The Temptation

by Vera Morris

  His eyes filled with tears. ‘I should have told Daddy … If I’d told him this wouldn’t have happened … Peter would be alive.’

  ‘You know about Peter? How do you know?’ God, she felt as weak as a young child. She took several deep breaths

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, his lips trembling, opening and closing.

  She remembered about his dislike of speaking; but he’d spoken fluently, with only small hesitancies between words.

  ‘David, I know you don’t like talking, but we’re in a serious situation. I need you to tell me about how you came to be here, and as much as you can about Tucker and Hager.’ A wave of panic passed through her. She wasn’t either physically or mentally up to dealing with this. ‘The good news is the other detectives know where I am. They’ll come here when I don’t go back.’ She had a horrible thought. ‘Are we in Tucker’s house? Or have they moved me?’

  He stared at her.

  She tried to smile, willing him to speak.

  He opened his mouth, his lips trembling. ‘I don’t know where we are … I’ve only been out of the house a few times. Tucker drove me in his car, but Hager was in the back with me all the time … They took me to places where I could see old buildings … I wasn’t allowed out of the car. Tucker wanted me to draw what I saw, but I was frightened of Hager, and I didn’t see why I should draw what Tucker wanted. I only draw what I want to draw.’ His voice gained in strength as he spoke.

  They hadn’t broken his spirit, he still had that determined look she’d seen in the photograph. She must try to seem confident for his sake. ‘What did the house look like from the outside?’

  He described the house she’d entered that day. ‘Thank goodness. We’re in the same place, that’s something.’

  ‘You mean we’ll be rescued?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure we will.’ She made her voice strong and definite. ‘But, I need you to tell me why they brought you here and why they’ve kept you here all this time.’

  ‘You mean why haven’t they killed me? Hager wants to kill me, but Tucker doesn’t and he’s the boss … He says I’m a genius and he’ll make sure when the project is over I’ll be freed.’

  ‘What’s the project?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think it’s nearly complete. Tucker is getting edgy and Hager’s angry and keeps telling me how he’s going to kill me … He doesn’t say that when Tucker’s there.’

  ‘David, we know you ran away from home, and you didn’t want to go back to the school. Where did you go to?’

  ‘I did go to the school. I was going to rescue Peter. Then we would run away together.’

  Dear Lord, what a brave and foolish boy. ‘What happened?’

  David gulped. He shook his head.

  ‘Please try, David. I need all the information you can give me, and I need it quickly.’

  ‘Does it matter if your friends are coming?’

  She decided to tell him her fears. ‘We can’t depend on Tucker leaving us alive. We need to make plans in case things go wrong. My friends will come, but perhaps not for several hours. We need to be prepared for anything. Does that make sense to you?’

  The urgency of her voice seemed to have got through to him. ‘Yes. If Hager has his way, he’ll kill me.’

  Me as well, she thought. ‘I don’t know why they’ve involved me. I think it must have been Tucker’s idea. Hager can’t stand the sight of me. Perhaps Tucker thinks my friends will come to find me, and if they find me, they’ll find you.’ She looked into his frightened eyes, willing him to put aside his phobias and fears. ‘David, I need to know.’

  He swallowed, his adolescent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. She wanted to hug him close and tell him everything would be all right, but there wasn’t time and she’d remembered he didn’t like being touched.

  ‘I ran and walked to the school. I’d planned a way there using lanes and going across fields. It took me ages; I slept in a barn. It was the evening of the next day when I got there. I went in through a back door and I hid until it was night and everyone was in bed. I went up the stairs to the dormitory where Peter slept with the other boys from the orphanage. It was the holidays so there weren’t many staff about. There was only John there, he said Peter was in the sick room, he wasn’t well. I told John about my plan and asked him if he’d like to come with us. He told me to go away. He’d get into trouble. He pulled a sheet over his head.’

