10

DEREK’S PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE of dealing with the police amounted to clarifying some technical points for the Fraud Squad when a client of Fithyan & Co. was arrested for tax evasion. On that occasion he had been treated with a degree of courtesy not far short of deference and he had subconsciously expected the same of his interview with Chief Inspector Golding. But his expectations were not to be fulfilled.

Golding was a lean and outwardly languid man of about Derek’s own age, smartly dressed in a dark suit, striped shirt and monogrammed tie. This and his expression of heavy-lidded scepticism gave him more the appearance of an Old Etonian stockbroker than a policeman. It enabled him to ask the bluntest of questions in the politest of tones and to disguise his opinion behind the blandest of smiles. When he invited Derek to confirm the existence of Tristram Abberley’s letters to his sister, it was impossible to guess at the purpose of his enquiry. And when Derek emphasized, as he was determined to, that the contents of the letters supported his brother’s protests of his innocence, Golding heard him out with patient inscrutability.

It was, indeed, only when their conversation seemed to be moving towards a close, with Derek none the wiser about why it had taken place, that Golding began to apply a steely edge to his questions.

‘Why do you suppose Mr Griffith might deny possessing the letters, Mr Fairfax?’

‘I don’t suppose he would.’

‘But he has. There’s my problem. He denies it point-blank. And you’ve never seen any of them, have you?’

‘No, but—’

‘So, strictly speaking, you can’t corroborate Miss Ladram’s account, can you?’

‘I most certainly can. She—’

‘Why do you think Mr Abberley was murdered?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘For the letters?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. But then, as you’ve pointed out, I don’t know what they contain.’

‘Something worth kidnapping Mr Abberley’s daughter for, apparently.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mr Abberley’s daughter has been abducted and is still missing. The letters were demanded as ransom. All of this was prior to our involvement, of course.’ Derek felt taken aback, as he knew he was meant to be, by this sudden revelation. ‘For the present, I must ask you to say nothing to anybody about this aspect of the case.’

‘Of course … Of course not.’

‘The kidnappers’ motive is a complete mystery to us. Money is the norm where abduction is concerned. Generally lots of it. A fifty-year-old cache of letters hardly seems to fit the bill, does it? If you’ll pardon the pun.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Could these letters be worth anything?’

‘No. I don’t see—’ Derek struggled to order his thoughts. ‘Only to Maurice Abberley.’

‘Because they would unlock fifty years’ worth of royalties on Tristram Abberley’s poems?’

‘Yes.’

Golding fell silent for a moment, tugging reflectively on the lobe of his left ear. Then he said: ‘If the letters can’t be recovered, your brother’s defence collapses even before it’s been assembled, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ This conclusion had not occurred to Derek, but it was true nonetheless. He felt helpless, overwhelmed by a tidal rush of events he could not hope to understand.

‘And if they are found, it’s too late for Maurice Abberley to benefit from their publication, isn’t it? The royalties would go to his widow and daughter?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Or just his widow, if his daughter isn’t released alive.’ Golding’s voice sank to a murmur, as if he were talking to himself rather than Derek. ‘There’s something here nobody’s seeing. A pattern to the missing letters and wiped tapes, the denials, the contradictions, the downright—’

‘Wiped tapes?’

Golding stared at Derek in surprise. ‘What?’

‘You mentioned some tapes.’

‘Did I? Extraordinary. Well, never mind.’ He smiled. ‘I’d better not hold you up any longer. One last thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Where were you last Sunday night?’

‘At home.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s nobody who could confirm that?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Because you blame – or blamed – Maurice Abberley for your brother’s arrest. You’ve admitted as much. In other words, you’ve admitted to having a motive for his murder.’

‘I’ve done no such thing.’

‘You have, actually.’ Golding grinned at him. ‘I was just trying to rule you out from the start. It’s a pity I can’t.’ His grin broadened. ‘Isn’t it?’

* * *

After Golding’s departure, Derek made several further attempts to contact Charlotte by telephone. When it became obvious she was not at home, he decided – against his better judgement – to try Swans’ Meadow, directory enquiries furnishing the number. This time there was an answer, but it was the one he had dreaded.

‘Hello?’ He recognized the voice instantly as Ursula Abberley’s, but knew it would be best to pretend he had not.

‘Could I speak to Charlotte Ladram, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Er … Derek Fairfax.’

‘Derek Fairfax? This is Ursula Abberley speaking, Mr Fairfax. Charlotte’s not here. Even if she were, I can’t think she’d want to talk to you.’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you … at this sad time, Mrs Abberley … but it’s very …’

‘If you were really sorry to disturb me, you wouldn’t have, would you?’

‘Well, I—’

‘Goodbye, Mr Fairfax. Please don’t call again.’

When Charlotte reached Swans’ Meadow late that afternoon, tired and dispirited after her journey to Wales, she found Ursula in a further stage of her adjustment to Maurice’s death and Samantha’s disappearance. It was one of wistful regret rather than fretful anxiety and had taken her to her daughter’s bedroom, where she was sorting through the show-jumping rosettes Samantha had accumulated during her hippomanic early teens.

‘There’s no news, Charlie,’ she mournfully announced. ‘No word. No sign. Nothing.’

‘I wish I could tell you I’d expected there to be.’

‘Why are they keeping her? We gave them everything they wanted.’

‘Everything we had of what they wanted, you mean. And they don’t know that. They must think we’re holding out on them. That’s why they killed Maurice.’

‘But who are they? And if they want more – of whatever it is – why don’t they tell us?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps they’re waiting for the police to lose interest.’

‘Then they may have to wait a long time. D.C. Finch was here again today, enquiring after my health, checking on my movements, watching, prying, probing.’

‘It’s her job.’

‘And doesn’t she just love it? Spying on me is so much pleasanter than directing the bloody traffic.’ Ursula’s mood was changing again, reverting to anger and impatience. She rose from the bed where she had spread out the rosettes, strode to the window and stared down into the garden. ‘They listen to every telephone call, you know, in and out. They’re all recorded, logged and traced.’

‘In case one of them’s from the kidnappers.’

‘Or to the kidnappers. They think we know more than we’re telling, Charlie. How can we convince them we don’t?’

‘We can’t. Frank Griffith has made them wonder if the letters really exist. And there’s nothing I can do to make him say otherwise.’

‘Then we’re hoist with our own petard. If the police think we made them up, they’ll think the same about the tapes, maybe about the kidnap itself.’

‘Surely not.’

‘It’s how their minds work.’

‘But they know Sam’s missing. As soon as the kidnappers make contact—’

‘Exactly!’ Ursula turned to look at her. ‘As soon as they make contact. But what if they don’t? What if we never hear from them again? What then, Charlie? What will the police think then?’