Trent, dressed casually but expensively, wandered through the public rooms, apparently studying the magnificent furniture, furnishings, and paintings; in fact, noting the security arrangements. He completed his visit by a stroll round the grass border between the castle walls and the moat. He returned to his car, started the engine and drove out of the car park. Difficult, he thought, as he turned on to an A road; bloody difficult. But that, ironically, could be an advantage because the guards – and there could be no doubt that there would be guards on duty throughout the night – would tend to assume that security was too good for anyone to attempt to break in and would, therefore, have become slack.
A hot hatchback raced up to nuzzle the Porsche’s exhaust pipe, then nipped past; it was easy to visualize the sneering smile of the young driver. A fool, he thought, was someone who didn’t bother to read the odds. He dropped a gear, accelerated, and was doing just short of the ton when he cut across the bows of the hatchback, forcing the other driver to brake fiercely. The manoeuvre put him in a contented mood. So contented that he decided to raise the jackpot to fifteen million. After all, there’d been at least that much hanging on the walls of the castle.
* * *
It was impossible to ascertain without making pointed inquiries or risking a visit whether the drawbridge was raised at night. Since to do so would not only have been a good security move, but also the kind of gesture to be expected from a man as flamboyant in nature as Lumley, Trent decided that all planning would be based on the assumption that it would be up. The moat had to be crossed? A small inflatable could be used. Infrared and heat sensors? Heat could be concealed, movement could be slowed until the sensor failed to record it … Once inside the castle, they had little to fear because they would use as much force as was necessary. And even if they failed to stifle all alarms, by then it would not matter. The county police force had been so deprived of funds that on a normal night there were only a few cars on the roads and the odds were that they’d arrive far too late; even if, by some chance, the nearest patrol car had been in the vicinity and it reached the scene within minutes, it had to approach along the only road and a short burst from an Uzi would take care of it and its occupants.
Fifteen million pounds. Like winning the lottery. Ten for him, five for the rest of them. Ten million introduced one to the in-places of the world and the in-parties; ten million meant constantly renewing oneself in the fountain of feminine youth.
He began to sing Celeste Aida. Though no Domingo, he had a warm, pleasing voice. When still in shorts, a friend of his parents had tried to persuade him to join the church choir, which showed how bloody silly people could be.
* * *
Carr parked in front of the nursing home, walked up the slight slope and round to the main entrance. As he went in, a nurse, in conventional uniform, looked over the bannisters, halfway up the curving staircase. ‘Evening, Mr Carr.’
Something about her tone alerted him. ‘Has it happened?’
‘You’re the father of a seven pound ten ounces boy. Congratulations!’
He raced up the stairs, shouting his thanks as he passed her, along the corridor, and into the room. Gloria, propped up by pillows, looked tired, but as if she had been touched by grace. He kissed her and as she held him, they said things which if written down would have been nonsense, but which for them had complete meaning.
Eventually, he drew up a chair and sat. ‘Where is he?’
‘In the nursery.’
‘Was it bad?’
‘I think I shouted a bit, but I can’t really remember.’
‘Has he all the right bits and pieces?’
‘All present and correct.’
‘And you?’
‘I don’t feel like walking a marathon, but otherwise I’m fine … Oh, Mike, it’s like a miracle. It makes everything that’s happened worthwhile.’
* * *
They stole two four-wheel-drive vehicles from different parts of London and drove south at speeds which brought them together a quarter of a mile short of the private road to Ullington Castle.
They parked and two of them left to take care of the couple who lived in the gatehouse. That done – with casual brutality – they turned into the private road and carried on down until they turned off, crossed a field, and parked in the cover of trees and rhododendron bushes. They checked their weapons and equipment, pulled ski masks over their faces, adjusted their tight-knit gloves, left one man to guard their flank with an Uzi, cocked and ready, and carried on down to the moat.
