by J F Straker
Robin couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You’re quite sure it was my wife’s car?’ he asked.
Oh yes, Simon said, no doubt at all. He had been standing by the gate when it passed. Not only had he recognised the make and colour, he had read the rear number plate as, disappointed, he had watched it disappear towards the village. ‘It was definitely her, Mr Granger,’ he said. ‘Her car, anyway. I couldn’t see who was in it, of course.’
‘What time was this?’
‘What time? Oh, about eight-thirty.’
Robin went downstairs and out on to the drive to stare in bewilderment at the Porsche. Simon Mallett admired the car almost as much as he admired Karen, and Robin believed him when he said he had seen it. Which meant that Karen had left the house in the car and that later the car had returned without her. So who had brought it back? And where was Karen? He opened the near side door and peered into the interior. As far as he could see there was nothing there to supply the answers.
He went back to the house and called Martin.
Two
Robin Granger and Martin Beck had spent their childhood in the same small Midlands village, where Robin’s father was the schoolmaster and Martin’s father worked as a mechanic at a garage a few miles away on the main road. Although dissimilar in character the two boys were of the same age and spent much of their time together. Martin was impatient and aggressive, fond of the limelight and quick to resent a slight, whether real or imagined. He was the more athletic of the two, a fair performer in most sports. Robin was more placid and easy-going, something of a dreamer, the romanticist as opposed to the pragmatist. He was fond of animals and of horses in particular, and by the time he was nine he was riding bareback on a friendly farmer’s mare; Martin had a secret fear of horses and chose to avoid them. The only physical contest in which Robin was the master was in wrestling, where his greater weight and longer arms and legs gave him the advantage; and when, after their first few tussles, Martin, always a poor loser, found he could not win, he refused to compete further. Both boys were keen fishermen and much of their spare time was spent on the river bank. But whereas Robin was content to sit for hours, reading a book with one eye on the float and unworried if the fish refused to bite, Martin was always restless, continually reeling in his line to check that the hook was still baited, wildly triumphant when he caught a fish and furious when one managed to escape. Yet in a way the fact that they were such opposites helped to sustain their friendship. Robin was generally reluctant to argue or make decisions, being content to follow provided the way was not disagreeable. For Martin it was important to lead and for that he needed a follower. Which made Robin an ideal companion.
In due course both boys attended the local grammar school, cycling there and back daily, a round trip of ten miles. Starting in the same form, Robin moved up the school the faster, a fact that at first irked Martin and made him quarrelsome. But this condition was short-lived. He discovered that for his fellow pupils, if not for the staff, skill on the cricket and football fields carried far greater kudos than mere academic ability, and soon he was boasting of the goals he had scored or the wickets he had taken, his good humour completely restored.
Martin left school at sixteen to join the police as a probationer and attended the district training centre, being posted to a provincial county force when his training was completed. Robin stayed on at school until he was nearly eighteen and then read English and Drama at the University of East Anglia; obtaining his degree, he did a one-year course in teacher training before joining a maintained school in Surrey. Already he had started to write short stories, poems, articles — and the fact that none of his compositions found favour with a publisher did not deter him. Deciding that he had not yet found his true métier he set to work on a novel, writing in the evenings and at week-ends during term time and for much of the day in the holidays, which he spent with his parents. But the rejection slips continued, and it was not until he showed the manuscript to the novelist Aubrey Kane, an ex-pupil of his father’s who lived nearby, that he began to understand the reason for his lack of success. The style is excellent, Kane told him; refreshingly concise and in some ways surprisingly original. But style alone won’t sell books; they need substance, and that is what yours lacks. Finding that Robin shared his interest in fishing, Kane invited him to spend a day on his boat on the local reservoir, an invitation Robin happily accepted. It was the first of several expeditions that summer, during which Robin learned much of the novelist’s art. He returned to Surrey fired with fresh enthusiasm and started work on ‘Companions of Power’. It took him three years to write and involved considerable research and travel. When it was finished and had been warmly praised by Kane he took it to Derek Foley, who had tried without success to place his previous work. Derek recognised its worth immediately. So did the first publisher to whom it was submitted, who offered what Robin considered to be a munificent advance and took an option on his next book.
