Even Money

by Дик Фрэнсис

  The front door was open about two inches, and I began to fear that he might actually be inside the house waiting for me.

  “Are you in my house?” I asked him.

  There was no reply.

  “I need to know if you are in my house,” I said again.

  Once more, there was no reply.

  “Stop playing games with me,” I spoke firmly into the phone. “I am not going through my front door until you tell me where you are.”

  “Do as you are told,” he replied. “I’m in charge here, not you. Now, go into your house and get my things.”

  “No, I will not,” I said, my heart rate climbing again. “I will not go through my front door only for you to plunge your knife into me the same way you did to my father at Ascot.”

  There was a long pause from his end.

  “Are you still there?” I asked eventually.

  “I’m here,” he said. “How come your name is Talbot and not Grady?”

  I suddenly realized he hadn’t known that the man he knew as Alan Grady, the man he had murdered in the Ascot parking lot, had been my father.

  “My father’s name was really Talbot, not Grady,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. “Now, that might account for why I have been unable to find out about him.”

  He obviously hadn’t traced me through the inquest records because he hadn’t known which records to look at. But he must have known that my father was dead, I thought. The stabbing had been an expert job.

  “Are you in my house?” I repeated into the phone.

  “If I was in your house, I would have gone to the paint tin and taken what is mine by now.”

  Did I believe him? But did I have any choice but to go in anyway?

  I pushed the front door open wide with my foot until it turned on its hinges as far as it would go, almost flat against the wall. There was not enough space for him to be hiding behind it.

  “Have you got them yet?” he asked, making me jump.

  “No,” I replied.

  I stepped into the hall. I could hear nothing. I walked quickly down the hall past the cupboard under the stairs and into the kitchen. Everything from the kitchen cabinets was strewn across the floor. I stepped carefully through the mess to the house telephone, but there would be no using it to call the police. The wire had been cut right through. I went into the living room and found the same things had been done to both the phone and the cupboards in there. I had no doubt that the third extension, the one in the bedroom upstairs, would have suffered the same fate, but I still started up the stairs to check. Step three creaked as I stepped on it

  I thought I could hear a slight banging.

  I stopped to listen.

  The faint knocking sound came again, but I wasn’t sure of exactly where from.

  “Have you got the stuff?” Kipper said to me through the phone.

  “No,” I said. “I’m having a pee.”

  “Hurry up.”

  I put the phone down to my side and listened once more.

  I could definitely hear someone knocking. It was below me.

  I rushed back down the stairs and opened the cupboard underneath.

  Alice lay there on her side, curled around the vacuum cleaner and with her arms tied behind her back. She was banging her tied-up feet on the floor. A tea-towel gag had been wrapped around her face, so I pulled it down, and she immediately spat out a dirty dishcloth that was in her mouth.

  “Ugh,” she said, and was promptly sick on the floor.

  “You bastard,” I said into the phone.

  Kipper laughed. “Ah, you’ve found my little surprise.” He sounded pleased with himself.

  I went back into the kitchen, fetched a pair of scissors and cut through the plastic garden ties that had secured Alice’s wrists and ankles. She sat on the hall floor rubbing where the plastic had dug into her flesh. I put a finger up to my mouth in the universal “be quiet” gesture and pointed at the phone.

  “Phone the bloody police,” she shouted, ignoring me.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” said shifty-eyed Kipper through the phone. “Not if you want to see your wife again.”

  “Alice, I can’t,” I said.

  “Why the bloody hell not?” she demanded.

  “He’s got Sophie,” I said. “And he’s on the other end of this phone.”

  “Tell him he’s a fucking piece of shit,” she said with passion, continuing to rub her wrists. I was quite taken aback by her vulgarity. Alice had always been so prim and proper, at least within my hearing.

  Kipper had obviously heard what she had said because he laughed again. “Tell her she should be happy to be alive.”

  I didn’t bother.

  “Now, get my things,” he said, “and go back to your car.”

