Another Man's Poison

by J F Straker

  ‘Why involve two people, though?’ Polly said. ‘Why couldn’t Robin hand over the money and then collect Karen?’

  Martin couldn’t say. Probably something to do with time and distance. ‘As the man said, it’s cold out and Karen is lightly clad. If the drop is made some distance away and she’s left out in the open —’ He shrugged. ‘I’m guessing, of course.’

  ‘I’ll collect her,’ Robin said, his voice taut. ‘Will you take the money, Martin?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You won’t let me down, will you? There’ll be no last-minute tricks?’

  Martin frowned. ‘That’s a pretty dirty question, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Robin gave an apologetic shake of the head. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that — well, for you it’s a tussle between loyalties, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was a friend before I was a policeman,’ Martin said.

  Knott’s Lane was only ten minutes drive away, but at Robin’s urging he left early, allowing time to spare. His departure filled Polly with a feeling of immense relief; now at last she could see an end to the long hours of waiting. ‘How soon do you think they’ll ring?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Thirty minutes? An hour? Not more than that, surely!’ Impulsively she reached across the desk to grip Robin’s hand in both of hers. ‘Oh, Robin! How wonderful to have her safely back!’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Wonderful.’

  He could not share her optimistic euphoria. For him the tension had become even greater. He had not needed Martin to warn him that payment of the ransom was no guarantee of Karen’s safe return. He had chosen to pay because, as he had said, the history of kidnapping suggested that payment provided the better odds. But the odds could be wrong. Until he finally held her in his arms the fear would remain.

  Time passed, but the telephone stayed mute. Ten o’clock came, and then ten-thirty. A few minutes later Martin was back. He did not appear unduly worried that the kidnappers had not rung. ‘It’s only forty minutes since I made the drop,’ he said. ‘That was on Boulting Common, after being directed from kiosk to kiosk to kiosk. But it shouldn’t be long now.’

  ‘It took you forty minutes to get back from Boulting Common?’ Robin frowned. ‘What kept you, for Christ’s sake? It can’t be more than twelve miles.’

  ‘Nothing kept me. After the drop I was told to drive on to a pub three miles down the road and stay there for fifteen minutes. God knows why! But that’s what they ordered and that’s what I did.’ Martin reached for the whisky. ‘I covered the fifteen miles back in under twenty minutes. I don’t call that bad going. Not on country lanes at night, with the rain pissing down.’

  ‘Is it?’ Robin was alarmed. With heavy curtains drawn across the double-glazed windows he had not realised it was raining. ‘Christ! What if they leave her out in the open!’

  ‘Well, it’s easing off slightly. But it’s still bloody wet. Cold too.’

  They had to wait another ten minutes before the call came, with Robin growing increasingly distraught. ‘Yes!’ he snapped into the receiver. ‘What are you playing at, damn you? Where’s my wife?’

  ‘It’s you what’s been playing games, Granger. You’ve been a bad lad, haven’t you?’ It was the same high-pitched voice, but mocking now. ‘I said no marked notes, didn’t I? But there they were, bundles of ’em. That was naughty. Very naughty. And bloody stupid.’

  ‘Marked notes?’ Robin was lost in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand. There weren’t any.’

  ‘Oh yes there were! Little crosses all over the place. Which means you won’t be banging your nearest and dearest tonight. Tomorrow night — well, maybe. But it’ll cost you, Granger. We’ll need another twenty grand. So have it ready, eh?’

  Four

  The reference to marked notes, the bewilderment in Robin’s voice, the acute distress evidenced in his expression as he put down the receiver and turned to face them, warned them that something was terribly wrong. Martin was the first to speak. ‘What is it, Robin?’ he asked. ‘What was that about marked notes?’

  Robin moistened his lips. ‘They’re not releasing her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘They say some of the notes were marked.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘But that’s a lie, isn’t it? They weren’t marked, were they?’

  ‘Of course not. Unless —’ His tired eyes, red-rimmed from strain and lack of sleep, studied Martin accusingly. ‘You didn’t, Martin, did you? After you left here? You had time to spare.’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ It was Martin’s turn to be shocked. Shocked and angry. Fists clenched, he took a step towards Robin.