The vindication of his faith in himself as a writer at first meant more to Robin than the knowledge that he had now set foot on the ladder to fame and wealth; but as his bank balance grew he realised that, provided the muse did not desert him, there was no further need to continue teaching. He abandoned the profession with relief, for although he was a reasonably good teacher he found discipline difficult to maintain, particularly in an area noted for its truancy and general lack of parental control. He persuaded his father into early retirement and bought an old farmhouse with an acre of ground in the Sussex Weald as a home for himself and his parents.
With Martin up north and himself in the south their meetings were few, but they maintained a sporadic correspondence, mostly originated by Robin. When he found time to write he wrote at length. Martin’s replies were more often than not extremely brief, although his letter of congratulation on the publication of ‘Companions of Power’ was comparatively fulsome. His longest letter, however, full of optimism for the future, was occasioned by his transfer to the C.I.D. This was what he had hoped for, Martin wrote, now he was really on the up. The tone of the letter suggested he expected to reach the rank of superintendent before his fortieth birthday. In fact he did not make detective sergeant until he was thirty-three and Robin’s second novel had been published.
It was an invitation by the B.B.C. to take part in a television series in which well-known authors revisited the scenes of their youth that took Robin back to the Midlands. He had just finished writing ‘The Kraski Conspiracy’ and Derek Foley urged him to accept the invitation. The money’s peanuts, Derek said, but it will be good publicity. Robin decided to make his base in the town in which Martin was now stationed, providing a rare opportunity for the two of them to get together, and he was booked in at the Angel Hotel. It was at the Angel, on his second evening there, that Martin introduced him to Karen and that, having fallen in love with her, he continued to stay long after the television programme was finished.
Although Martin had given his blessing to the engagement and was best man at the wedding, Robin could not avoid the uncomfortable thought that his friend might also have been in love with the girl and, but for his intrusion, might have persuaded her to marry him. The thought made him feel indebted to Martin, a feeling which was intensified after buying the Hall, for it was Martin who had advised him to look at it. Whenever possible he tried to repay the debt by lavish entertainment: dinners, theatres, concerts, fishing expeditions, visits to the races and other sporting activities. When he learned that Martin was due for leave he got Derek to book him in at the most luxurious hotel in Barbados on an all-expenses-paid holiday, pretending, as a salve to Martin’s pride, that he had arranged it for himself before meeting Karen. No use to me now, he told Martin; it’s a single ticket and I’m certainly not going on holiday without her. Martin duly protested that he could not possibly accept, but it needed little further persuasion to make him change his mind. Karen had questioned Robin’s seemingly unbounded generosity. It was quite uncalled for, she said, for she had never been
in love with Martin and would certainly not have married him. No matter, Robin said. Martin and I have been friends for over thirty years, and if I want to brighten his life a little — well, why shouldn’t I? Particularly as it gives me pleasure.
She had no answer to that.
* * *
Although more accustomed than Polly Stevens to being awakened in the middle of the night, Martin Beck’s tone as he answered the telephone was far from friendly. ‘Not again!’ he protested angrily, presumably assuming the call to be official. ‘Get some other poor bugger out of bed. I’m supposed to be off duty, damn you!’ Too wrought to apologise, Robin explained the reason for disturbing him. Martin did not protest further. ‘Be right with you,’ he promised, and made it in little over thirty minutes.