  He was agitated, his eyes flickering with pain. ‘I went to the sick room. There was a light on. I opened the door a little. On a bed was a body covered with a sheet. My heart was trying to escape from my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Who was it? Was he dead? My legs wouldn’t move. I was stuck in the doorway. Then as I looked at the shape under the white sheet something happened to me. It was like a boiling in my guts, it bubbled and steamed up through my chest, up my throat to my head. I was hot with anger. I went to the bed and turned down the sheet. It was Peter. He was cold and when I put my hand on his face my skin seemed to sizzle. My best friend. My only friend. Dead. There was a great roaring sound. It was me. I howled.

  ‘They came running in. The nurse and Mr Salmon. They grabbed me. He hit me and I went down. The nurse got a needle and stuck it in me. It went black. When I came round I was here in this room. With Tucker.’

  Her skin turned into a sheet of ice. Such words from a child’s lips. She’d loved working with children. Seeing their adult characters emerge from childish bodies. Rejoicing in them as they started out on their journeys through life. To hear this. She wouldn’t let another life be wasted. She reached for the water and took another drink.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, David.’ She was beginning to feel more human; she risked putting her feet on the carpeted floor and, grasping the side of the bed, made a few tentative steps. ‘Could I have some more water?’ she asked, holding out the glass to him. She looked round the room. It was spacious, with a chest of drawers, a bookcase stuffed with books, a television, and a record player with piles of 45s and 78s beside it. This part of the room was carpeted, the rest was bare boards, with an easel, shelves for paper, paints, brushes, pencils, charcoal. Everything an artist would need. A large window let in light. She staggered over to it – no sign of the sun. A northerly aspect? Perfect for an artist. Except for the steel bars running vertically from top to bottom.

  David came into the room carrying the glass of water. She drank half of it.

  ‘Bathroom?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Do you want to use it?’

  ‘Please.’ Thank God for that. It was well equipped with a washbasin, shower and lavatory. She used the loo, then threw cold water over her face. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the basin. What a fright! Her hair was wild, and the pupils of her eyes dilated. She tried to contain the anger surging through her body. The slimy bastards. Keeping David prisoner all this time. What had that done to him? How was he going to cope with life after what he knew had happened to Peter, after Hager’s frightening taunts and the perpetual fear of his own death? How dare Tucker drug her and imprison her here in this room? She threw more cold water over her face and shook her body. No time for anger now. She must think what they would do, could do, if either of the bastards came to finish them off.

  She went back to David and drank more water. She must try to get rid of the poisons in her body. Flush them down the loo.

  David came towards her with a long slim parcel. ‘Tucker left this. I think it’s for you.’

  Laurel took it and squeezed the packaging. Something long and hard. ‘Is he fond of giving presents?’

  David waved a hand at the TV, record player and radio. ‘Anything I asked for he gave me, except the one thing I really wanted.’

  She tore at the packaging.

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t got anything sharp. He wouldn’t give me scissors.’

  She looked up. ‘In case …?’

  ‘Yes, in case I tried to kill myself.’

  ‘Do you think you
would have done?’

  His face was grave. ‘I might have. It was sucking me dry. I wasn’t even doing much drawing. I drew a few things I saw on the television. I don’t feel like that now. Now you’ve come’

  ‘Good.’ Laurel continued to rip at the paper. At last the Sellotape submitted. She unwrapped the brown paper. Inside was a long, slender knife. Its blade sharpened on both sides. A stiletto dagger. She showed it to David.

  ‘It’s a message, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it means we may have to fight.’

  Chapter 27

  Frank and Stuart returned from the Cross Keys to continue their search of the house. They’d limited their alcoholic intake to half a pint each of Adnams’ Best Bitter, but hadn’t held back on the food. Cod and chips, twice, and a large piece of Black Forest gateaux for Stuart. They drank the coffee Mabel had made for them in the kitchen.

  Frank wasn’t sure if it was the amount of carbohydrates he’d eaten, or the fruitlessness of the morning search, but he felt low. Why were they doing this? The police had gone through it with a fine toothcomb. All they’d discovered in Clara’s bedroom was a wardrobe full of expensive clothing, and a dressing table covered with perfumes, lotions and unguents by Nina Ricci, Dior and Worth. In contrast Sam’s bedroom was as Spartan as a monk’s cell. Frank wouldn’t have been surprised to find a hair shirt.

