A Fitting Revenge

by CA Sole

  I moved the Defender from the field gate back to the house, driving slowly. There was time now for some optimistic reflection. It was almost over. If Sandra kept her word, then Juliet would be back here later. Would she need help? Would she have to go to hospital? They would try to force counselling on her, which she would almost certainly resist. This was silly, I was getting much too far ahead. I should rather make sure that everything was in place for her return.

  I parked the car and went to the back door. A remnant of Tina’s blood still stained the paving. Before anything else I had to wash that away. If Juliet saw it, she’d be devastated, she might not even know that the poor dog was dead. That plan was dropped immediately when I saw the envelope that had been pushed under the door. The instructions for recovering Juliet, surely. Eagerly, I took the letter out and flattened it on the kitchen counter.

  You disobeyed my orders. I promised to kill her if you went to the police. Change of plan. I will profit from her, and you will not get her back. She has been sold to a buyer in the Middle East. You will live with the consequences of your disobedience for the rest of your life.

  That unforgettable memory: Peeling off the rock, falling. But now the pitons had all pulled out, and Giles was not there to save me. Tumbling over and over, the ground rising up in slow motion, knowing it would slam into me, break every bone and seal my doom. A mental scream. A vast emptiness. A vision of the end.

  It took me a long time to calm down, and eventually it was only when Carter and Vale arrived that I subsided into what felt like a mixture of cold fury and despair, if such a combination is possible.

  We were standing round the dining table. I didn’t say anything, merely handed the letter to Carter. Vale read it over his shoulder. He did not look at me, but pursed his lips and stared out of the window. Carter’s jaw muscles were working hard. ‘This is not a good development,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. My men could not get to the drop site in time, but they did see a short stocky man running away with a bag. He disappeared downhill towards the main road.’

  ‘I don’t think it would have made any difference if they had caught him,’ I replied. ‘This letter was not written by Wiggins, he doesn’t use phrases like “consequences of your disobedience”. This was written by his intelligent sister, Sandra. I told you, she has to have her way. I “disobeyed” her, which was a personal affront. It’s also possible that she was going to sell Juliet on anyway, and my actions simply provided an excuse. What now?’

  ‘This is a bloody mess,’ Carter answered, ‘but it’s not the end. We’ll get her back, Mr Forbes.’

  ‘How? Juliet’s life is in tatters.’ The admission weakened me, unsteadily I sat down.

  ‘Well, now that they know we’re involved, we can be more proactive. We’ll publicise the case, alert all ports and airports and put customs onto anything that might be suspicious, such as a container for a human being, or a patient being repatriated or such.’

  I pushed my despair away and forced myself to think rationally again. ‘If a wealthy Middle Eastern man is involved, he’ll not use a main airport. He’ll have chartered an executive jet, or even have his own aircraft that can leave from a smaller airport such as Farnborough or Blackbushe. The security and customs at the VIP terminals at those places are not as tight. Or, he might have a private yacht leaving from one of a hundred smaller ports or marinas. Sail over to France or Holland, transfer to an aircraft and it’s all over. Why don’t you pick up Sandra Collins?’

  Vale answered before Carter could reply, ‘Because we have absolutely no proof that she’s involved. It’s only your suspicion that keeps the interest on her, you have no proof. We can’t go around harassing people based on the suspicions of third parties.’

  ‘I’m going to do just that, Mr Forbes,’ Carter announced, countering his colleague, ‘If she is involved, then even an interview will slow down the process of abducting Miss Meredith.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Later Sergeant, we’ll discuss this later,’ The Chief Inspector snapped, staring hard, forcing acceptance of the order on his junior. Carter had previously shown himself to be a quiet and well mannered man who felt little need to exercise his authority, but he had just signalled that there were limits to that side of him.

  ‘Chief Inspector, Wiggins was in this area when he called me the first time today. He was able to get Juliet to say my name on that call. John Knott twice saw what might have been Wiggins, he hasn’t seen anyone else, so at this end of the operation he appears to have been working alone. He would not have had time to go anywhere else to get her to talk. She was or maybe still is in the proximity.’ I jumped up to start searching.

