by Dick Francis
I lowered the page. “How old is Dominic?” I asked.
“Three and a half,” Miranda said.
10
Miranda, twenty-six, had long blond hair falling from a center parting and on other occasions might have been pretty. She still wore a bathing suit with a toweling robe over, and there was still sand on her legs from the beach. Her eyes were glazed behind the puffed eyelids as if too much devastated emotion had put a film over them to repel reality, and she made vague pointless movements with her hands as if total inactivity was impossible.
Out of habit I carried with me always a flat container like a cigarette case, which contained among other things a small collection of pills. I took out the case, opened it, and sorted out a strip of white tablets in foil.
“Take one of these,” I said, fetching water in a toothmug and sliding a pill from its wrapper.
Miranda simply swallowed as instructed. It was Alessia who said, “What are you giving her?”
“Tranquilizer.”
“Do you carry those round with you always?” she asked incredulously.
“Mostly.” I nodded. “Tranquilizers, sleeping pills, aspirins, things for heart attacks. First aid, that’s all.”
Miranda drank all the water.
“Do they have room service in this hotel?” I asked.
“What?” she said vaguely. “Yes . . . I suppose so . . . They’ll be bringing Dominic’s supper soon . . .” The idea of it reduced her to fresh deep sobs, and Alessia put her arm round her and looked shattered.
I telephoned to room service for tea, strong, as soon as possible, for three. Biscuits? Certainly biscuits. Coming right away, they said: and with very little delay the tray arrived, with me meeting the maid at the door and thanking her for her trouble.
“Mrs. Nerrity, drink this,” I said, putting down the tray and pouring tea for her. “And eat the biscuits.” I poured another cup for Alessia. “You too,” I said.
They each drank and ate like automatons, and slowly in Miranda the combined simple remedies of tranquilizer, caffeine and carbohydrate took the worst edge off the pain so that she could bear to describe what had happened.
“We were on the sand . . . with his bucket and spade, making a sandcastle. He loves making sandcastles . . .” She stopped and swallowed, tears trickling down her cheeks. “A lot of the sand was wet, and I’d left our things up on the shingle . . . towels, a beach chair, our lunch box, packed by the hotel, Dominic’s toys . . . it was a lovely hot day, not windy like usual . . . I went up to sit on the chair . . . I was watching him all the time . . . he was only thirty yards away . . . less, less . . . squatting, playing with his bucket and spade . . . patting the sandcastle . . . I was watching him all the time, I really was.” Her voice tapered off into a wail, the dreadful searing guilt sounding jagged and raw.
“Were there a lot of people on the beach?” I asked.
“Yes, yes there were . . . it was so warm . . . but I was watching him, I could see him all the time . . .”
“And what happened?” I said.
“It was the boat . . .”
“What boat?”
“The boat on fire. I was watching it. Everyone was watching it. And then . . . when I looked back . . . he wasn’t there. I wasn’t scared. It was less than a minute . . . I thought he’d be going over to look at the boat . . . I was looking for him . . . and then the little girl gave me the note . . . and I read it . . .”
The awfulness of that moment swept over her again like a tidal wave. The cup and saucer rattled and Alessia took them from her.
“I shouted for him everywhere . . . I ran up and down . . . I couldn’t believe it . . . I couldn’t . . . I’d seen him such a short time ago . . . just a minute . . . and then I came up here . . . I don’t know how I got up here . . . I telephoned John . . . and I’ve left all our things . . . on the beach.”
“When is high tide?” I said.
She looked at me vaguely. “This morning . . . the tide had just gone out . . . the sand was all wet . . .”
“And the boat? Where was the boat?”
“On the sand.”
“What sort of boat?” I asked.
She looked bewildered. “A sailing dinghy. What does it matter? There are millions of sailing dinghies round here.”
But millions of sailing dinghies didn’t go on fire at the exact moment that a small child was kidnapped. A highly untrustworthy coincidence of timing.