  Polly wondered nervously if he were going to strike him. ‘Are you crazy? Damn you, Robin, you know me better than that! I said I’d play it your way, and although it was against my better judgment that’s exactly what I did. What’s more, if I had decided to play the policeman I’d have been a damned sight smarter than to mark a few bloody notes.’ He snorted angrily. ‘And how many notes do you think I could have marked in the few minutes I had to spare?’

  ‘I don’t know. But —’

  ‘How were the notes marked? Did he say?’

  ‘With little crosses. But—’

  ‘Little crosses! Ye Gods!’ Martin exhaled noisily. ‘If I couldn’t devise a more intelligent trick than that I’d bloody shoot myself!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Robin slumped into an armchair. ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn’t have asked. I wouldn’t have, either, if I’d stopped to think. It’s just that I feel so bloody helpless, so — so desperate.’ His right fist hammered frantically on the arm of the chair. He was almost shouting as he added, ‘The bastards! The filthy, bloody bastards! If I could get my hands on them I’d kill them! I would. I’d bloody kill them!’

  Polly believed him. Watching the hammering fist, recognising the size and strength of his hands, she knew that his grip on a man’s throat could well be lethal.

  ‘So what happens now?’ she asked.

  ‘They want another twenty thousand.’

  ‘Twenty thousand!’ Martin exclaimed, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. ‘Jesus! The double-crossing bastards!’ Clearly he had difficulty in controlling his anger. ‘Don’t pay it, Robin! They’ll only invent some other phoney dodge to screw you still harder. There’ll be no end to it. Tell them to go to hell. Let me handle them.’

  ‘You think I wouldn’t like to?’ Robin too was angry. ‘But what do you suppose would happen to Karen if I did?’

  ‘All right, then. Stall. Tell them you need time to raise the extra cash. Two or three days, tell them.’

  ‘You think you could find her in that time?’

  ‘Probably not. But we can turn on the heat, which is what we should have done in the first place. Spread a whisper through the grapevine that someone’s been talking. Put on the frighteners. They may or may not believe it, but with two hundred and fifty grand already in their pockets they’re not going to take chances for another twenty. They’ll dump her and get the hell out.’

  ‘Dump her?’ Polly was shocked. ‘Oh, no! They couldn’t!’

  ‘Not kill her, you nut!’ The insult was a measure of Martin’s anger. ‘Just leave her somewhere for Robin to collect.’

  ‘And what sort of hell do you think she’ll be suffering during your two or three days?’ Robin’s tone was charged with emotion. ‘No thank you, Martin. They can have their twenty thousand, damn them! If that doesn’t get her back — if, as you predict, they keep stalling, try some other dodge —’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. But this time I’m paying.’

  Martin did not try further argument. Although in the past Robin had usually been content to follow his decisions, there had been occasions when he had dug in his heels and refused to budge. This, Martin guessed, was a similar occasion.

  ‘Well, it’s your wife and your money,’ he said tartly. ‘Which makes it your decision. Your responsibility too.’

  ‘It doe
s,’ Robin said, with equal acerbity.

  To ease this outburst of hostility, Polly said, ‘I know it seems unlikely, but I supposed the bank couldn’t have marked those notes?’

  ‘Without my authority?’ Robin shook his head. ‘No way. They wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘No?’ Martin snapped. ‘You accused me of marking them, and you’ve a damned sight more cause to trust me than a bloody bank manager.’

  ‘I didn’t accuse you, I asked you. Anyway, I apologised, didn’t I?’

  ‘Nevertheless we’ll check. What’s his name, Polly?’

  ‘Baldwin. Stuart Baldwin.’

  ‘Get him on the blower, then.’

  ‘At this hour? It’s after eleven.’

  ‘So what? Get him out of bed, if necessary. We need to know now, not tomorrow.’