  What was I to do? I had to make him think that I still had them or he would hurt or kill Sophie. And I needed to set up a swap, I thought. That would be a good start, but, so far, I hadn’t actually worked out how to.

  But first, I needed something to swap for Sophie. I took a canvas shopping bag off the hook on the back of the kitchen door and started putting things into it. First, the wad of banknotes, the takings from Bangor races, came out of my trouser pocket and into the bag. Next, I took a clear plastic sandwich bag and put ten grains of rice in it from Sophie’s rice jar. Finally, the instruction booklet for the kitchen television, together with the TV remote control, went into the shopping bag as well.

  Alice stood in the kitchen doorway, watching me with wide eyes. “What are you doing?” she said. “Call the police.”

  I again put my finger to my mouth, and this time she understood. I also held up the cut phone wire, and she nodded.

  “OK, I’ve got it all,” I said into the phone.

  “Go and get into the car and drive back onto the A46 towards the M40.”

  “OK,” I said.

  I put my hand over the microphone and spoke to Alice. “I’ve got to go and give this to the man.” I held up the shopping bag. “I’ll come back here with Sophie. Are you OK?”

  She nodded again slightly, but I noticed tears on her face. She was clearly very shocked. It’s not every day you get tied up and left in a cupboard under the stairs with a dirty dishcloth rammed into your mouth. Thank goodness.

  I stroked her shoulders in reassurance and then went back out to my Volvo with the shopping bag.

  “OK,” I said into the phone. “I’m back in the car. I’m going to put the phone back in the hands-free cradle, but it may hang up again.”

  “Leave it, then,” he said. “Keep it in your hand.”

  I reversed out onto Station Road and retraced my path to the A46.

  “OK,” I said, holding the phone to my ear. “I’m now on the A46 going towards the M40.”

  I didn’t get stopped for illegal use of a handheld mobile phone. There’s never a policeman about when you want one.

  “Leave the A46 and take the A425 towards Warwick,” he said. “Take the third turn on the right, Budbrooke Road. Follow it round to the right. Go to the very end of the road.”

  “OK,” I said to him. I still wasn’t sure what I would do when I got there.

  I took the A425 and then slowly turned into Budbrooke Road. It was an industrial estate sandwiched between a canal and a railway line. Large, characterless modern blocks built of seamed metal stood on either side of the road. No doubt during the working day this area was busy with people and traffic, but at eight-fifteen on a Monday evening it was completely deserted.

  I drove slowly down to the very end of the road and stopped between two of the big soulless buildings. I turned the car around so I was looking back up the road, but my Volvo was the only car about, and I began to wonder if I was in the right place.

  “Are you here?” I asked.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Shut up and wait.”

  I wondered if he was waiting to see if I’d been followed. I s
at there for what seemed like ages, but it was probably only a couple of minutes. I looked all around. If he was watching me, I couldn’t tell where from.

  “OK,” he said finally through the phone. “Open the car door, put the things out on the ground and drive away.”

  “What about my wife?” I asked.

  “When I am satisfied that I have everything, I will let her go.”

  “No way,” I said. “If you want your things, you will have to let her go now.”

  “Do as you are told,” he said again.

  “No,” I said. “If you want this stuff, then you will have to come here now and swap it for my wife.”

  “An exchange?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “An exchange.”

  He laughed. “Mr. Talbot, this is not a spy movie. Leave the things on the ground and go.”

  “No, I will not,” I said again firmly. “I want my wife back now.”

  He didn’t answer, and I began to fear that he had gone. But then a small silver hatchback moved slowly down the road and stopped, facing me, about thirty yards away.

  The driver’s door opened, and Kipper stood up next to the car. He lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Where’s my stuff?” he said.

  I opened the door to the Volvo and stood next to it. I too lifted a phone to my ear.

  “Where’s my wife?” I said.

  He reached down into the car and pulled her up from the backseat. She stood up next to him. I could see that her hands were behind her back, presumably tied, and there was what looked like a pillowcase over her head.