“Both of you drink some more tea,” I said. “I’ll go down and fetch the things from the beach. Then I’ll ring Mr. Nerrity—”
“No,” Miranda interrupted compulsively. “Don’t. Don’t.”
“But we must.”
“He’s so angry,” she said piteously. “He’s . . . livid. He says it’s my fault . . . he’s so angry . . . you don’t know what he’s like . . . I don’t want to talk to him . . . I can’t . . .”
“Well,” I said. “I’ll telephone from another place. Not this room. I’ll be as quick as I can . . . will you both be all right?”
Alessia nodded although she was herself shaking, and I went downstairs and found a public telephone tucked into a private corner of the entrance hall.
Tony Vine answered from John Nerrity’s number.
“Are you alone?” I asked.
“No. Are you?”
“Yes. What’s the score?”
“The pinchers have told him he’ll get his boy back safe . . . on conditions.”
“Such as?”
“Five million.”
“For God’s sake,” I said, “has he got five million?” The Breakwater Hotel, nice enough, wasn’t a millionaire’s play-ground.
“He’s got a horse,” Tony said baldly.
A horse.
Ordinand, winner of the Derby.
“Ordinand?” I said.
“No slouch, are you? Yeah, Ordinand. The pinchers want him to sell it at once.”
“How did they tell him?” I asked.
“On the telephone. No tap, of course, at that point. He says it was a rough voice full of slang. Aggressive. A lot of threats.”
I told Tony about the block-lettered note. “Same level of language?”
“Yeah.” Tony’s occasional restraint in the matter of eff this and eff that was always a source of wonder, but in fact he seldom let rip in front of clients. “Mr. Nerrity’s chief, not to say sole, asset, as I understand it, is the horse. He is . . . er . . .”
“Spitting mad?” I suggested.
“Yeah.”
I half smiled. “Mrs. Nerrity is faintly scared of him.”
“Not in the least surprising.”
I told Tony how the kidnap had been worked and said I thought the police ought to investigate the dinghy very fast.
“Have you told the local fuzz anything yet?”
“No. Miranda will take a bit of persuading. I’ll do it next. What have you told them from your end?”
“Nothing so far. I tell Mr. Nerrity we can’t help him without the police, but you know what it’s like . . .”
“Mm. I’ll call you again, shortly.”
“Yeah.” He put his receiver down and I ambled out of the hotel and rolled my trouser legs up to the knees on the edge of the shingle, sliding down the banks of pebbles in great strides towards the sand. Once there I took off shoes and socks and strolled along carrying them, enjoying the evening sun.
There were a few breakwaters at intervals along the beach, black fingers stretching stumpily seawards, rotten in places and overgrown with molluscs and seaweed. Miranda’s chair, towels, and paraphernalia were alone on the shingle, most other people having packed up for the day; and not far away there was still a red plastic bucket and a blue plastic spade on the ground beside a half-trampled sandcastle. The British seaside public, I reflected, were still remarkably honest.
The burnt remains of the dinghy were the focal point for the few people still on the sand, the returning tide already swirling an inch deep around the hull
. I walked over there as if drawn like everyone else, and took the closest possible look, paddling, like others, to see inside the shell.
The boat had been fiberglass and had melted as it burned. There were no discernible registration numbers on what was left of the exterior, and although the mast, which was aluminum, had survived the blaze and still pointed heavenward like an exclamation mark, the sail which would have borne identification lay in ashes round its foot. Something in the scorched mess might tell a tale—but the tide was inexorable.
“Shouldn’t we try to haul it up to the shingle?” I suggested to a man paddling like myself.
He shrugged. “Not our business.”
“Has anyone told the police?” I said.
He shrugged again. “Search me.”
I paddled round to the other side of the remains and tried another more responsible-looking citizen but he too shook his head and muttered about being late already, and it was two fourteen-sized boys, overhearing, who said they would give me a hand, if I liked.