  ‘Which room shall we start in?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll find anything in the kitchen and there isn’t much left in Sam’s study, so we may as well start with the sitting room.’

  ‘Where he listened to music?’

  ‘Yes. Gloves on.’ He passed Stuart a pair. ‘We’ll do this room while we’re reasonably fresh, but I must say I think we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘Come on, Frank. That’s not like you. There must be some link between Sam and the school. His signing the death certificates of those two boys can’t be a coincidence.’

  Frank bit his lip. ‘Sam Harrop was riddled with guilt; he wanted to see Nancy, perhaps to confess. He knew his time was nearly up. I was hoping he might have hidden a written confession, one that would nail the people at the school, especially Baron and Gary Salmon.’

  ‘Not to mention that foul matron, I didn’t like her at all.’

  They went into the sitting room. Already it had an air of desertion, of lives over. There was the settee, the resting place of Sam Harrop’s body. Bile rose in Frank’s throat at the memory of his rictus grin and swollen belly. A famous surgeon, a respected member of his profession, a man to whom the residents of Aldeburgh looked up, a lover of opera and classical music. A paedophile?

  He went over to the music centre. ‘What did Laurel say about Sam when she first saw him through the French windows?’

  Stuart frowned. ‘She said she didn’t see him at first as his dressing gown blended in with the wallpaper.’

  ‘That’s right. Where was he?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘Why are you asking me? You know perfectly well what she said. Also, she wrote it in her report.’

  He smiled at him. ‘I know, Stuart, but I like you telling me.’

  Stuart took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘In that case, I’m having a few puffs. Helps me to concentrate.’

  He tamped down the shag tobacco and lit a match. He drew in air through the pipe until a satisfactory glow was produced. ‘That’s better.’ He sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘She said he was by the music centre with his hand over the cassettes.’

  He looked at the record player, and cassette machine. Expensive equipment. The cassette machine had an external microphone; probably Sam used it to tape music recitals from Radio 3. ‘The police looked inside all the LP covers, didn’t they?’

  Stuart nodded, sending plumes of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Worth going through them again?’

  ‘No. But what about the cassettes?’

  ‘They looked in all of those as well, didn’t find anything, though you couldn’t get much in them.’

  Frank rubbed his chin. The bristles told him he needed another shave. He looked at his watch. Two o’clock. He’d shaved at seven that morning. He must have a high testosterone level, or more likely a rotten shaver. Perhaps he’d try a cut-throat razor. He shuddered. No, perhaps not. ‘Stuart, there’s equipment here for recording. This machine can record as well as play tape cassettes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Supposing Samuel Harrop recorded something onto a blank cassette?’

  ‘You mean from an LP?’

  ‘No, supposing he left a message. It’s a possibility. He could hide it in one of the cassette covers.’

  Stuart chewed on the end of his pipe. ‘Possible. From the look of that equipment and all those LPs and tapes, he was keen on his music and well up with the technology. So how do we go about this?’

  Frank raised his shoulders, then let them fall, emitting a long sigh. ‘There’s only one way. We have to methodically play every tape. It’s a long shot. What do you think?’

  Stuart got up, went to the fireplace, now empty of burnt papers, and banged out his pipe. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  Frank switched on the machine at the wall.

  Stuart handed him the first tape. ‘Mahler Symphony Number Four, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.’

  He pressed the triangular start button and strains of a full orchestra filled the room. He pressed the square stop button. ‘Next.’

  ‘Puccini, La Bohème.’

  A few seconds later. ‘Next.’

  ‘This could take some time,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Come on, next!’

  ‘Keep your hair on. Here you are, Sir Adrian Boult conducts Vaughan Williams.’

  Frank groaned.

  An hour-and-a-half later they’d ploughed through half the cassettes.