Seen from the ground, the sensors on the outside of the castle walls had looked like standard units, which meant a limited range, but Trent never left anything to chance. When two hundred yards short of the water, he gave the order to drop to the ground and crawl. Each man suffered a familiar urge – to hurry things up so that the job was the sooner completed; each knew that to do so could spell disaster – and forced himself to move slowly. When they reached the water’s edge, they used a small bottle of compressed air to inflate their craft.
The wind was light, but even so they dared paddle only so slowly that twice it drove them back before they finally made the far bank. It took them a full twenty minutes to reach the castle wall, hampered by the warmth-retaining capes with which they’d covered themselves.
In the pursuit of visual authenticity, the restoration of the walls had been carried out so that their surface was rough and this gave Nick an easy climb up to the small window, that like all the others nearby was in darkness, but the climb had to be made so slowly that by the time he reached the window, it seemed that every muscle in his body was jumping. He secured himself with a suction safety belt, waited for some of the physical strain to ease, peeled off masking paper from an adhesive pad and pressed the pad against the glass; he used a glass cutter of his own design to draw a rough shape around the pad, then used the padded butt of the cutter to tap the glass until the rectangle broke free. He withdrew the pad, with glass attached, and dropped it into the pouch at his waist.
He took off the right-hand glove, oiled his finger tips so that any print would be hopelessly smeared, reached inside and felt the interior frame of the window. The surface of the wood was smooth and free of any external device; then the alarm trigger was sunk into the plasterwork. Triggers had to be connected to an electrical supply. He checked the surrounding plasterwork and felt a slight irregularity of surface that had length and constant direction. He used a small stone chisel to work unseeing, with the restrained skill of a diamond cutter, to expose the wires. When done, he eased them away from the wall and used a sound-emitting compass – since he could still not see what he was doing – to determine that two of the wires were alive. With the help of cutters, he cross-contacted the live two, cut the remaining two. Both open-circuit and closed-contact alarm systems were now neutralized.
He switched on a torch whose bowl had been masked with tape until it gave little more than a pinprick of light and shone it into the room. Trent had been right. Behind the small window lay the smallest room. He ran the light along the tops of the walls and across the ceiling and saw no alarm point. That made sense – one wouldn’t want the alarm’s sounding every time someone needed to relieve himself during the night. He opened the window, which swung inwards, and slithered through the small opening into the lavatory. He unwound from about his waist the coil of thin rope, with figure-of-eight knots at regular intervals, secured one end about the base of the lavatory pan, dropped the other through the window, signalled with the torch. That done, he sat on the lavatory and waited, cockily certain that even with the aid of the rope it would take the other two some time to join him; few possessed his monkey-like climbing skills.
They went out of the lavatory into the corridor, knowing that there must be parts of the interior of the castle where the alarms would be active at night, but not bothering to try to identify which ones because it wasn’t necessary. If an interior alarm went off when no exterior one had, it was human nature t
o believe that there could not be an intruder and the system must be at fault, so any response would be delayed and half-hearted. A sleepy, bored, unarmed guard could pose no real threat.
They checked two bedrooms, containing beautiful furniture but no occupant, and were back in the corridor when there were sounds from below. They ranged themselves along the wall, Trent nearest to the huge landing, on which two suits of full armour stood guard. A Dobermann turned into the corridor, head held high as it scented. It opened its mouth to bark. Trent used an aerosol to spray its face. It collapsed to the ground, whimpering, scrabbling desperately at its eyes with its front paws. The guard hurried forward, too concerned for his dog to pause to work out what had happened. A lead-filled cosh on the back of his head knocked him unconscious and fractured his skull.
They resumed their search for occupied bedrooms. All in that corridor proved to be empty, so they retraced their steps and crossed the landing to a second one.
