‘I imagine they were a bit taken aback to find CID taking an interest.’
‘Not at all. DS Radcliffe had already been on to them first thing today, asking to speak to Rodriguez. Not surprisingly, he wasn’t there. Radcliffe spoke to his partner – a Mr Tomas Rodriguez, a cousin – who told him in confidence that he was concerned because they’d had a fax saying that Miguel had been taken ill over the weekend and was in a clinic where he’d been diagnosed as suffering from nervous exhaustion and had been ordered complete rest.’
‘Is that the new lead DC Hill mentioned?’
‘One of them. Not that it’s got us very far. The fax was from a Doctor Laben, who the cousin says he’s never heard of, and there was no address of the clinic or any other clue as to where it came from. Tomas is seriously concerned; he’s been on to Roddy’s GP who said categorically that the story about nervous exhaustion was a load of eyewash. Tomas wants us to do everything we can to find Roddy and, needless to say, Andy assured him we’d be doing just that.’ Castle gave a wry grin as he added, ‘He explained that we wanted to check on one or two details about one of Roddy’s customers, but of course he didn’t let on just how anxious we are to find him.’
‘So Tomas Rodriguez doesn’t know that his cousin is suspected of being the Phantom Robber?’
‘No. That’s something else we’re keeping under our hats for the time being.’
‘Isn’t there any way of tracing the fax?’
‘Apparently not – the source has been deliberately withheld.’
‘So it looks as if your guess was right and Roddy really has been abducted.’
‘It’s looking more and more likely.’ Castle gave an exasperated sigh, pushed his notepad aside and ran his thin, tapering fingers through his crisp brown hair. ‘Whichever way we turn we seem to run into the sand.’
‘You said the fax was “one” of your new leads. What others have you got?’
‘A local dealer called to say that someone he’d never seen before had been in his shop on Saturday offering to sell a clock and a pair of vases. He said he had a feeling the things were dodgy and made an excuse that they weren’t his line and his partner would have a better idea of what they were worth, so he told the chap to come back this morning and meanwhile got on to us.’
‘You reckon the stuff was from Bussell Manor?’
‘It could well be – clocks and vases were among the items missing. We’ve had a man waiting all day at the back of the shop, but the chap never showed. Maybe he smelled a rat – or maybe he wanted to get rid of the stuff quickly and offered it elsewhere.’
‘You think it might have been Crowson?’
‘The shop owner lent us the video from his security camera, but the image is pretty poor. We’ve asked Tomas to come and look at it tomorrow to see if he can identify the man. If it is Crowson – or Morris – it’ll take us a step forward, but it won’t be a lot of use if we can’t find him.’
With a sudden, irritable gesture Castle flung down his pen, got up and went over to the window. He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and began tossing it up in the air and catching it, over and over again. It was a nervous habit when he was wrestling with a problem and Sukey knew better than to interrupt his train of thought. After a moment he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this case, Sook.’
‘Why do you say that?’
He swung round and came back to his desk, perching on one corner, still restlessly tossing the keys. ‘There’s so little to go on. Our chief suspect has disappeared into thin air in very suspicious circumstances. Two of his associates have also gone missing and the blood on that throw seems to indicate that at least one of them didn’t go quietly.’
‘I take it there’s no news of Morris either?’
‘He lives in Hucclecote and according to neighbours he’s a bit of a loner. We’ve been asking around, but so far we haven’t found anyone who can remember seeing him since last Thursday, or who’s noticed anything unusual.’
‘Do we know when the incident in Vine Close took place?’
Castle shook his head. ‘So far we’ve drawn a blank there as well – we haven’t been able to find a single witness who saw anything suspicious. Whoever attacked and abducted Crowson – we have to assume for the moment that he has been abducted, and probably Morris as well – was evidently looking for something.’
‘Part of the proceeds of the Bussell Manor job?’ Sukey suggested.