They were strong and cheerful. They lifted, strained, staggered willingly. The keel slid up the sand leaving a deep single track and between us we manhandled it up the shingle to where the boys said the tide wouldn’t reach it to whisk it away.
“Thanks,” I said.
They beamed. We all stood hands on hips admiring the result of our labors and then they too said they had to be off home to supper. They loped away, vaulting a breakwater, and I collected the bucket and spade and all Miranda’s belongings and carried them up to her room.
Neither she nor Alessia was in good shape, and Alessia, if anything, seemed the more relieved at my return. I gave her a reassuring hug, and to Miranda I said, “We’re going to have to get the police.”
“No.” She was terrified. “No . . . no . . .”
“Mm.” I nodded. “Believe me, it’s best. The people who’ve taken Dominic don’t want to kill him, they want to sell him back to you safe and sound. Hold on to that. The police will be very helpful and we can arrange things so that the kidnappers won’t know we’ve told them. I’ll do that. The police will want to know what Dominic was wearing . . . on the beach . . . and if you have a photograph, that would be great.”
She wavered helplessly. “John said . . . keep quiet, I’d done enough damage . . .”
I picked up the telephone casually and got through again to her husband’s number. Tony again answered.
“Andrew,” I said.
“Oh.” His voice lost its tension; he’d been expecting the kidnappers.
“Mrs. Nerrity will agree to informing the police on her husband’s say-so.”
“Go ahead, then. He understands we can’t act for him without . . . He . . . er . . . doesn’t want us to leave him. He’s just this minute decided, when he heard the phone ring.”
“Good. Hang on . . .” I turned to Miranda. “Your husband says we can tell the police. Do you want to talk to him?”
She shook her head violently. “O.K.,” I said to Tony. “Let’s get started and I’ll call you later.”
“What was the kid wearing?” he asked.
I repeated the question to Miranda and between new sobs she said red bathing trunks. Tiny toweling trunks. No shoes, no shirt . . . it had been hot.
Tony grunted and rang off, and as unhurriedly as I could I asked Miranda to put some clothes on and come out driving with me in my car. Questioning, hesitant, and fearful, she nevertheless did what was needed, and presently, having walked out of the hotel in scarf and sunglasses between Alessia and myself, sat with Alessia in the rear seats as I drove all three of us in the direction of Chichester.
Checks on our tail and an unnecessary detour showed no one following, and with one pause to ask directions I stopped the car near the main police station but out of sight of it, round a corner. Inside the station I asked for the senior officers on duty, and presently explained to a chief inspector and a C.I.D. man how things stood.
I showed them my own identification and credentials, and one of them, fortunately, knew something of Liberty Market’s work. They looked at the kidnappers’ threatening note with the blankness of shock, and rapidly paid attention to the account of the death of the dinghy.
“We’ll be on to that straight away,” said the chief inspector, stretching a hand to the telephone. “No one’s reported it yet, as far as I know.”
“Er . . .” I said. “Send someone dressed as a seaman. Gumboots. Seaman’s sweater. Don’t let them behave like policemen, it would be very dangerous for the child.”
The chief inspector drew back from the telephone, frowning. Kidnapping in England was so comparatively rare that very few local forces had any experience of it. I repeated that the death threat to Dominic was real and should be a prime consideration in all procedure.
“Kidnappers are full of adrenaline and easily frightened,” I said. “It’s when they think they’re in danger of being caught that they kill . . . and bury . . . the victim. Dominic really is in deadly danger, but we’ll get him back safe if we’re careful.”
After a silence the C.I.D. officer, who was roughly my own age, said they would have to call in his super.
“How long will that take?” I asked. “Mrs. Nerrity is outside in my car with a woman friend, and I don’t think she can stand very much waiting. She’s highly distressed.”
They nodded. Telephoned. Guardedly explained. The super, it transpired to their relief, would speed back to his office within ten minutes.
