by J F Straker
‘Fine,’ Polly said. ‘How do you mean — that late?’
Her husband, Mrs Huntsman said, had been in the yard, checking on a sick cow, and had seen the lights of the taxi — or what she now assumed had been the taxi leaving the Hall. ‘It sounded like the silencer had gone, Arthur said. Very noisy, it was. Are there any bananas, Miss?’
‘I think so. What time did the taxi leave, Mrs Huntsman?’
‘Oh — about ten, it’d be.’
‘Did he see it arrive?’
‘No. But then he could have been in the cowshed, couldn’t he?’
Polly was puzzled. So was Robin when she told him. He did not consider it important — it was in the past, it could not affect the main issue — but because it might have significance for the police and provided something on which to exercise his mind he gave it his attention. Simon Mallett had seen the Porsche, but not the driver, at eight-thirty; Arthur Huntsman had heard a car leave the Hall at ten. The logical explanation seemed to be that Karen had gone out for a while in the Porsche, returning some time before ten, and that the car Arthur Huntsman had heard had been that of the kidnappers. ‘I’ve no idea where she might have been going,’ he said. ‘Not at that hour. But there was nothing to stop her. She knew I would be late.’
‘Except that she disliked driving at night,’ Polly reminded him. ‘So it would have to be important, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. Well, perhaps it was. No, wait a minute! Simon had invited her to their party. Maybe that’s where she was going and then changed her mind when she saw the crush of cars in the drive.’
That was more likely, Polly agreed. ‘Did you know about this dinner-party on Sunday?’ she asked.
‘If I did I’ve forgotten. But I dare say she arranged it on Tuesday, while I was in London.’
‘What do we do about it?’
Nothing, Robin said. What could they do? Cancel it? They didn’t know who had been invited. But when Polly pointed out that it was now Thursday, that even if Karen were released that evening she would be in no state to discuss the matter and shouldn’t they at least make some provision against the possibility that to cancel it would be difficult, he became suddenly irritable. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Polly!’ he said. ‘Stop bothering me with trifles. Of course it can be cancelled. If not — well, we’ll hold the party at Giovanni’s. Now —’ He put a hand on the pile of correspondence on his desk. ‘Have you been through these?’
‘Not yet,’ she said.
‘Then let’s get on with it.’
Most of the correspondence followed a familiar pattern: fan mail, begging letters and appeals from charitable organisations, bills and brochures, a request for his autograph on a book-plate. There was also a letter from his father, an invitation to speak at a local literary luncheon and another to lecture at the National Book League headquarters in London. Deal with what you can, Robin told Polly, and leave the rest. They must wait until this business is over.
For no particular reason he had expected the kidnappers to follow the pattern of the previous day, and as the morning passed with no word from them he grew increasingly restless and anxious. He collected the money from the bank and ate his lunch in gloomy silence, only picking at Mrs Huntsman’s excellent curry. Polly, who was equally anxious but also hungry, tried out of sympathy to curb her appetite. It seemed heartless to enjoy food to which he was plainly indifferent.
Martin telephoned after lunch and again at four o’clock, and still there was no word from the kidnappers. Insidiously, the thought occurred to Robin that their demand for more money had been a ruse to gain time. They would argue that since he had not involved the police over their first demand he would not involve them over the second, but they would know that as soon as his wife was safely home the full force of the law would be unleashed to track them down. So had that second demand been made with no intention of collecting the money, but to gain twenty-four hours’ grace in which to dispose of their captive’s body and disappear? It was a terrifying possibility. When he voiced it to Polly she argued vehemently against it. Apart from the fact that twenty thousand pounds was a lot of money to forego, one of the kidnappers was a woman; and surely no woman would endorse the murder of someone who posed no threat and whose death could achieve nothing. But although she spoke with outward assurance it was as much to ease his anguish as from conviction.