‘That’s the theory we’re working on at the moment. I’m willing to bet that the two are connected and if the video pictures do identify Crowson, that should clinch it. All we have to do now is find him and Morris – but even when we do, I doubt if they’ll be telling us much.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re small fry, just a pair of gofers who did the fetching and carrying and got paid accordingly. They could have decided that they weren’t getting enough. Suppose they got greedy? Suppose that when they went to Bussell Manor to pick up the stuff on Mr Big’s shopping list they decided to take one or two extra bits for themselves? If it was Crowson who offered them to Harker – that’s the dealer who contacted us –he might have suspected a trap when he was asked to go back another time. What if he went elsewhere, maybe to someone who recognised the stuff and passed the information to someone other than the police?’
The implication was obvious and Sukey felt a twinge of goose flesh run along her spine. ‘To Mr Big, you mean? That wouldn’t make him flavour of the month, would it?’
‘Exactly.’ Castle thrust the keys back into his pocket and stood up. His expression was grim. ‘That’s what’s giving me the bad feeling. I think this is going to turn into a murder enquiry.’
‘Jim talks to you as if you were a real detective, doesn’t he, Mum?’ Fergus looked up from his helping of shepherd’s pie, his eyes sparkling with admiration.
‘I suppose he does,’ Sukey said, conscious of a little glow of satisfaction at the thought. It was Monday evening and they were having supper in the kitchen, as they usually did when it was just the two of them. In response to her son’s eager questioning, and having impressed on him that it was in the strictest confidence and he was not to pass any of the information to anyone, not even Anita, Sukey had brought him up to date with the day’s events.
‘You were talking a while ago about going back into the force and joining the CID,’ Fergus went on. ‘Have you thought any more about it?’
‘Yes, and abandoned the idea – for the time being at any rate. Maybe when you’ve gone off to university – by the way, have you decided where you’re going to apply?’
‘Mm… not really,’ Fergus responded through a mouthful of mashed potato. ‘Never mind that for the moment, Mum – tell me more about the hunt for the Phantom Robber and his accomplices. Does Jim really reckon the two gofers have been topped?’
‘He thinks it’s a strong possibility.’
‘I said I thought there’d be some bodies, didn’t I?’ Fergus spoke a trifle smugly and his mother shook her head, frowning.
‘We have to hope they’ll turn up safe and sound,’ she reproached him. ‘They might be villains, but they’re human beings.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Fergus considered for a moment or two while he cleared his plate. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘That would help with the enquiries, wouldn’t it? – if you could get them to sing, I mean. But even if they did turn up, the heavies would probably have put the frighteners on them so that they’d be too scared to open their mouths.’
‘You know your trouble, my lad,’ said Sukey as she took their empty plates to the sink and began serving apple crumble and custard, ‘You watch too many police series on TV.’
Fergus grinned, unabashed. ‘They’re based on real life, aren’t they? Or I suppose it would be more accurate to say, “real death”.’
For the second time that day Sukey felt a chill of apprehension. ‘Let’s talk about something else, shall we?’ she said.
/> The following morning, a man out walking his dog spotted the body of Jack Morris among reeds in a creek off the River Severn. An intensive police search led to the discovery a short distance away of a second corpse, identified by a hysterical Donna Hoskins as that of Alan Crowson. Both men had been shot in the back of the head; Crowson showed signs of having been beaten before he died.
Eleven
The summons came the following evening. Roddy had passed an uneventful day swimming or lazing by the pool, trying on some of his new clothes, browsing with only a passing interest through one or two of the wide selection of books he found in his bedroom and eating the food served to him by Isabella. He was about to enjoy his pre-dinner cocktail when, without prior warning, Juan emerged from the villa.
‘You are to come with me,’ he announced, without returning Roddy’s greeting. ‘El Dueño has sent for you.’
‘Fine,’ said Roddy cheerfully. ‘I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished my drink. Would you care to—?’
Juan reached out and took the glass from Roddy’s hand. ‘We go immediately,’ he said in a tone that made it clear there was no point in arguing.