Lumley and Lady Sarah slept in a four poster that was large enough to leave them looking rather lost. Being the kind of man he was, Lumley tried to scramble out of bed to defend his wife; a blow to the face broke his nose, a knee to his crutch doubled him up, and a kick that was aimed at his jaw but landed on the side of his neck left him helpless. Lady Sarah had time to utter one scream before she was gagged and bound. Turner had a quick fondle of her generous breasts before he followed the others out.
Angelique’s room, though considerably smaller than her parents’, was huge by any normal standards. Unlike the other bedrooms, it was not filled with beautiful antiques, but with fun pieces and posters, many of which were in doubtful taste; possessions littered the floor. She lay curled up under a single duvet, all that was necessary because of the central heating, and the head of a dachshund was on the pillow next to hers. The dachshund, dim even by the standards of the breed, took time to become alarmed. Before it could bark, it was slammed against the wall so hard that it died instantly. Angelique was a sound sleeper and only woke up completely when the duvet and sheet were ripped back. She was a modern girl and liked short nightdresses, less matching pants; hers had ridden up during sleep, leaving her without any modesty. Instinctively, instead of trying to run, she went to pull down the nightdress.
They taped her mouth and tied her hands and feet and then Turner was left to carry her over his shoulders while the others went on ahead, took out any other guards, and lowered the drawbridge. It was a job Turner greatly enjoyed.
22
As was usual, the police had wanted to contain the news of the kidnapping to enable them to set up aggressive defences, but that proved to be a hopeless ambition; even before they had spoken to Lumley in hospital, one of the Filipino servants, who’d lived long enough in England to sense the degree of loyalty held to be due to an employer, had contacted a national newspaper and been promised a four-figure sum if the truth of what he claimed was verified.
The detective chief superintendent gave his first press conference at three in the afternoon. He was never at ease with the media and he pointed out in aggressive terms that there was as yet no evidence to link this kidnapping with that of Victoria Arkwright and therefore the media must, for the sake of the victim, not try to draw any such conclusion. Moreover, the story must be treated with the greatest possible restraint.
As one of the television reporters said: ‘The daughter of one of the richest men in the country and a relation of the Queen is kidnapped by the same mob who raped that other girl silly and he tells us to play it with violets–stupid bastard!’
* * *
‘I don’t understand,’ Gloria said. ‘How can people be so foul?’
‘God knows,’ Carr muttered.
‘But you must have some idea. You deal with them all the time.’
‘The villains we handle are angels compared to this mob.’
‘The police will find her in time, won’t they?’
‘They didn’t find Victoria Arkwright.’
‘But Angelique’s almost a royal.’
He was about to say that in this context social position offered no advantage, but cut the words. Gloria would be far from alone in believing that because of her royal connections, Angelique Lumley must escape the appalling brutality to which Victoria Arkwright had been subjected. But both royal and commoner bled if pricked.
They had rigged a mobile warning system between downstairs and the nursery upstairs and the speaker began to broadcast sounds that were not immediately identifiable. ‘He sounds as if he’s choking,’ she said, as she stood. She hurried out of the room.
He stared into space. He had not given the blackmailer any information that could in any way have assisted this second kidnapping, he could not have provided his superiors with information that would have enabled them to prevent it, yet from the moment the news had broken, he had experienced a self-hatred even more bitter than any felt before …
She returned. ‘Just gurgling in his sleep.’ As she sat, she smiled self-consciously. ‘I suppose it’ll take time not to panic fifty times a day. It’s just that after we’ve been through so much…’ She was silent for a moment, then said: ‘When I was upstairs and looking down at him and realizing how extraordinary it was that he was there, I began to think of the poor girl. It’s agony for her, but it can’t be any easier mentally for her parents – perhaps it’s even worse in one terrible way because she knows what’s happening, they don’t and must imagine the very worst. How do people begin to cope with that sort of ghastly situation?’
‘If one has to do something, one just does it.’
She looked at him in some surprise. ‘But surely circumstances can be so terrible that it all becomes too much?’