They sat facing each other, glasses and a bottle of malt whisky on a glass-topped table between them, while Robin added what little he could to the information he had given over the telephone. Despite his anguish he tried to speak calmly and objectively, but despair deepened as he realised how little there was to tell, how little for the police to work on. Naturally impatient, Martin’s police training had taught him when to be silent and when to press for answers, and he asked few questions now. At five feet ten he was three inches shorter than his friend, and had latterly developed the suspicion of a paunch, for which he blamed Robin’s too generous wining and dining. Heavy brows, and a long narrow face with prominent cheek-bones, gave him a sombre look. His voice was harsh and under stress he had the habit of beating a rapid tattoo on his thumbs with the fingers of both hands. Robin was not surprised to see him do it now. Martin’s distress could not equal his own, but it would certainly be real.
It was rare for Martin to display emotion and his words of sympathy were brief. ‘There are really only two possibilities, aren’t there?’ he said. ‘Either she left of her own accord or —’
‘No,’ Robin said. ‘Definitely no. She wouldn’t. Not like this.’
‘I agree. I don’t think she would. But I’m trying to see it as a policeman, not as a friend. However, the alternative is that she was kidnapped, abducted or whatever, although there’s nothing to suggest that she was and apparently much to suggest that she wasn’t.’ Martin frowned. ‘But assuming that she was, where does the Porsche fit in? The kidnappers must have had a car, they wouldn’t have arrived on foot. So why use the Porsche? And if they did — well, why bother to return it? Why not just abandon it? Doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘No.’ Robin got up and began to wander about the room. ‘But isn’t there something we can do, Martin? Something practical, I mean.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Well, alert your lot, for a start.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Martin leaned forward to refill his glass. ‘There’s no real evidence that a crime has been committed. The reverse, if anything. All we know is that some time between five-thirty, when Polly left, and around twenty minutes to midnight, when you arrived home, Karen left the house and has not yet returned.’
‘You’ve forgotten that Simon Mallett saw the car turn out of the lane at eight-thirty.’
‘No, I haven’t. But if Karen was in it — and she probably was — that narrows the time she’s been absent from eight hours to five. Not exactly alarming in itself, eh? And there is only the Porsche out there in the drive, plus the fact that she left no note, to create what one might call a dubious situation.’ Martin shook his head. ‘It’s not enough, Robin. The police would need more than that.’
‘Such as finding her body, I suppose,’ Robin said bitterly.
‘Oh, come off it, man! You know better than that. All right, so you’re worried. Desperately worried. Well, so am I. But panic measures won’t help. As you said yourself, we have to be practical.’
‘How?’
‘Well, apart from the obvious possibilities there are others. Long shots, I grant you — they leave a lot unexplained — but worth investigating. For a start, Karen could have met with an accident.’
‘Then what’s the Porsche doing out there?’
‘I know, I know!’ Martin did not bother to disguise his irritation. ‘But let’s give it a run, shall we? Get on the blower and try the local hospitals. Use the one in the study. I’ll ring the station from the hall and check on accident reports.’
Waiting for a hospital telephonist to connect him with ‘Enquiries’, Robin reflected how Martin had been wont to take command in their youth. Over the past year, in his efforts to entertain his friend, to some extent their roles had been reversed. Now, it seemed, Martin was back in the driving-seat.
Neither Robin’s call to the area hospitals nor Martin’s to the police station produced news of Karen. But there was a further possibility, Martin said. Karen’s mother, who lived with her elder daughter Debbie in Hampshire, had a weak heart. Suppose her condition had suddenly deteriorated and Karen had been summoned to her bedside? Perhaps the Porsche wouldn’t start and Karen had summoned a taxi and gone by train, too upset to remember to leave an explanatory note. ‘Unlikely, I agree,’ Martin admitted. ‘But it’s worth a telephone call, isn’t it?’
‘It won’t do her mother’s heart any good to learn that Karen is missing,’ Robin said.
‘Then don’t tell her. Say Karen is down that way and might look in. Play it by ear.’
