Another Man's Poison

by J F Straker

  ‘Stop it, Lucy!’ he cried. ‘For God’s sake, stop it!’

  Fourteen

  Both Karen and Lucy went early to bed that Saturday night. Karen professed to remember nothing of her session with Lucy; she seemed pleased when Robin told her it could well prove useful but, perhaps because something in his manner suggested he was not entirely happy with what he had heard, she did not ask for details. Tell me tomorrow, darling, she said, as she kissed him goodnight. Robin was thankful for that; he needed time to consider what he had heard and even more what he had witnessed. Lucy had a quiet talk with him before going upstairs. When we ask a person’s memory to dig into the past, Lucy said, we don’t always hear what we want to hear; we have to take the rough with the smooth. I don’t have to tell you that Karen is obviously a deeply sensual woman, easily stimulated, and you must remember that at the time of the assault she was at most only semi-conscious, if conscious at all. You saw how at first she tried to resist; that would be from instinct, because some-where in the deep recesses of her drugged mind she knew that that was what she must do. Once intimacy was established, however, this primary revulsion became swamped by a sensuality she was unable to control. It is even possible that, because she had come to associate sex with you, somehow in her confusion the man became you. So don’t start making instant judgments, Robin. Of course not, Robin said. But he said it more to ease Lucy’s mind than from conviction. With the memory of Karen’s undulating body crowding his mind it was impossible to think objectively.

  It was that memory that made him reluctant to go to bed. If Karen were in a passionate mood, would he be able to respond? If he could not, she would undoubtedly assume that her session with Lucy was in some way responsible and demand to know how; and that was something which, for both their sakes, he could not explain. He recalled the headaches, the minor indispositions, the fits of irritation and unreasonableness to which she had been prone in the weeks following the kidnapping and which had prompted the holiday in Barbados. He remembered how she had recoiled from Maria Foley’s embrace, the omission of the customary kiss between her and Derek on the latter’s visit after their return. Could it be that at the back of her mind there had remained a vague awareness of the rape, too nebulous to put into words yet sufficient to unsettle her and make physical contact with a black person repugnant? Was it not even possible that her aversion to a police investigation into the kidnapping had been based on fear that the rape might also be revealed? Yet there had been no hint of alarm in her manner when she found herself pregnant, and the nursery bore witness to her happy anticipation of becoming a mother. Had she then assumed that, because they had dispensed with contraceptives some weeks before the kidnapping, conception must already have occurred and that the child would be his? Or was he torturing himself unnecessarily? Had he no cause for doubt? Was Karen’s conscious memory of the rape as blank as he had hitherto believed it to be?

  Derek’s attempts at conversation had met with such little response that he had finally abandoned the effort and had switched on the television set to watch the late night film. Robin’s eyes too had been focused on the screen, although the images there had made no impact on his mind. Now he pushed away the doubts and fears and tried to concentrate on Karen’s answers to Lucy’s questions; for whatever the depth of her involuntary response to the rape it could not abate his determination to find and punish the man who had committed it. So what fresh information had he gathered? He knew that the room in which Karen had been confined was probably on an upper floor and within earshot of a railway; interesting facts, but of only minor importance. He knew the woman’s Christian name and her probable nationality; that she had been Welsh had been his impression also. He knew more about her appearance, her hands and her hair and the kind of clothes she favoured; enough, surely, to recognise her should he meet up with her. But who were the Peacocks, where did they fit in? A study of the local telephone directory had revealed that seventeen Peacocks were listed, and those the woman had mentioned did not necessarily have to be on the telephone. Yet it was the only surname he had. How did he check it out?

  Derek got up and switched off the television. ‘What a load of tripe!’ he commented. ‘Or didn’t you notice?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Robin said. ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘I know you were thinking. That’s why I’ve been watching.’ Derek poured himself a brandy. ‘How about you?’ he asked, holding up the decanter.

  ‘Please.’

  Derek brought the drinks to where Robin sat. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to know where your thoughts were,’ he said. ‘Back with Karen on the hypnotist’s couch, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to crowd you. But do I or don’t I get to know?’