Martin arrived promptly at six o’clock. He too was uneasy when he heard there had been no word from the kidnappers, but he refrained from adopting an ‘I told you so’ attitude. Polly was thankful for that. It would have added guilt to the anxieties with which Robin was already tormented.
The call came half an hour later. They were to follow the procedure of the previous night, the high-pitched voice said; Robin to wait at the Hall, his friend to take the money to the Knott’s Lane kiosk at nine. ‘And if you’re thinking of telling the filth where the drop was made last night, don’t bother. We’re changing the route.’
‘No police,’ Robin said earnestly. ‘I promise. But please! Let me speak to my wife.’
‘No can do,’ the man said.
‘But is she all right?’
The man rang off without answering. Robin’s relief that the nightmare could soon be over was tinged with nagging doubt. Was it significant that this time there had been no assurance that Karen was alive and well? Was this another double-cross, and of a frighteningly sinister nature? He tried to blanket the doubt with hope. But it persisted, and he knew it would remain until the final moment of truth.
As before, Martin left early with the money. Polly was all excited anticipation. Eager for action, she went upstairs to switch on the electric blanket in the big double bed and draw the curtains. What other preparations should she make? There had been no rain since the previous night, but Karen would be tired and cold and frightened after her ordeal. And probably dirty. Would she also be hungry?
She was in the bathroom, putting out fresh towels and checking the toilet accessories, when she heard the telephone. Running down the stairs, she swung round the newel post, making for the study. Then her steps faltered. Robin stood in the doorway and she knew from the glazed look in his eyes that something was terribly wrong.
‘What is it, Robin?’ She went to him and gripped his arms. Behind her the front door opened and shut, and a quick look over her shoulder told her that Martin was back. ‘What’s happened?’
His lips moved silently. When at last he found his voice the words came with difficulty.
‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘They — they’ve killed her.’
Five
‘Dead?’ Shocked and bewildered, Martin’s voice was aggressively harsh. ‘Dammit no, she can’t be! I don’t believe it.’ Nor did he. It was crazy, it didn’t make sense. Pushing Polly aside, he grabbed Robin’s arms and shook him. ‘Where is she, man? Where have they left her? They must have said.’
Robin shuddered. Freeing an arm from Martin’s hold, he rubbed his eyes and forehead.
‘They — they said — they said —’ He was breathing rapidly, as if close to tears, the words jerking out after each intake of breath. ‘Oh, God, how could they? They had the money, they —they —’
Martin shook him vigorously. ‘Pull yourself together, Robin!’ he said furiously. ‘Tell us what they said!’
Robin took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘They said — they asked if I knew the pond on Selsley Common. They said that’s where I’d find her, that — that —’
‘In the pond? Did they say in the pond? Did they?’
Robin’s eyes were almost shut as he tried to remember.
‘I — I don’t think so. No, they didn’t. But —’ His sagging body came erect as he realised the implication of the question. ‘You mean — ? Christ Almighty!’
He was off down the hall at a run. Polly made to follow, but Martin stopped her. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go.’
They went in his Humber. Selsley Common was some seven miles to the north-west, and Marti
n drove as fast as the night and the twisting lanes and the traffic permitted, swearing and cursing at slower drivers ahead, squeezing past them on the straight and cornering with tyres screeching. Beside him Robin swayed backwards and forwards as if urging the old car to greater speed. Then they were out of the lanes and into open and undulating country, the road twisting through wide stretches of heather and gorse and bracken. Clumps of trees stood out sharply in the moonlight.
Robin said hoarsely, ‘Do you know the pond?’
‘I know it,’ Martin said.
Half a mile further the headlights played on crossroads ahead, and he brought the car to a squealing halt beside a small copse. Grabbing a torch, he scrambled out and, with Robin close behind him, led the way along a well-trodden path that meandered between the trees. Then they were out in the open. Some thirty yards ahead was a large, oval-shaped pond surrounded by a concrete path, the moonlight shining on the water.
As they hurried towards it Martin swung the beam of the torch slowly round the perimeter. Almost at the end of its circuit, Robin gave an exultant whoop and broke into a run.