They travelled in the white Mercedes in which the two of them had been driven from the villa on that memorable shopping expedition. They had the same white-uniformed chauffeur, but this time they were escorted by a powerfully built man whose eyes were screened by the ubiquitous dark glasses – a swarthy, black-haired android with impassive features and a tell-tale bulge in the jacket of his fawn linen suit. He made no response to Roddy’s ‘Buenos días’ as he opened the rear door for him and Juan to enter and closed it behind them. He took his place in the front passenger seat and from then on, apart from a muttered instruction to the driver, did not utter a word. The oppressive aura created by his presence reduced even the normally loquacious Juan to virtual silence.
The journey lasted about half an hour and at first followed the same route as they had taken the previous day. They swept at speed through the little town while the other traffic seemed to melt away as if the Mercedes was an emergency vehicle with siren shrieking and blue lights flashing. Among the evening crowds thronging the pavements Roddy noticed people watching their progress with what seemed an awed, respectful interest; as they passed through the main shopping centre he recalled the obsequious, fawning manner of the proprietors as his purchases were carried to the limousine by nervous assistants. It all served to reinforce his conviction that the entire population was in thrall to the all-powerful figure whom he knew only as El Dueño. The indications were that he was about to learn the cost of the pampered existence so arbitrarily foisted upon him. He trembled at the prospect.
On leaving the town they followed a tortuous route overhung with lush vegetation, with occasional gaps affording stunning views of forest and mountains which he was in no mood to appreciate. The road ended at a high, white wall topped with metal spikes and pierced with slits like a medieval castle. Massive wrought-iron gates swung open in response to an invisible signal and the big car swept through. A circular drive led past green lawns, dotted with tall trees, brilliant flower-beds and sparkling fountains, to the house of El Dueño.
It was built on the lines of a colonial mansion, with a decorative frieze under the low-pitched roof and a balcony, supported by slender stone columns, which appeared to encircle the building. In the centre of the facade, shaded by an elegant portico, was a pair of massive wooden doors that, as the entrance gates had done, swung noiselessly apart at their approach.
Their mute escort led Roddy and Juan across a lofty entrance hall, up a curving marble staircase and along a corridor. Everywhere were signs of unbelievable opulence; the wry thought crossed Roddy’s mind that, if this were the house of some wealthy customer, he would be mentally looking for weak points in the security system. It would, he sensed, present a particular challenge; although no one else had so far appeared he had the impression that hidden eyes were on them every second. Such idle thoughts came to an abrupt end when, halfway along a corridor, they stopped in front of a double door of carved black wood. At the touch of a concealed button a low-pitched buzzer sounded and the doors slid apart. With his heart floundering madly in the region of his solar plexus, Roddy entered.
In his imagination, he had pictured El Dueño as a thickset, bull-necked thug sporting a lot of flashy gold jewellery and smoking a huge cigar. Instead, he found himself shaking hands with a tall, silver-haired, quietly dressed man with velvety brown eyes and aristocratic features, who rose from behind a massive walnut desk to greet him in perfect, barely accented English.
‘Señor Rodriguez, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. Please, take a seat.’ He indicated an upright, upholstered chair facing his and Roddy, somewhat bemusedly, obeyed. ‘Allow me to offer you a drink,’ his host continued. ‘Scotch? Bourbon? Or would you prefer one of your excellent Spanish wines?’
Beneath the urbanity, Roddy sensed a patronising note. Slightly nettled, and for the moment forgetting his perilous situation, he replied, ‘Thank you. I should prefer Scotch – our wines are best appreciated when drunk with food,’ and then wondered with some trepidation whether he had got off on the wrong foot.
A momentary lifting of one silvery eyebrow indicated that his remark had been noted as his host, with a snap of his fingers, directed Juan to a well-stocked bar with the remark, ‘I see you are a man of discernment.’ Juan poured two generous measures from a heavy decanter into engraved crystal tumblers and brought them on a silver tray before retreating silently to a corner. El Dueño raised his glass and inclined his head towards his guest. ‘Salud’, he said gravely. ‘I trust you are completely recovered from your journey – and your, shall we say, indisposition?’ A momentary twinkle lurked in the brown eyes on the final word.