  Robin hesitated. He had confided in both Martin and Polly. Even Simon Mallett now knew the truth. So why not Derek, the man who, next to Martin, he most valued as a friend? Particularly as Derek had been instrumental in engaging Lucy’s help. Loyalty to Karen, already frayed in this respect, forbade any reference to rape. A sort of prurient stigma surrounded rape, and Karen would rightly condemn him were she to learn that he had divulged, quite unnecessarily, that she had been a victim. But kidnapping aroused sympathy, not prurience. Would it really trouble her if Derek knew of that?

  ‘Karen was kidnapped,’ he said. ‘In January. They held her for two days.’

  ‘Good God!’ Derek was properly shocked. ‘But it wasn’t reported, was it? How come? With you being a celebrity, I’d have expected it to be headline news.’

  Robin explained why the matter had been kept secret from both the police and the news media. ‘But I hated letting the swine get away with it,’ he said. ‘So I decided to try and track them down myself. Unfortunately Karen could remember nothing in the way of a lead. Hence tonight. Hypnosis was a sort of final throw in the hope of uncovering something worthwhile.’

  ‘You left it a bit late, didn’t you?’ Derek said. ‘Why wait for the scent to go cold?’

  ‘It wasn’t intentional. At first I was mainly concerned in helping Karen to recover from the experience. Emotionally, I mean. That’s why I took her to Barbados. Later — well, hypnosis simply didn’t occur to me. Not until a week ago, when Simon mentioned it.’

  ‘Who’s Simon?’

  Robin told him about Simon and the visit to Radcliffe Park. ‘Incidentally, Karen mustn’t know I’ve told you about the kidnapping. Okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ Derek remembered the brandy, and drank. ‘Was Lucy able to help?’

  Some, Robin said, and explained how. ‘The reference to the Peacocks sounds the most promising, if only we could find them.’

  ‘Popping round to the Peacocks’ suggests they lived nearby, doesn’t it? Only — well, nearby where, eh?’ Derek shrugged. ‘Radcliffe Park?’

  ‘Probably. But it’s still —’ Robin paused. ‘Popping round!’ Now, that sounds familiar. Could the Peacocks be a pub?’

  ‘Unlikely in the plural,’ Derek said.

  ‘Karen could have made a mistake. I’ll check, anyway.’

  No Peacock Inn was listed in the directory but, as Derek said, the pub could be entered under the name of the manager. ‘I’ll ring Simon in the morning,’ Robin said. ‘He’ll know. Or his father will.’

  Karen was asleep when they eventually retired, and he undressed and slid into the bed without waking her. Tired as he was, and despite the brandy he had consumed, he did not go immediately to sleep. He lay on his back, his mind a turmoil; and presently, as the warmth of her body reached out to him, he felt again the old urge to draw her close and began to reconsider the doubt that had troubled him. As Lucy had said, her initial behaviour on the settee had clearly demonstrated her instinctive attempt to repel the man. Could he really blame her if, in her drugged state, her inherent sensuality had finally caused the flesh to betray the mind? No doubt the unhappy memory of it would continue to haunt him. That was something beyond his control. But already it had created the semblance of a gap be
tween them, in his mind if not in hers, and if the gap were allowed to remain it could only widen. It had to be closed, and the sooner the better.

  Carefully he manoeuvred his body across the bed. She lay curled on her side with her back towards him and as his naked flesh touched hers he stopped and went rigid, holding his breath, willing her not to wake. For a few moments he lay still. Then he put an arm round her and slowly drew her close, a hand cupping her breast. He felt her stretch her legs and snuggle her body to mould it against his, so that contact was complete. But she did not wake, and presently he lifted his head and pressed his lips to her bare shoulder. At least the physical gap has been partially closed, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

  He managed to contact Simon Mallett after lunch, and after consulting his father Simon came up with the information that there was a pub called the Peacock’s Feather in Radcliffe Park. Why the interest? he asked; and when Robin explained he became excited and suggested they visit the pub that evening. I’ve a friend staying with me, Robin said, I’d have to bring him along. Why not? Simon said; we’re only going to inspect the place, aren’t we? ‘I’ll borrow Adele’s old banger; three’s a bit of a squash in the MG. Pick you up around eight-thirty, eh?’