Detective Superintendent Eagler could have been born to be a plainclothes cop. Even though I was expecting him I gave the thin harmless-looking creature who came into the room no more than a first cursory glance. He had wispy balding hair and a scrawny neck rising from an ill-fitting shirt. His suit looked old and saggy and his manner seemed faintly apologetic. It was only when the other two men straightened at his arrival that with surprise I realized who he was.
He shook my hand, not very firmly, perched a thin rump on one corner of the large official desk, and asked me to identify myself. I gave him one of the firm’s business cards with my name on. With neither haste nor comment he dialed the office number and spoke, I supposed, to Gerry Clayton. He made no remark about whatever answers Gerry gave him, but merely said “Thanks” and put down the receiver.
“I’ve studied other cases,” he said directly to me and without more preamble. “Lesley Whittle . . . and others that went wrong. I want no such disasters on my patch. I’ll listen to your advice, and if it seems good to me, I’ll act on it. Can’t say more than that.”
I nodded and again suggested seamen-lookalikes to collect the dinghy, to which he instantly agreed, telling his junior to doll himself up and take a partner, without delay.
“Next?” he asked.
I said, “Would you talk to Mrs. Nerrity in my car, not in here? I don’t think she should be seen in a police station. I don’t think even that I should walk you directly to her. I could meet you somewhere. One may be taking precautions quite unnecessarily, but some kidnappers are very thorough and suspicious, and one’s never quite sure.”
He agreed and left before me, warning his two colleagues to say nothing whatever yet to anyone else.
“Especially not before a press black-out has been arranged,” I added. “You could kill the child. Seriously; I mean it.”
They gave earnest assurances, and I walked back to the car to find both girls too near collapse. “We’re going to pick someone up,” I said. “He’s a policeman, but he doesn’t look like it. He’ll help to get Dominic back safely and to arrest the kidnappers.” I sighed inwardly at my positive voice, but if I couldn’t give Miranda even a shred of confidence, I could give her nothing. We stopped for Eagler at a crossroads near the cathedral, and he slid without comment into the front passenger seat.
Again I drove awhile on the lookout for company, but as far as I could see no kidnappers had risked it. After a few miles I stopped in a parking place on the side of a rural road, and Eagler got Mi
randa again to describe her dreadful day.
“What time was it?” he said.
“I’m not sure . . . After lunch. We’d eaten our lunch.”
“Where was your husband, when you telephoned him?”
“In his office. He’s always there by two.”
Miranda was exhausted as well as tearful. Eagler, who was having to ask his questions over the clumsy barrier of the front seats, made a sketchy stab at patting her hand in a fatherly way. She interpreted the intention behind the gesture and wept the harder, choking over the details of red swimming trunks, no shoes, blue eyes, fair hair, no scars, sun-tanned skin . . . they’d been at the seaside for nearly two weeks . . . they were going home on Saturday.
“She ought to go home to her husband tonight,” I said to Eagler, and although he nodded, Miranda vehemently protested.
“He’s so angry with me . . .” she wailed.
“You couldn’t help it,” I said. “The kidnappers have probably been waiting their chance for a week or more. Once your husband realizes . . .”
But Miranda shook her head and said I didn’t understand.
“That dinghy,” Eagler said thoughtfully, “the one which burnt . . . had you seen it on the beach on any other day?”
Miranda glanced at him vaguely as if the question were unimportant. “The last few days have been so windy . . . We haven’t sat on the beach much. Not since the weekend, until today. We’ve mostly been by the pool, but Dominic doesn’t like that so much because there’s no sand.”
“The hotel has a pool?” Eagler asked.
“Yes, but last week we were always on the beach . . . everything was so simple, just Dominic and me.” She spoke between sobs, her whole body shaking.
Eagler glanced at me briefly. “Mr. Douglas, here,” he said to Miranda, “he says you’ll get him back safe. We all have to act calmly, Mrs. Nerrity. Calm and patience, that’s the thing. You’ve had a terrible shock, I’m not trying to minimize it, but what we have to think of now is the boy. To think calmly for the boy’s sake.”