  “Take that off her head,” I said into the phone.

  He pulled the pillowcase away, and Sophie blinked in the bright summer-evening sunshine. He held her in front of him with his right arm over her shoulder. And he had his twelve-centimeter-long knife resting against her neck.

  “Where’s my stuff?” he asked again through the telephone.

  I could feel my heart pumping in my chest. I put my hand into the Volvo, picked up the canvas shopping bag and held it up.

  “Show me,” he said.

  I pulled the wad of banknotes out of the bag. I held it up above my head and waved it at him. Most of the notes were tenners and twenties, but he wouldn’t be able to see from his distance that they weren’t all fifties or even Australian hundred-dollar bills.

  “Show me the chip writer,” he said.

  With a dry mouth, I put the money back in the bag and carefully picked up the television remote control. I held it up with the back of it facing towards him. From where he was standing, I hoped that it would appear to be a black box of approximately the right size and shape. I held my breath for a few seconds, and then, equally carefully, I put the remote back in the bag.

  “And the chips?” he asked.

  I held up the sandwich bag with the grains of rice in it. I could hardly tell them apart from the real RFID chips, and I was the one holding them. He would have had no chance of doing so from thirty yards away. I put them back in the shopping bag as well.

  “And here are the horse passports,” I said, holding up and waving the TV instruction booklet around so that he couldn’t see it too clearly. “Now, release my wife.”

  “Go over there and put the bag on the ground.” He pointed towards the building to my right, his left.

  I put the TV instruction booklet back in the bag and walked about fifteen or twenty steps over to where he had pointed. I put the bag down on the ground and stood next to it. I was still twenty yards or so from where he stood holding Sophie, the knife at her neck glinting in the sunlight.

  “Now, go back to your car,” he said through the phone, even though I could hear him plainly without it.

  “Let my wife walk away from you,” I said to him. “When she starts walking, I will walk away from the bag.”

  “Mr. Talbot, you really have been watching too many spy films,” he said with a laugh.

  It may have amused him to think that we were taking part in a spy movie, but I didn’t feel at all like laughing. Not with my humble TV remote control acting the part of an electronic microcoder/chip writer and a bag of simple rice grains appearing as some programmable RFIDs. And certainly not when my wife’s life might depend on them remembering their lines.

  “Let my wife go,” I said firmly to him, “and then these are yours.” I pointed down at the bag.

  The recovery of the items must have become an obsession with him. He looked over longingly at the shopping bag. He removed the knife from Sophie’s throat and gently pushed her away from him towards my car. I let her go a few strides, just enough to be out of his reach, and then I started moving slowly backwards towards the Volvo, watching Kipper intently for any sudden movements.

  He walked around the front of his car and started towards the bag.

  Sophie was now about halfway to my car, but she wasn’t going anywhere near fast enough to my liking. Her face showed relief at being away from Kipper’s grasp, but she clearly didn’t fully realize the ongoing danger of the situation.

  It would have been nice to have had the time to allow Sophie to climb gently into the passenger seat, but Kipper was almost at the bag, and a single glance would enlighten him instantly that my kitchen television remote control was not the microcoder/chip writer he was expecting.

  “Sophie, run,” I shouted at her urgently. At the same time, I sprinted for the Volvo and opened the rear door. Sophie ran towards me. I took a couple of strides forward, grabbed her and literally threw her across the backseat. I slammed the back door and was in the car almost before Kipper realized he’d been fooled. I tossed my phone over onto the passenger seat as I slammed the driver’s door shut and locked it

  The first part of the scheme had gone exactly to plan. Now all I had to do was get Sophie and me safely away. I started the engine, threw the car into gear and shot past Kipper’s silver hatchback with my back wheels spinning on the loose surface.