  The manager was not in bed. When he learned the reason for the call his initial frostiness turned to sympathy mixed with indignation. Of course the notes had not been marked! That would have been contrary to Mr Granger’s instructions and grossly unethical. Clearly this was a ploy to extort a yet larger sum out of a distraught husband. Mr Granger had his sincere sympathy, the manager said, but it was to be hoped he would not even consider acceding to the kidnappers’ demands without first consulting the police. However, the bank would have the money available in the morning.

  ‘He talks sense,’ Martin said, when Polly had repeated the telephone conversation. ‘But like I said, it’s your decision, Robin.’ He sounded more amiable. ‘Did the kidnapper say when he would be in touch again?’

  ‘No. I suppose they’ll ring in the morning, as they did today.’

  ‘And they’ll probably follow the same procedure for the drop.’ Martin paused. ‘Do you want me to do it? Or would you prefer someone else? Simon Mallett, for instance. It’s up to you.’

  Robin hesitated. He knew that to prefer Simon, or anyone else for that matter, would be to kill an old and treasured friendship. He had to trust Martin. And he did, he told himself, he did. His momentary doubt had been an hysterical expression of the strain under which he was labouring, and almost instantly regretted. For Martin was right. In the time available he could have marked no more than a few score of the notes, and he would certainly have chosen a more subtle method. Much as he might deplore the decision to pay, his fondness for Karen would not have allowed him to endanger her by embarking on a last-minute half-baked attempt to defeat that decision. Besides, as an experienced policeman, Martin was far better equipped than Simon Mallett to deal with an emergency should one arise.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not, Martin. I’d rather it were you. Can you manage it?’

  ‘I’ll manage it,’ Martin said briskly, his integrity as a friend confirmed.

  He would be unable to spend yet another afternoon on tap at the Hall, he said. Although the C.I.D. were given a reasonably free hand they still had to account for their time, and with the kidnapping not yet officially reported he was left with a large blank. But he would keep in touch with both Robin and the station, and unless summoned earlier he would be at the Hall around six o’clock. ‘We’ll have her back tomorrow,’ he said, patting Robin’s shoulder. ‘And that’s a promise.’

  It was a promise he was in no position to keep, Polly reflected as she saw him to the front door, although presumably it was intended as encouragement rather than as a commitment. Watching the lights of his elderly Humber disappear down the rain-swept lane she wondered about him. When she wasn’t hooked on Simon Mallett or Robin, as she some-times imagined herself to be, there was always some other man in her life. But never Martin Beck. He might attract some women, she thought, in a sombre, Heathfield-like way, but not her. When the Grangers entertained Martin they usually invited her to make a fourth, yet although she was there ostensibly as his partner there was never any sexual affinity between them. He was a cold fish, she thought, emotionally frigid. She knew Karen had been his girl-friend before Robin appeared on the scene, but she could not believe he had ever been passionately in love with her. More likely he had seen her beauty as a prize to be displayed, provoking the envy of his male friends and colleagues and inflating his own ego. So maybe he’s just a man’s man, she reflected. Certainly Robin valued his friendship. And Martin’s behaviour over the kidnapping — sublimating his instinct as a policeman and perhaps risking a reprimand for neglect of duty — was proof, if proof were needed, that the friendship was well founded.

  A gust of wind showered her with raindrops. She closed the door and went back to the study. Robin sat where they had left him, elbows on knees, his bowed head resting on his hands.

  ‘Time you went home, Polly,’ he said, without looking up.

  His utter dejection touched her heart. She longed to comfort him, to put her arms around him and hold him close. He needed physical consolation, not the banality of words, and if he wanted her she would be happy to share his bed. But would he want her? During the six months she had worked for him their relationship had become close, but there had never been a hint of sex in his attitude towards her. He behaved more like a fond uncle; affectionate and thoughtful, generous with praise but prepared to scold when a scolding seemed merited. To embrace him now, to show tenderness towards him, might create the impression that she was taking advantage of Karen’s absence and his own misery.

  And yet — ‘I could stay if you like,’ she ventured.

  He looked up. ‘You could not,’ he said. He gave her a wan smile. ‘But I appreciate the offer.’