  Derek was all in favour of the expedition, but Karen had other plans. ‘I’d thought of asking Polly and Martin to join us for dinner,’ she said, ‘and you can’t leave Martin to the mercy of us three women while you and Derek go off on a pub-crawl with Simon. Or would Martin be going with you?’ Heaven forbid! Robin thought. Wouldn’t that be giving Martin rather short notice, he asked. Why not invite him for lunch on the morrow? Polly would be there anyway, and Derek and Lucy were not leaving until the afternoon. Didn’t that seem a more sensible arrangement? On reflection, Karen agreed that it did. He wondered if she had guessed something of the reason behind the pub-crawl. Since she supposed Derek to be ignorant of the kidnapping, probably not. It would be for the same reason that she had so far refrained from referring to the previous evening, presumably waiting until their guests had gone. Although it was more than likely that she would pump Lucy about it while he and Derek were out.

  They were drinking their after-dinner coffee when Simon arrived. He made a fuss of Karen — an attempt, Robin supposed, to erase the memory of his previous aloofness — but he was clearly startled and embarrassed by Derek and Lucy, neither of whom he had previously met. Recalling his undisguised aversion to the coloured population, Robin realised that the evening’s arrangement had been a mistake. But the mistake could not now be rectified. He would have to trust in Simon’s inherent good manners to avoid any unpleasantness.

  Adele’s ‘old banger’ was a twelve-year-old Mini, well preserved. Robin had warned Simon not to refer to the rape in Derek’s hearing, and as they drove to Radcliffe Park, with Derek on the back seat and himself beside the driver, he repeated Karen’s description of the female kidnapper. Mention of the train Karen had thought to hear aroused Simon’s particular interest; it confirmed his belief, he said, that she had been held captive in Canal Street, for a branch line, now little used and reputedly scheduled for closure, ran south of the canal and roughly parallel to it. From a room at the rear of one of the empty warehouses she might not have heard the traffic on the road, but she could certainly have heard a train. And the proximity of the Peacock’s Feather gave additional confirmation.

  The external appearance of the pub was depressing. Architecturally insignificant, with a dreary facade, it stood near the junction of two narrow residential streets. Simon parked the Mini against the opposite kerb and they sat peering at it from across the road while they discussed the next move.

  ‘Obviously we have a drink,’ Derek said. ‘But what then? Ask if she’s still around? Or is that too obvious an approach?’

  ‘Obvious and futile,’ Simon said. ‘It’s nearly a year since the kidnapping.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Robin demanded. ‘Assuming she was living in the district in January it’s odds-on she still is, and if this was her local then it’s probably still her local. People don’t change their drinking habits. Not without a reason.’ He watched two negroes accompany a white girl into the pub. ‘We’ll chat up the barman and ask casually if she still visits the place. If the name doesn’t register we can give a pretty good description.’

  ‘Pretend she’s an old acquaintance, eh?’ Derek said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Derek chuckled. ‘In that case you’d best leave the talking to me. Neither of you looks right for the part. Not if she’s the tough cookie her performance with Karen implies.’

  ‘Okay,’ Robin said. ‘But remember to slur the name a bit. We don’t know whether it’s Gwen or Gwyn.’

  He got out, followed by Derek. Simon said he would stay in the car; they were unlikely to be long, and he didn’t want some young hooligan scratching the paintwork or slashing the tyres. Recalling his eagerness to participate in the investigation, Robin suspected his real reason for staying put was a distaste for drinking with Derek.