  Carter had not sat at the table, but remained standing. Now, he started to pace the room. ‘I know, which is why I have men searching the area already. Please relax and let them get on with the job. They won’t be much longer.’

  ‘John Knott is at work, so you’ll have full access to the big barn, but Harry Burbage is away on holiday until ... Monday, I think. However, I have keys to his barn and store. All the other stables and buildings are open.’ I took the keys out of the drawer and gave them to Vale who left quickly from the back door.

  When he was out of the room, I looked up at Carter and asked, ‘Inspector, do you believe me that Sandra Collins and the Wiggins are doing this, because it’s obvious that Sergeant Vale thinks otherwise?’

  Carter sat down at last. ‘Let’s just say it’s a strong possibility, Mr Forbes. Sergeant Vale is right in that we have no hard evidence and, until we do, it will be difficult to make a case. We need to find Wiggins, but he’s turned out to be a slippery fellow.’

  ‘I know I keep repeating this, but Sandra is orchestrating everything. She stays out of sight, removes herself from the action so she remains above suspicion. This whole thing, especially that letter, smells of revenge, spite and yet more money. Her brother Tony is the action man and his wife Mandy appears to be just a foot soldier.’ I shrugged my shoulders and added, ‘However, Mandy might be playing a bigger role than we think.’

  He drummed his fingers on the table a couple of times. ‘You think, Mr Forbes. I don’t think until I have evidence.’

  ‘Excuse me, but that’s rubbish. You’re thinking hard all the time, and I don’t believe that your thinking is very far from mine.’

  Carter’s dark brown eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘In order for Wiggins to check on my movements from here to the pillbox and then to the hut, call me and get Juliet to talk, he had to be close and move extremely quickly without being seen. Thinking about it, he must have had help. It would not be Sandra, she won’t be anywhere near here, it was Mandy.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’ Another bland, non committal statement.

  I had another thought, ‘I’m wrong! Wiggins wasn't close to me all the time, but he was watching me, more than likely from the wood from where he would collect the ransom, because the pillbox is fully visible from the wood. He knew what I was doing. It was in his words. When I demanded proof out there at the pillbox, he hung up. I didn’t notice the number, but the second call when Juliet spoke must have been from another phone. Wiggins had called someone else who was with her. If she wasn’t with Wiggins then, she might not be anywhere near here.’ I checked the recent calls on my phone. ‘Yes, look, this was Wiggins and the next number when Juliet spoke was different.’

  Carter made a note of the number. ‘I hear you. Let’s make sure your farm is clear first, then I’ll go and see Sandra Collins.’

  Vale came back in with a uniformed sergeant and gave me back the keys. ‘Unless you’ve got a hidden room somewhere, she’s not here,’ he said.

  ‘No hidden rooms.’

  The police left and took with them my involvement. Abruptly, I was left with nothing to contribute. I was in a vacuum. A part of me had been ripped away and I didn’t know how or where she was. What was Juliet doing, was she hurt, was she tied up, was she hungry, was she thirsty? Where was she? Fulfilme
nt would only come when I knew she was safe. The frustration of knowing nothing and not being able to do anything about it was consuming me.

  A generous measure of Scotch always helps, though. I sank the first one, poured a second, paced the room and fumed. This was not going to go unpunished. The trouble was that if I managed to find and deal with Wiggins to satisfy my rage, Sandra would continue with her plans for Juliet. It would be better to start with Sandra. But was Juliet held with her, or was it too late, was she somewhere else?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The rain continued on and off all night, and it was still falling lightly on Sunday morning. There was a depressing greyness to the world which matched my mood. It reminded me of Aberdeen, grey granite buildings under leaden winter skies. On top of that, once again I had hardly slept.