  ‘Handel arias by City of London Baroque Sinfonia,’ Stuart said, wearily passing it to Frank. They listened. ‘I always liked Handel, he was a good man. Did a lot of work with orphans in London.’

  Frank didn’t reply but took the cassette out of the machine and added it to the other rejects. Depression was setting in.

  Stuart started on the next seam. ‘Ah, English composers. Here you are, try this. Elgar, Symphony Number One.’ They listened and it was ejected.

  ‘OK, what about some Delius. Bit of a mixture this one.’ The same result.

  Stuart passed another cassette to Frank. ‘Our local composer, Benjamin Britten. Billy Budd, London Symphony Orchestra.’

  Frank held the cassette in his hand. Billy Budd, the opera. The fight between good and evil. In Laurel’s report she’d noted Nancy had said he was Harrop’s favourite composer. He looked at Stuart.

  ‘Got a feeling about this one?’

  ‘It’s about an old sea captain recalling his part in the hanging of a young sailor, Billy Budd, and Claggart, the evil Master-at-Arms who wants Billy dead. We’ll see.’ The cover under the clear plastic showed the title, the names of the main singers and orchestra. He opened the plastic case. Inside was a cassette. It had no distinguishing labels to match the cover. Time seemed to stop as they looked at it. Frank almost didn’t want to put it into the machine for fear of disappointment.

  ‘For God’s sake, put it in,’ Stuart said. ‘If it’s blank, we’ll just press on.’

  Frank’s fingers turned to putty, but he managed to click it in and to press the triangular play button.

  Nothing, just the whirring of the tape. The day seemed to darken. Stuart groaned.

  Then a voice. A reedy, hesitant, man’s voice.

  ‘My name is Samuel Harrop. I was born on the twenty-first of May, 1906, in Aldeburgh, Suffolk. This is my confession.’

  Chapter 28

  Laurel took hold of the stiletto by the ridged handle; it gave a good grip, and there was a short guard to protect the hand. She’d never used a knife as an offensive weapon; she wasn’t sure she was up to sticking this one into either Tucker or Hager. If push came to shove – very appropr
iate – she’d have to.

  David looked at her and then the dagger. ‘Do you know how to use it?’

  She tried to look confident. ‘I haven’t stabbed anyone lately, but I’m willing to do it if we need to defend ourselves.’

  ‘I think you’re supposed to stick it in and then move it round, so you damage the organs.’

  Her back straightened. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Hager told me. He used to come to my room at night when Tucker was in bed. He liked to frighten me. He told me how he killed different people. That’s how I know he’ll kill me. He’s told me too much.’

  Bile rose in her throat. She grasped the handle tightly. A truly despicable man. ‘Right. We need to make a plan so we can fight if one, or both of them, come for us. I hope we won’t need to; Frank and Stuart should be here soon.’ She glanced at her watch. Thank goodness they hadn’t taken it. It was ten past four. She brought it to her ear and heard its steady tick. They’d be expecting her soon. How long before they realised she should have returned? She tried not to let her worry show. It could be several hours before they became concerned. Why should they think anything was wrong? Tucker’s invitation was open, and there was a good reason for going to his house.

  ‘We’ve got a weapon. Hager won’t be expecting that. I think we’ve got to presume Tucker is only interested in making sure you live, as he values your artistic skills. It will be Hager who comes to kill us. What else can we use as weapons? What can we throw at him?’

  David seemed to come out of his reverie. ‘I’ve got some heavy books.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Frank’s word. Hurry up Frank.

  ‘We could use LPs. I can take them out of their sleeves and we could slice them through the air.’

  ‘Great. I’m rather handy with a discus so I can show you a few tricks. Have you got any chemicals? Things you use in your painting?’

  David frowned. ‘I’ve only got water colours. He wouldn’t let me have oils, also I’m not keen on them.. We could mix some up with water. You mean to throw at him?’

  She nodded. ‘Into his eyes. Or we could dissolve some soap in water.’ All this would be no use against a trained killer like Hager, but she had to try and raise David’s morale. Make him think they had a chance.