  I could see him shouting something at me, but I couldn’t hear what it was, and I didn’t care. He ran over to his car, and, all too soon, the silver hatchback appeared large in my rearview mirror as I waited at the junction with Birmingham Road for a gap in the traffic. He came right up behind me at speed and rammed the Volvo forwards, right out into the path of a speeding white van.

  I closed my eyes and waited for the crash, but somehow the van driver managed to avoid the collision by swerving around me with a squeal of his tires and a blast of his horn. It didn’t seem to me that he had braked one little bit as he sped away towards the A46 roundabout.

  Sophie was lying full-length across the backseat where I had thrown her, still with a black plastic tie binding her hands behind her back. “Ned, what’s happening?” Her voice was remarkably calm and collected for someone who had just had a knife at her throat. Where, I thought, was the expected panic?

  The answer was that the panic was up here in front, with me.

  24

  I suppose if one had to be involved in an impromptu stock-car race along the highways and byways of Warwickshire, an old Volvo 940 2.3-liter turbocharged station wagon might actually be one’s car of choice. In their prime, they hadn’t been nicknamed the “Volvo Tank” for nothing.

  At the A46 junction, I debated with myself which way to go. Kipper, in his silver hatchback, was right up against my tailgate, and I could feel the Volvo lurch every time he hit me. If I went down towards the M40, I would have to deal with the traffic lights at the motorway junction. Equally, if I went straight on the A425, towards Birmingham, there were traffic lights within a few hundred yards. So I decided to turn right onto the A46, back towards Kenilworth and Coventry.

  I swept onto the roundabout so fast that my mobile phone slid off the passenger seat and down the gap between it and the door. Sod it, I thought. I’d wanted to call the police, but I would have had to stop the car to retrieve the phone from down there. And, at the moment, stopping was completely out of the question.

  Kipper kept
darting back and forth around the rear of the Volvo like an annoying insect. Twice he gave me such a big nudge that I feared I would lose control completely, and my car was still fishtailing badly as it sped down the on-ramp and onto the A46 divided highway.

  In spite of being thrown around by the constant lurching of the car, Sophie had managed to get herself into a fairly upright position on the backseat. I smiled at her in the rearview mirror. She looked back at me with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Can you untie me?” she asked.

  “Not just at the moment, my darling. I need both hands to drive.”

  The car lurched as it was struck again by the hatchback. Sophie lay back down on the seat.

  Fortunately, the A46 was quite empty at that time of the evening, and I was able to put my foot down on the gas. The Volvo’s speedometer climbed to well over ninety miles per hour, but still I couldn’t get away from Kipper’s car, which seemed to be stuck to me like a limpet. Twice he tried to get alongside, but both times I swerved to cut him off, forcing him back. The road was only two lanes wide each way at this point, but I knew that it went to three after the next junction. Keeping him back, then, would not be so easy.

  What I needed was a police car, but, of course, there wasn’t one to be seen.

  Our two cars raced along the road together towards the junction. At the very last moment, I jerked the steering wheel to the left and went across the white-painted hatching on the road and up the off-ramp, hoping that Kipper wouldn’t be able to make the turn. Sadly, he was able to follow, slowing only momentarily to cross the grass verge, which sent up a shower of earth and stones.

  I shot up the ramp to the roundabout at the top of the rise. I hoped that nothing was coming around it, for I wasn’t about to slow down. My tires squealed in objection as I took the first exit along the country road towards the village of Leek Wooton. It was a two-lane road, so I now had to cope with the oncoming traffic as well as trying to keep Kipper behind me.

  I thought the best plan was to drive to the nearest police station and park right outside the door. Surely, even shifty-eyed Kipper wouldn’t be crazy enough to try anything there. The only police station that I knew well was in Kenilworth because I’d had to go there a couple of times to show them my driving documents. But I also knew it was a very small office and that it didn’t operate around the clock. Would it still be open at this time of the evening? I assumed there also must be a police station in Warwick, and I was aware there was a large one in Leamington Spa, but I didn’t know exactly where, and I wasn’t about to ask a bystander for directions.