  Previously, before this nightmare, I would have dumped my woes on Tina to provided some consolation. She would have sensed my depression and nuzzled my hand, or sat comfortingly on my foot. Not now, though. She had been butchered in an act nothing short of barbarity. Previously, Giles and I would have drowned our sorrows over a beer or something, and I would have felt much better having shared my troubles with someone who genuinely cared and would think of ways to solve everything. Giles, however, was lying in a coma in hospital and would probably never be the same person again. Nevertheless, I needed to see how he was, maybe I could make a mental connection, unload to his subconscious and ease my worry in the process.

  I had nothing else to do that day, there was nothing I could think of to do. Carter was going to interview Sandra, and I was sensible enough not to jeopardise that. There was no way I was going to stand back and let the police hunt for Juliet without taking some part, though. I needed to think about what options I had, and a drive to Oxford would stimulate some thought.

  I never moved out of the left lane on the A34, except to twice pass very slow trucks on a hill. I was content to take my time, and the slower pace meant that I could devote more thought to my problems. At one point I realised the diesel had been making an unnaturally loud roar for some time and saw that the rev counter was indicating almost four thousand. I had not changed out of third gear! I moved it straight into fifth. I was a pilot, for heaven’s sake, it was my job to listen to engines, what was I thinking? Then I realised I hadn’t shaved that morning - for God’s sake, Forbes, get a grip!

  Nothing had changed in the ward except the staff. I introduced myself to the Ward Sister who was a younger version of the last one I had seen. She smiled brightly and greeted me with a cheery, ‘Good morning, Mr Forbes. There’s no visible change in Giles, I’m afraid, but he is improving. He’s more stable and out of danger, doctor says. The pressure on his brain is reducing very slowly and we’re able to respond to that accordingly. If he continues to improve at this rate, then we’ll be able to remove the respirator in a week.’

  We stood looking down at him, the nurse on one side of the bed and I on the other. Monitors played out his heart rhythm, blood pressure, pulse rate, blood oxygen levels and more, while his respirator pumped rhythmically in the background, its tube to his mouth taped in position. He seemed comfortable, head still swathed in bandages, but he was pale and thinning compared to my friend that spent most of his home life out of doors, summer or winter.

  ‘He’s a fighter, love,’ said the Ward Sister after a while, ‘his spirit’s still there. He’ll come back, but we can’t promise that he’ll be the same person you used to know. Actually, we’ve grown rather fond of him. Daft isn’t it? We’ve never seen him conscious, we don’t know what sort of person he is, but to all of us here he’s become our favourite patient. When we come on duty, the first thing any one of us asks is, “How’s Giles doing?” She gave a little laugh at what she thought was their silly affection.

  ‘I’ll be with him throughout his recovery,’ I said, ‘and I’ll make sure you know how he’s doing at home when he gets there.’

  She left me alone and, talking softly, I went over the whole dreadful saga with him. His future, whether Juliet would ever forgive me, whether she would ever come out of this current mess, Tina, Sandra, Wiggins, the ransom money, my potential bankruptcy, Mrs Potter and Henry, his house, everything. I talked myself to a halt. My psychiatrist slumbered. I wondered how different it would have been if he were able to help. We would have taken bloody Wiggins ages ago and Juliet would be free, that’s what the difference was. There was no point in deliberating on what might have been, so my thoughts drifted back to Giles' future. The chances of him returning to normal were slim, he was bound to be scarred in some way or another. Would he even know me? Would he recognise Juliet, his other great friend, the girl whose love he never won? I would have to wait and see, and deal with what arose to his best advantage.

  I felt a little better for having shared my fears and problems, but also because I had seen him and hopefully given him support. Did his subconscious recognise that? A subdued peel of laughter from the nurses at the ward desk brought me back to reality, and I closed the door softly behind me.