‘The seat!’ he shouted. ‘She’s on the seat!’
Clad in a pale blue negligee that now showed dark in many places, she lay on her side, knees slightly bent, looking in imminent danger of falling off. Her eyes were closed and when Robin spoke her name she did not stir. He went down on his knees and gently lifted her head with one hand while he felt for her heart with the other. Aware of its steady beat, he looked up into the anxious face of his friend.
‘She’s alive!’ Emotion choked him and he swallowed. ‘She’s alive, Martin!’
‘And probably drugged,’ Martin said. ‘Let’s get her home before she freezes to death.’
Refusing Martin’s help, Robin took the unconscious girl in his arms and carried her to the car. Still cradling her, he sat in the back while Martin drove. Her body felt cold and he held her close to give her warmth. Not a religious man, he found himself praying that no harm had come to her. It seemed to him then that he would be unwilling ever to let her out of his sight again.
As they came up the drive Polly was waiting in the open doorway, shivering with anxiety as much as from the cold. Overjoyed to learn that Karen was at least alive, she followed them up the stairs uttering words of hope and encouragement. Robin lowered his precious burden gently on to the bed and for a few silent moments they stood watching her. Her face was pale, devoid of cosmetics and streaked with dirt, the blonde hair unkempt and lustreless. Under the negligee the white silk nightdress looked reasonably clean, but the negligee itself was stained with food and grime.
Robin became practical. ‘Ring Doctor Ebbutt, Polly, will you? Tell him it’s urgent.’
Polly moved round the bed. A hand on the telephone, she said, ‘What will you tell him?’
‘The truth, of course. What else?’
‘I thought you wanted no one to know.’
‘That was before. It doesn’t matter now.’ He looked at Martin for confirmation. Martin shrugged. ‘Anyway, with a doctor it’s confidential.’
While Martin went downstairs to wait for the doctor they cleaned and tidied her, tenderly sponging her face and hands and feet and clothing her in a fresh nightdress. Handling the soft, familiar body, normally so responsive to his touch but now inert, was a strange experience for Robin. He longed to fuse it into life, to see her move and hear her voice. But at least she seemed to be breathing normally and for that he was thankful.
Doctor Ebbutt was a middle-aged Scot, bespectacled and with a trim beard. He listened in sympathetic silence to what Robin had to tell him and then bent to his examination: listening to her heart, taking her pulse rate and temperature, peering into her eyes, searching her body for external signs of bruising or other injury. Finally satisfied, he replaced the stethoscope in his bag and pulled up the bedding to cover her.
‘She’s pretty heavily sedated,’ he said. ‘Could be out for some hours yet. Probably one of the quicker-acting barbiturates, like sodium amytal.’
‘Will there be any harmful after-effects?’ Robin asked anxiously.
‘Well, she’ll be dazed at first, and her hearing and memory may be slightly impaired. But that won’t last, and physically there’s no cause for concern. Her pulse is a trifle slow, but otherwise she seems in good shape. How it may affect her emotionally I’m in no position to judge. People react differently to such an experience. Some take it more or less in their stride. For others it has a traumatic effect which may take months, even years, to erase. Much depends on how they have been treated. There are no indications that your wife has been physically maltreated, but she must have been under considerable strain. Would you say she was a stable character, emotionally speaking?’
‘I think so. She’s nervous at being left alone in the house after dark — we’re rather isolated here — but otherwise well, she’s not easily provoked or upset, if that’s what you mean.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Let’s hope she’s one of the lucky ones, then. If you have any anxiety about her condition when she wakes, give me a ring. Otherwise I’ll look in some time before lunch tomorrow.’
Polly saw him to the door and then returned to the bedroom. Robin sat by the bed, one of Karen’s hands clasped in both of his, his eyes intent on her face.
‘Why don’t you go down and talk to Martin?’ Polly suggested. ‘You must have things to discuss. I mean, for you and Karen it’s more or less over, isn’t it? For Martin it’s just beginning.’