  She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean —’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a dear girl, Polly, and I love you, but I’d rather be on my own. Or I think I would. So go home, eh, before I change my mind.’

  What had he meant by that? she wondered as she drove away through the pouring rain. Change his mind about preferring to be alone, or about refusing her offer — which, despite his ready acceptance of her denial, she suspected he had interpreted correctly? Not that it really mattered. She had never been adept at concealing her emotions, and long before tonight he must have realised that she found him attractive. Why she found him attractive she couldn’t say. He wasn’t handsome or beautiful, like Simon. Rather too thin for such a tall man, with round shoulders and large hands and feet, and receding hair that had already started to grey. Perhaps it was the warmth in his voice, his eyes, his smile. Or perhaps it was nothing in particular. Just — well, his personality.

  It was past two o’clock when Robin went upstairs, to rest if not to sleep. Before that he had gone out to the portico, where he stood watching the rain and thinking about Karen. Was she locked away in some dingy little room, incommunicado except when one of her captors brought her food, with only the minimum of furniture? How primitive were the toilet facilities? Karen was fastidious about cleanliness and personal hygiene. Accustomed to luxury and comfort and warmth, and good food attractively prepared, how would she cope with none of these available? They would have no cause to maltreat her, yet her mind must be haunted by the fear that she might never leave her prison alive. What would that do to nerves already shattered by her seizure and captivity?

  Polly again arrived early at the Hall the next morning, to prepare his breakfast and take it up to his room. But the bed was empty. Unable to sleep, Robin had sought solace in the bath, hoping that the steaming water would relax his tiredness. ‘I’ll come down,’ he shouted when she called to him. ‘Leave it in the study. I shan’t be long.’

  Mrs Huntsman had just arrived and was removing her coat and gumboots in the back hall when he came down. ‘Good-morning, Mrs Huntsman,’ he said. Then, aware that she would expect something more than that, ‘How’s the weather? Still raining, is it?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s stopped. But the lane’s a regular mess. Nothing but puddles.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘Not after yesterday’s downpour. Well, if you’ll excuse me — my breakfast is getting cold.’

  Mrs Huntsman joined Polly in the kitch
en. Packing crockery into the dishwasher, she said, ‘Will Mrs Granger be wanting me Sunday, Miss, do you know?’

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘In the evening. She’s got guests coming, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Has she? I didn’t know.’ Polly paused to consider. Karen’s absence the previous day must have aroused Mrs Huntsman’s curiosity, and the curiosity would grow as the morning passed. She had to be given an explanation, and since the truth was taboo an explanation must be invented. ‘I’ll ask her when she gets back.’

  ‘Ah! She’s away, then, is she?’

  ‘Yes. Left Tuesday evening. Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘No, Miss. But I thought as how she must be. Her mother, is it?’ Crossing her fingers, Polly nodded. ‘Mrs Granger was telling me only last week how she was worried about her. Heart, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ That at least was true.

  Mrs Huntsman switched on the dishwasher. ‘He’s really potty about her, isn’t he?’ she said.

  ‘Who? Mr Granger?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, she’s only been away a couple of nights, and there’s him looking like she’s gone for good, poor dear.’ She laughed. ‘My Arthur looks that way when I come back, not when I’m leaving.’

  Polly echoed the laugh. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t. And don’t forget they’ve only been married eight months. Actually, I think Tuesday was the first night they’ve spent apart. Still, she’ll be back tomorrow — we hope! Perhaps even tonight.’

  ‘So there’ll be just you and Mr Granger for lunch, then?’

  ‘Yes. How about a curry? I know Mr Granger likes it.’

  ‘So does she.’ Mrs Huntsman opened the refrigerator and surveyed the contents. ‘She didn’t say nothing Tuesday about leaving, so I suppose it was sudden like, was it?’

  ‘Very, I imagine.’ Poor Karen, Polly thought. Sudden it must certainly have been. ‘She hadn’t heard by the time I left.’

  ‘I see she didn’t take the car. But then she doesn’t like driving at night, does she? Specially that late. And the train’s quicker, of course. Would chicken be all right?’