  By the time I left Oxford it was late morning and the roads were crammed with cars. Apparently a water main had burst and they had made a diversion, so progress leaving the city was slow. The traffic stopped for a while at one point. I was next to a park and idly watched an attendant picking up litter and putting it into a bin on a special cart. There was a small number of shiny little gas canisters on the ground as well as some brightly coloured balloons, now flat and lifeless. Just as Sandra had done in her flat a month ago, some idiots must have had a little nitrous oxide party the night before, inhaling the gas under control to get a high. It was dangerous fun, legal at that time, and it gave me a tantalising idea. It was something that had been sitting quietly at the back of my mind since Chile, ever since I had then recalled Sandra taking the stuff, but this reminder in the park triggered the formulation of a plan. Not to be done yet though.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Early on Monday, the house phone rang. Henry said his car wouldn’t start just when he was going out to buy some food for Giles’ dogs. I said I had a couple of bags that he could have and would take them over. After all, I wasn’t going to use them now, I thought bitterly.

  The three Labradors sniffed at the food when I unloaded it, but only one expressed any serious interest. I told them that they were too fat anyway and that beggars could not be choosers and that they should be thankful for a good home. Then I helped Henry start his car which only proved to be a flat battery. We chatted for a while and he said that neither he nor Mrs Potter had seen Sandra since she had told them they had to go, and that things were as normal as could be expected under the circumstances.

  On the way home, driving with my mind on Juliet, I was startled when my phone rang. Normally I would have ignored it and waited until I was back at the farm (after all, what could be so urgent I had to stop?). Maybe it was the whole situation, maybe intuition, but I felt it had to be answered. I pulled into a convenient spot. ‘Hello Harry, how was your holiday?’

  ‘Just back, mate. It was good and the missus enjoyed ‘erself. Keep ‘er quiet for a while now,’ he laughed, then became serious. ‘Ave you changed this padlock again, only I can’t get into my store?’

  ‘No, definitely not. I haven’t even been in that barn. Hang on though, the police were in there and they might have swapped the locks over by mistake.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Yes. There’s been a bit of trouble and they searched the whole farm. I gave them the keys.’

  ‘Well, I tried all the keys an’ none fit. What’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Harry, I’m about fifteen minutes away. If you can hang on, I’ll explain. It’s nothing to do with you, though.’

  ‘I’ve got to be off, mate. I only came round to get somefing. I’ll find you later. Meantime fix the lock, will you?’

  I put the phone away and carried on driving. What the hell was going on? Why were these padlocks being changed so often: the pillbox, Harr
y’s store? The pillbox was Wiggins certainly, he might even have been sleeping in there, but with the store it must be that the police had muddled things up. I reached the lane which led past the farm and the phone rang again. John Knott. He could wait, I would be there soon. The ringing stopped and started again almost immediately. Urgent! Against all my principles, I answered while still driving.

  ‘Alastair, the barn’s on fire. Harry’s barn’s on fire. Where are you?’

  ‘Two minutes,’ I yelled. ‘Have you called the fire brigade?’

  ‘No, I called you first. I’ll do it now.’ Daft bugger!

  I chucked the phone back into the dash shelf and put my foot down. I think I killed a stupid pheasant on the way. As the car skidded into the drive, I saw the smoke rising in the yard. In the house, I grabbed the keys, the bolt croppers and an extinguisher; not much use in a building fire, but that didn’t even occur to me. Gloves did, and there was a pair at the back door.

  The fire itself was not visible from outside the barn. The only indication was the thick black smoke escaping through the roof tiles. The main doors were not locked; Harry must have left them open. John Knott was hovering around outside looking agitated. ‘I called the fire brigade,’ he said, ‘what can I do?’

  ‘Stay there,’ I ordered. ‘Show them the way, but don’t come inside.’

  John peered over my shoulder as the door creaked open and a draught of hot air hit us in the face. He stepped back quickly. Harry’s cars were neatly arranged: the MG TC and Series 1 Land Rover were on either side close to the entrance, with the TA and the TF in the far corners at the back. The TF was ablaze, it was a wreck of bubbling paint, seat skeletons and smoking upholstery. The flames roared up to the roof where they had already taken hold of the beams. Bits of burning wood were ready to crash down followed by the tiles, and it would not be long before the other cars would be caught in the growing inferno.