘Thames Valley?’

‘I’m investigating the murder of Mr Maurice Abberley. Perhaps you’ve read about it.’

‘Er … Yes, I have.’

‘Your name’s been given by the murdered man’s sister, Miss Charlotte Ladram, as somebody able to corroborate certain aspects of the evidence she’s laid before us.’

‘Really? What evidence?’

‘I’d like to talk to you about it. Would that be possible?’

‘Well … Yes, of course. But—’

‘Could I call on you later? This afternoon perhaps?’

‘You mean … here?’

‘If it’s not inconvenient.’

‘No, no. I’m sure—’

‘Shall we say two-thirty?’

‘Well … all right.’

‘Until two-thirty, then. Goodbye, Mr Fairfax.’

Derek put the telephone down slowly, frowning as he did so. If he had not been so taken aback, he might have suggested a different venue. But it was too late now. What form of corroboration did Golding have in mind? he wondered. Why had Charlotte Ladram decided to involve him when she had previously been so eager to exclude him? Impulsively he grabbed the telephone directory, looked up her number and dialled it. But there was no answer. He tried again ten minutes later, then at half hourly intervals throughout the morning. But the result was always the same. Charlotte Ladram was not at home.

Charlotte was in fact driving west along the M4 to South Wales, intent upon extracting from Frank Griffith some explanation of why he had misled Chief Inspector Golding. By noon she was on the Brecon by-pass and, less than an hour later, was steering gingerly between the ruts on the rough and winding track to Hendre Gorfelen.

It was as she was approaching the last crest before the house came into sight that she suddenly had to stamp on the brakes as a Land Rover came pitching round the hillside. The two vehicles came to a halt virtually bumper to bumper, with no room to pass each other between the dry stone walls. And there, staring back at Charlotte from the cab of the Land Rover, unsmiling and motionless, was Frank Griffith.

Charlotte switched off the ignition and climbed out. The Land Rover engine rumbled on as she walked round to the driver’s door and waited for him to look at her. Eventually, just when she thought he never would, he turned it off.

‘Frank?’

He continued to stare straight ahead.

‘You must have been expecting me.’

Still there was no response.

‘Why did you lie to the police?’

Now, at last, he did acknowledge her presence, with a faint nod and a stubborn extension of his lower lip. ‘I did what you wanted me to do,’ he said.

‘What I wanted you to do?’

‘Forget the whole thing. Leave well alone. Stop causing trouble to you and your family.’

‘I never said that.’

‘You meant it, though.’ He glared round at her. ‘Why else would you have left me that note? You didn’t believe McKitrick had stolen the letters, did you? It was a lie. So, before you start demanding to know why I lied, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you lied.’

‘All right.’ She hung her head. ‘There seemed to be no way of proving what Maurice had done. Nor of preventing him from publishing the letters. So I thought … I thought it would be for the best to … to …’

‘Fob me off?’

‘Yes.’ She forced herself to meet his gaze, to admit the truth of his accusations as openly as she could. ‘But everything’s changed now, don’t you see?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Didn’t Golding tell you about my niece?’

‘Yes. He told me.’

‘She’s in danger, Frank. Grave danger. Aren’t you willing to do anything to help her?’

‘There’s nothing I can do.’

‘You can convince the police the letters really exist. That they’re what this is all about.’

‘But they’re not. They have nothing to do with it.’

‘They must have. Nothing else makes any sense. In his last letter, Tristram referred to a document he was sending – or intending to send – to Beatrix. And the kidnappers demanded everything Maurice stole from you. They must have meant that to include the document, but Maurice didn’t have it.’

‘Because I didn’t have it. Beatrix sent me the letters and that’s all. She never mentioned receiving anything else from Tristram, with or after his last communication.’

‘Don’t you have any idea what it might be?’

‘None. Besides, it makes more sense to me to believe your brother was the victim of one of the many enemies I’m sure he made in the course of his life. As for your niece …’

‘Yes, Frank? What about Sam? She’s just twenty years old. Younger than you were when you volunteered for Spain. Younger than Beatrix was when she wrote Tristram’s first poem for him.’

His expression remained as unyielding as ever. ‘I can’t help her.’

‘Won’t you even try?’

‘Beatrix asked me to keep her secret. Your brother’s death means I can. It’s a second chance I don’t deserve. But it’s one I don’t intend to waste.’

‘What about Sam?’

‘I’m washing my hands of your family.’ He stared out intently through the windscreen. ‘I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever known about them. I’m doing what I should have done from the start.’

‘Which is?’

‘Thinking of myself.’ He turned and looked straight at her. ‘Now, why don’t you reverse to the bridge? You can turn round there. Then we can both go our separate ways.’