11

TENSION EASES WITH the passage of time, no matter how unbearable it seems at the outset. The human condition adapts in spite of itself, turning abnormality into a form of routine. So it was that by Thursday morning Charlotte could detect within herself an ebbing of urgency, a slide towards fatalism, a creeping acceptance that Samantha’s absence might be as permanent as Maurice’s.

Some similar process in Ursula presumably explained her willingness for the first time to discuss arrangements for the funeral, which they agreed should be held as soon as possible. Charlotte was in fact on the point of telephoning the undertaker to put matters in hand when she was intercepted by an incoming call.

‘Hello?’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’ The voice was low and huskily feminine.

‘Charlotte Ladram. Who—’

‘This is Natasha van Ryneveld. I know who you are, Charlotte. Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you might, though Maurice chose to believe otherwise. I learned of his death when I tried to telephone him at Ladram Avionics. It was a shock. I would have liked to have been told less … abruptly. But perhaps you think I had no right to be.’

‘Perhaps I do.’

‘How is Ursula?’

‘She’s … bearing up.’

‘May I speak to her?’

‘I’m not sure.’ In fact the doorbell had just rung and Ursula had gone to answer it. Charlotte was relieved to be able to say honestly, ‘Actually, I’m afraid you can’t.’

‘What happened, Charlie? May I call you Charlie? Maurice always did. How did he come to be murdered? What were the circumstances?’

‘I can’t discuss them.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s … complicated.’ Charlotte heard Superintendent Miller’s gruff tones in the hall. ‘I must go now. I’ll tell Ursula you called.’

‘But—’

Charlotte put the receiver down and felt positively grateful for the lack of opportunity to consider her reaction to the conversation. As she looked up, Ursula returned to the room, with Superintendent Miller, Chief Inspector Golding and D.C. Finch behind her. The three police officers were grim-faced and intent. They acknowledged Charlotte with peremptory nods.

We’ve just held a case conference, Mrs Abberley,’ Miller began. ‘And we’ve decided on a change of approach.’

‘We’re hampered by a total lack of evidence,’ said Golding. ‘The only way we can set about obtaining some is to raise the public profile of the case, which is so far limited to the bald facts of your husband’s murder.’

‘Accordingly,’ said Miller, ‘I propose to hold a press conference this afternoon at which I’ll reveal we’re dealing with a kidnap as well as a murder.’

‘You propose,’ said Ursula. ‘Are you asking for my agreement?’

Golding smiled at her. ‘Naturally, we hope you’ll see the wisdom of taking such a step. Indeed, we hope you’ll be willing to attend the press conference and answer questions.’

‘But it’ll go ahead anyway,’ growled Miller. ‘I don’t need your consent.’

‘Won’t publicity frighten off the kidnappers?’ asked Charlotte.

‘The embargo hasn’t flushed them out, has it?’ Golding countered. ‘We need a public response. Sightings. Suggestions. Tip-offs. We need information.’

‘Shouldn’t you wait a little longer?’

‘Nine days is long enough,’ put in Miller.

‘People forget quickly, Miss Ladram,’ said Golding. ‘We can’t afford to delay.’

‘Very well,’ said Ursula. ‘Hold your press conference.’

‘And you’ll attend?’ asked Golding.

‘Yes.’

Charlotte was watching the two policemen as Ursula replied. She saw them glance at each other and exchange a conspiratorial arching of the eyebrows, compounded in Miller’s case by the faintest of nods. Ursula’s participation would evidently strengthen their chances of success. But what success represented to them she was no longer sure she knew.

Derek started watching the six o’clock news on television that evening in a distracted mood, only for his attention to be seized by mention of the name Abberley during the preamble to film of a press conference held earlier in the day at Newbury Police Station.

The reporter referred to sensational developments in the Abberley murder case. Then attention switched to a Superintendent Miller of pugnacious appearance, who described in clipped and guarded police-speak how twenty-year-old Samantha Abberley had been abducted nine days previously. Anybody who had seen or heard anything suspicious in the neighbourhood of her home on Tuesday 1st September was urged to contact Thames Valley CID. A photograph of the missing girl was displayed, looking wholly unlike Derek’s single memory of her. Then, with Chief Inspector Golding visible in the background, Ursula Abberley made a personal plea for her daughter’s release.

Her performance – particularly in response to questions – was not what Derek was used to when viewing such events. There was none of the customary tearfulness, no hint of hand-wringing despair. Instead, she spoke calmly and rationally, more like a mediator than a mother. All the words were in place – ‘I would not wish this on my worst enemy’; ‘Sam’s safety is my only concern’; ‘I appeal to the public to help in any way they can’; ‘I beg those who are holding her to let her go’ – but the heart seemed strangely absent.

Something else was also absent. Derek waited for Superintendent Miller to mention Tristram Abberley’s letters but he never did. What the kidnappers wanted was not specified. What the police expected them to do was not hinted at. And by the end Derek was more confused than ever.

Charlotte and Ursula watched the broadcast together at Swans’ Meadow, Ursula nursing a gin and tonic as she did so. When it was over, she walked across to the television, switched it off, turned to look at Charlotte and said: ‘They made me sound like an unfeeling bitch.’

‘Nobody will have thought that.’

‘Oh, yes they will. You’re expected to behave as if you’re in a soap opera these days. Floods of tears. Torrents of emotion. Self-control counts against you.’

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have taken part.’

‘How could I have refused? Imagine the capital Miller and Golding would have made out of it if I had.’

‘They’re trying to help, Ursula.’

‘Are they? I don’t think so. I think they’re trying to do exactly the opposite.’

‘Oh, come on.’ Charlotte summoned a smile. ‘It’s their duty to find Sam – and to protect her.’

‘No it isn’t. It’s their duty to find somebody they can convict of Maurice’s murder.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘They don’t think it is. Come into the garden with me.’

‘Why?’

‘Come outside and I’ll explain.’

With a shrug of her shoulders, Charlotte rose and accompanied Ursula out through the kitchen and into the garden, where a calm and picturesque evening was spreading long shadows and rectangles of gold across the lawn.

‘See the man feeding the ducks on the other side of the river?’ Ursula pointed towards the Cookham bank, where an unremarkable middle-aged man in a brown anorak was tossing crumbs to a quacking and splashing circle of waterfowl. ‘Recognize him?’

‘No.’

‘He’s a policeman.’

‘How can you possibly know?’

‘Because I never saw him before Monday and I haven’t stopped seeing him since. Him and a couple of others out of the same mould. They’re not looking for Sam, Charlie. They’re looking for Maurice’s murderers. And they think they’ve found them. Here. In this house.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Yes. But they don’t realize it is. And there’s nothing we can do to make them. So, while they watch us watching them …’ Her voice trailed into silence. Her chin drooped. The tears she should have shed movingly on television but had not were there now, clear to see, brimming in her eyes, absurdly beautiful in the slanting sunlight. ‘While they play their bloody silly games and force us to do the same …’ She swallowed hard and looked straight at Charlotte. ‘Sam’s chances of coming out of this alive diminish all the time.’ Then she raised her head and shouted loud enough to make the man on the other side of the river glance towards them, ‘With every day they waste,’ before adding in a murmur: ‘The thread Sam’s life hangs by grows thinner and thinner.’