  They chose the nearer of the two entrances. The room was almost Victorian in decor, with plenty of plate glass and solid mahogany, and wooden settles against the walls. A modern touch was supplied by the plastic table-tops and chairs, and a machine belting out pop music in an adjoining room. No doubt unused to strangers in their local, the customers eyed them with curiosity as they walked to the bar, and then ignored them. Derek ordered pints of bitter and started a conversation with the barman. Adopting a creditable West Indian accent, he explained that he used to live in the district and then proceeded to enquire after a few fictitious local characters he claimed to have known in the past. The barman gave each name some thought, followed by a slow shake of the head. Derek expressed disappointment. ‘They must have moved away,’ he said. ‘Either that, or changed their boozer. Oh! How about Gwen Whatsername? She still around?’

  ‘Welsh Gwyn, you mean?’

  ‘That’s her,’ Derek said. ‘Red hair and big knockers.’

  The man grinned. ‘She’s in there,’ he said, pointing to a glass-panelled door in the partition. ‘One of our regulars, Welsh Gwyn is.’

  Unable to believe their good fortune, they took their drinks into the adjoining room. Here it was more crowded and noisier, with voices raised against the music. Almost immediately they saw the woman. She sat alone in a corner, her grey fur coat open to display large breasts bulging over the top of a low-necked blouse. One hand toyed with a near empty glass on the table in front of her, and when Robin saw the rings he gripped Derek’s arm.

  ‘There she is!’ he said excitedly. ‘That’s her, all right.’

  ‘Looks to me like she’s on the game,’ Derek said.

  ‘All the better. She’ll be looking for customers. We can go back to her place and tackle her there.’

  ‘Well, don’t rush it,’ Derek warned. ‘Buy her a drink first.’

  There was a slight smile on the woman’s face as she watched them approach. They put their glasses on the table and sat facing her. ‘Well, well!’ Derek said, leaning forward. ‘Welsh Gwyn, eh? Remember me, do you?’

  The smile broadened. ‘Can’t say as I do, dear,’ she said. ‘But then it’s not the faces I remember most, if you see what I mean.’

  They laughed dutifully. ‘Nothing above the navel, eh?’ Derek said, leering suggestively as he stared at her bosom. ‘Still, it’s been a long while. Over a year.’ He picked up her glass. ‘How about a refill? Whisky, is it?’

  She nodded. ‘And ginger ale. ‘Bout half and half.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Robin said.

  Remembering that this was the woman who had helped to kidnap Karen, who had kept her drugged for two days and nights, who had left her to the foul attentions of her black accomplice, it had taken considerable strength of will to sit opposite her without revealing his anger. Yet he was also elated. For all these months he had lived with the hope, vain as it had seemed, that one day he might catch up with the kidnappers.
Now, incredibly, he had the woman. And if the woman, why not the man? Properly handled, why should not the one lead him to the other?

  Derek and Welsh Gwyn had obviously furthered their relationship by the time he rejoined them; they sat close together and she had a hand on his thigh. She made no secret of the fact that she was a prostitute, and over her second double whisky she lamented the economics of the profession. She was sixteen when she started, she said, and doing nicely. Now, what with the depression and so many bloody amateurs competing, it was a different matter. ‘And they don’t half haggle,’ she complained. ‘You’d think I was bloody putting it up for auction. That’s why it was nice meeting you two. I could see you was different.’ She finished her whisky. ‘How about another, eh?’

  ‘I’ve a better idea,’ Derek said. ‘Why don’t we take a bottle back to your place?’

  ‘Impatient, dear, are you?’ She squeezed his thigh and looked at Robin. ‘I’ll get my friend, then, shall I? You’ll like her. She’s nice. Very chic.’

  She pronounced it ‘chick’.

  ‘No,’ Robin said tersely. ‘Let’s keep it friendly, eh? Just the three of us. All right?’

  ‘If you say so, dear. But I don’t make no reduction for numbers.’

  ‘We wouldn’t expect it,’ Robin said. He bought a bottle of whisky at the bar. If the evening went as he intended she would have no opportunity to enjoy it, but it seemed wise to maintain the pretence. As they crossed the road to the car and she saw Simon watching them from behind the steering-wheel she slowed.

  ‘You never said there was three of you.’ She sounded surprised rather than concerned.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ Derek said cheerfully, loud enough for Simon to hear. ‘He won’t be bothering you.’