‘Yes. But —’
‘I’ll call you if she shows any signs of waking. And it’s not fair to keep Martin hanging around. It’s late, he’ll be wanting his bed, poor man.’
‘You should be going home yourself,’ he said. ‘You must be worn out.’
‘Nonsense!’ she protested. ‘I’m used to late nights. My boyfriends insist on them.’
He looked at her and smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. But if you must stay, then stay the night. If it’s any inducement I’ll let you cook the breakfast.’
She laughed. ‘You’re too generous. How can I refuse?’
Martin was helping himself to a large whisky when Robin joined him. It had seemed to Robin that his friend’s consumption of alcohol had increased considerably over the past year. Not a good thing, surely, in his profession. Yet he had never seen Martin drunk, nor even slightly inebriated. Nor did he become talkative. If anything, the reverse was true.
Pouring himself a modest whisky, he repeated what the doctor had said. ‘And thanks, Martin, for all your help. And patience; I know I’ve been unbearable these past two days. But God knows how I’d have managed without you.’
‘You’d have managed,’ Martin said.
‘I doubt it. However, what happens now? From your end, I mean?’
‘That depends on what Karen can tell us. Still unconscious, is she?’
‘Yes. And could be for hours, according to Ebbutt. Depends on when the last injection was given. The questions must wait until tomorrow, I’m afraid.’
‘See you in the morning, then.’ Martin finished his drink. ‘Give my love to Karen when she wakes. I’m glad she’s safely back, even though I still disapprove of the method. Mine would certainly have been cheaper, if nothing else. And I never did take kindly to bully-boys. I prefer to call the tune, not sing it.’
Despite the mixed metaphor, Robin knew that was true.
Throughout their conversation he had been itching to be back with Karen, and as soon as Martin had gone he hurried upstairs and sat beside the bed and held her hand. She hadn’t moved, Polly told him; if this was sleep, wasn’t it strange that she should lie so still? Robin refused to be worried. She was never a restless sleeper, he said. And they had no knowledge of the drug’s effects on movement.
‘How about a cup of tea?’ Polly asked.
‘You wouldn’t prefer something stronger?
Tea was what she wanted, she said, and departed to make it.
Robin’s thoughts r
eturned to the doctor’s warning about possible after-effects. Surely the victim’s emotional stability was not the only governing factor? Wouldn’t the degree of mental stress involved be equally important? Forty-eight hours of captivity would be strain enough, but threats against her life could have increased it enormously. And although he had described Karen as a stable character, he realised that in the eight months of their marriage nothing had occurred seriously to test her stability. So wasn’t his belief based on assumption rather than experience?
Polly brought the tea and they sat on either side of the bed, drinking in a near silence. Occasionally Polly’s head would droop slowly forward and then jerk back, but when he urged her to go to bed she refused. His own eyelids were heavy, but will-power kept them open. I mustn’t fail her, he told himself; when she wakes the first thing her eyes must see is me. She has to know immediately that she is safe. There must be no dark interim period of fear, no matter how brief, before she is fully conscious. And only I can give her that assurance.
It was nearly one o’clock when her fingers twitched in his grasp. Her legs moved under the bedding and moments later she rolled slowly on to her back. He longed to gather her to him, but feared that his touch might alarm her. As her eyes blinked and opened he stood up and leaned over her. Fear contorted her face and she started to struggle into a sitting position. He put an arm round her shoulders and drew her to him. Trembling, she resisted.
‘It’s all right, my darling,’ he said softly. ‘It’s me, Robin. You’re safe.’
For a few seconds her body stayed tense. Then she collapsed against him and began to cry, great gasping sobs that racked her slender frame. Robin eased himself on to the bed and held her close, murmuring words of comfort. Polly decided it was time to leave. Despite the closeness of her association with them both, at that moment she felt like an interloper. For them, this was an occasion demanding privacy.
She doubted if either of them noticed her going.