Debbie answered the phone. No, she said, Karen wasn’t there and they weren’t expecting her, but if she did look in they would tell her to ring back. Martin had no further suggestions to offer, and he sat glowering at the whisky-bottle, his eyes heavy. Robin continued to pace the room, too keyed up to sit. He was becoming more and more convinced that Karen had been kidnapped. He could not understand how it had happened, but he could see no real alternative. ‘Couldn’t the police be persuaded to the same conclusion?’ he asked Martin.
‘Doubtful,’ Martin said, stifling a yawn. ‘Even if they could, with the little we can tell them, what action could they take?’
‘They could fingerprint the Porsche, for a start.’
Fingerprints, Martin said, were useless unless they could be checked with CRO or against those of a suspect. In this case there was no suspect, and a criminal with form would be careful to leave no prints. ‘He might slip up, of course, if the crime were unpremeditated, but kidnapping doesn’t fall into that category. It has to be planned.’ Martin paused to drain his glass. ‘And there’s something else you should consider. If Karen’s absence has a perfectly simple and innocent explanation she wouldn’t thank you for initiating a full-scale police inquiry.’
Robin knew that was true. Karen disliked the limelight.
‘So we sit and do nothing. Is that it?’
‘No. We go to bed. It’s nearly three o’clock, and unless you get some sleep you’ll be in no condition to tackle an emergency should one arise. Neither will I, come to that.’
Robin went to the window and peered out at the night through parted curtains.
‘You agree, don’t you, that she must have been kidnapped?’ he asked.
‘I agree it’s likely,’ Martin said cautiously. ‘You’re a wealthy man.’
‘Then why don’t they contact me, damn them?’
‘They will. But making you sweat a little saps your resistance, makes you more willing to meet their demands. Or that’s how they reason. And they’re probably right.’
‘Not with me they aren’t,’ Robin said, turning to face him. ‘I’d give everything I have to see her walk through that door right now.’
In Robin’s case, Martin reflected, ‘everything’ was a pretty large slice. Would he really be prepared to part with the lot? Then he saw the pain in his friend’s eyes, and he stood up and went to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Go to bed, Robin. Please!’
‘What’s the use? I wouldn’t sleep.’
‘You can at least lie down and give it a try.’
‘Suppose they ring?’
‘They won’t. Not now. And there’s a telephone by t
he bed, isn’t there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then!’
Robin hesitated. Then he nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I may as well be up there as down here. And thanks, Martin. I’m sorry I got you out of bed. Selfish of me.’
‘I’d have been angry if you hadn’t,’ Martin assured him. ‘Now, let me know immediately if anything breaks. If I’m not at the station ask them to contact me. Tell them it’s urgent.’ He frowned. ‘Better not say why, though. If it’s a snatch, the fewer who know the better. Publicity can be harmful.’
Recalling past cases of kidnapping where publicity had been harmful, Robin shuddered.
‘Sorry if I’ve been churlish,’ he said, ‘but you know how it is.’
‘I know how it is,’ Martin agreed. ‘Forget it.’
Robin went to bed, but he was still awake when dawn broke. Then, perhaps because instinct told him the kidnappers would not ring at that hour, he fell into a deep sleep, to be awakened by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. Only half awake, he did not respond immediately until memory returned and he sat up sharply, almost knocking the tray from Polly Stevens’s hands. Blinking, he stared at her. She was a pretty girl, with jet-black shoulder-length hair and warm brown eyes. Karen had slyly accused him of engaging her for her looks. It wasn’t true and Karen knew it; Polly Stevens was a very efficient secretary. But that morning neither her looks nor her efficiency interested Robin. Vaguely puzzled by her presence in the house at that hour, he looked at the undented pillow beside him and shivered.
‘I’ve brought you some breakfast,’ Polly said. ‘Is there any news?’
‘No. What time is it?’
‘Half past eight.’ She put down the tray. There were eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade and coffee. ‘You managed to sleep, did you?’
‘A couple of hours or so.’
‘Poor dear! Perhaps I shouldn’t have woken you.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ He looked at the tray. ‘You seem to have been busy.’