‘Oh, er, yes, thank you,’ stammered Roddy. Despite the courteous reception, he was quaking inwardly. He swallowed a mouthful, and then another. The spirit slid down his throat like smooth liquid fire. That was better. No need to be scared. This was no Mafia-style gangster, but a civilised gentleman. Gradually, his pulse rate began returning to normal.
‘I trust you have been well looked after since your arrival in my country?’ continued his host.
‘Very well indeed. Just the same, I can’t help wondering what all this is about. I mean, being drugged and whisked off like a character in a story by Frederick Forsyth and then brought here – what’s the purpose of it all?’
‘You are no doubt aware that there was a serious risk of your being arrested for the robbery at Bussell Manor, and possibly spending a considerable time in jail?’
‘I knew the police were taking an unhealthy interest in me, yes, but—’
‘And your friend Wallis indicated that he was taking charge of the situation?’
‘That’s what he said – at least, he told me I’d be getting instructions—’
‘Which, I understand, you did not immediately obey.’ For a moment, the brown eyes lost their softness and took on a stony quality, while a hint of steel crept into the almost musical voice. Roddy felt his newly found confidence taking a dive. He reminded himself that, for all the cordial reception, he was a virtual prisoner in this man’s citadel.
‘I’d never seen the characters who came to get me,’ he protested lamely. ‘All I wanted was to check with Wallis that they were telling the truth. They might have been thugs out to rob me.’ He took another swig of Scotch.
‘We will overlook that momentary indiscretion,’ said his host smoothly. ‘So long as it is not repeated,’ he added before taking a delicate sip from his own glass.
‘Oh, er, no, of course not.’
‘You are aware, of course, that the Bussell Manor job was a failure from our point of view?’
‘I only know that Crowson claimed most of the stuff he and Morris were supposed to take had already gone. He was convinced I’d double-crossed them.’
‘And of course, you had done nothing of the kind?’
‘Of course no
t,’ Roddy insisted. ‘It has never entered my head – I told Wallis—’
‘And Wallis accepted your assurances. I have every confidence in his judgement – had I thought otherwise, you would not be here.’ The soft voice was suddenly charged with menace and the brown eyes, hard as granite, made the speaker’s meaning frighteningly clear. Roddy experienced a momentary stab of sheer terror before he went on in his normal tone, ‘I merely wanted to gauge your reaction for myself. Now, I owe you some explanation for your presence here.’ El Dueño paused to take another sip from his drink and signalled to Juan to refill Roddy’s glass.
‘I would appreciate that.’ Roddy felt himself relaxing again. ‘I mean, life here is very pleasant and all that, but what about my business, my partner? He’s my cousin, he’ll be wondering what the hell’s become of me.’
‘For the moment, he is under the impression that you are suffering from nervous exhaustion and are resting in a Swiss clinic. Bulletins on your progress will be sent from time to time – with your cooperation of course; it will be necessary for them to sound genuine.’
Roddy felt himself floundering again. ‘But why… I mean, what use can I be to you…?’
‘You are too modest. Expertise such as yours – and I am not speaking of your knowledge of wine – is too valuable to be allowed to languish in jail. From now on, you will use your mastery of electronic security systems exclusively on my behalf – as in fact you have been doing from the beginning. As a matter of interest, perhaps you can tell me how well protected against intruders you consider this room to be?’
‘Pretty thoroughly, I’d say.’ Out of habit, Roddy had been surreptitiously glancing round for signs of surveillance. ‘TV camera up there.’ He pointed to one he had already spotted, disguised as a light fitting and trained on the door. ‘There’s probably another covering the desk… yes, there it is, set in a corner of the silver frame of that mirror. I guess there are pressure-pads under some of the rugs, or maybe a heat-sensitive infra-red device linked to an alarm system… I’d need a bit more time to sus it out thoroughly, of course.’
Death at Beacon Cottage Page 8