‘No one’s ever found the limits of suffering.’
‘That’s an odd thing to say. You sound as if … Was it that awful for you all the time I was in hospital?’
‘Let’s drop the subject.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She was not quite certain for what she was apologizing.
* * *
‘They should be hanged,’ Freda said.
‘It’s like tiger soup,’ Wyatt replied. ‘First you’ve got to catch ’em.’
‘And when they’re caught, what’ll happen? They’ll be given a few years in jail and that’ll be all and they’ll be let out to do it all again. You tell me where’s the justice in that? What’s the use of the likes of them to the world?’
He said nothing.
‘Speak to anyone and they say that sort of people should be hung. So why aren’t they?’
‘Ask the politicians, not me.’
‘They’re supposed to do what we want.’
‘You’ve got to be joking. With them, it’s kiss the babies before the election, up yours after it.’
‘I was talking about it to Hetty in the supermarket. She says, give her the chance and she’ll pull up the rope herself.’
‘They didn’t pull a rope, they opened up a trapdoor.’
‘What’s it matter? If there were more like her and me, there wouldn’t be these awful crimes.’
‘But there’d be a lot more hen-pecked husbands.’
‘You hen-pecked? You’re more like a fattened capon.’
‘Steady on.’
She giggled. ‘I forgot that they don’t have their necessaries.’
They were silent for a while, then she said: ‘Hetty was telling me that she saw an advert in the local paper for exactly the house they want. She went back to the estate agent and asked if their place had increased in value by much. He told her that if anything, it had gone down. And when she said what I’d told her, that the manager of Mike’s building society had given him a second mortgage because prices had gone up, the estate agent said that if the manager did all his business like that, the society would very soon be bust.’ She yawned. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’
‘There’s that programme on the telly at ten-thirty.’
‘That’s all right. You stay down and watch it.’
She left the room. He checked the time. Twenty past ten. He stared across the room. Only the Lumley family knew how savagely they were suffering, but he could appreciate a little of their pain because he had talked to women who had been raped and to parents whose children were missing and he had seen the agony in their eyes. He hated the men of violence every bit as keenly as did Freda, but he was too much of a realist to believe that capital punishment would return. Those in power had for too long been beguiled by the siren songs of the liberals who could command public attention and who did not have to live near the real world where crime caused untold suffering. A kidnapping always faced the police with the need to make an impossible choice. The family wanted the victim back at the first possible moment, the police wanted time to plan, to follow up every clue however insignificant, to stretch the kidnappers’ nerves to the point where they might make a mistake. Yet time had not saved Victoria. How could the parents of Angelique meet the advice of the police not to pay the ransom immediately it was demanded when they must realize that not to do so must place her at risk of suffering similar appalling degradations to those that Victoria had? Could any parent hesitate and agree to follow the police’s advice?… Grant had said that his DCS was projecting the possibility that a policeman was working with the blackmailing mob. Some senior officers were ignorant bastards, incapable of realizing that no policeman could ever begin to consider working with such scum, whatever his reason for doing so … Mike’s contact had overheard two loudmouths mention MacClearey, presumably because of a proposed kidnapping that for whatever reason had not taken place, which meant that if only contact could have been made with them, vital information regarding the identities of the kidnappers might have been eased out of them – one way or another. Odd they should have been so voluble when the kidnapping of Victoria had shown the mob to be really tightly run, so that one would have expected them to keep their mouths shut in public places … His mind began to drift as he closed his eyes. Another odd thing was the way in which Mike’s house had increased in value when it seemed every other one in Everden hadn’t … He opened his eyes, sat upright, and silently cursed himself because into his mind had swept a shocking possibility. And it was no good his trying to excuse himself on the grounds that it was his job to be suspicious, since only a moment before he’d been criticizing Grant’s DCS for disloyal suspicions. The next thing would be, he’d start wondering who Freda entertained when he was at the station …
The Price of Failure Page 12