Fear had been at its pitch during the first few hours and days. It was the fear of death and all the ways in which it might arrive: shooting, strangulation, suffocation. At night, she still dreamt of the endless drugged hours she had spent jolting and rolling in the darkness of the car-boot, the hours of motion on land and sea of which she had only been dimly aware. All they had led to was the squalor and isolation of this room they kept her in, and the one beyond, and the yard outside they sometimes let her walk in, and the empty hillside, and the whitewashed wall of the barn against which she had stood to be photographed, clutching the International Herald Tribune for 4 September.
Even 4 September seemed an age ago now, part of a deluded past when she had believed her abduction was a simple crime committed for gain, when she had thought her release was imminent, her restoration to the pampered life she had led merely a matter of time and money. She knew better now. Or worse.
‘When are you going to let me go, Miguel?’
‘When we are told to.’
‘Have you spoken to my father?’
‘You ask too many questions, señorita.’
‘He’d pay you well to release me.’
‘It is too late for that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean … We wait as long as we have to.’
‘But how long?’
Always the same circular conversation, leading, through every variation, back to where she had started and seemed likely to remain. She sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blew irritably at a hanging strand of her hair. It was filthy, she knew, and quite possibly lousy. As were her clothes. As was her whole body. When she thought of the baths she had wallowed in at home, the scented soaps and thick towels, the perfumes and the lotions, she wanted to cry. At least here there was no mirror to show her what she looked like. Though the lack of one gave her little comfort as she glanced at her arms and noticed the fresh red flea-bites of the night. Why was she still here? Why had her father not yet bought or won her freedom?
‘What are you waiting for?’ she murmured, imagining his face set in a stubborn frown. ‘Get me out of this. Please. For God’s sake. I don’t think I can stand much more. What are you waiting for, Dad? What is it?’
Abruptly, the door opened and Felipe advanced into the room, carrying a tray. He smiled at her and said, ‘Buenos días, señorita,’ as blithely as if he were bringing breakfast to her room in a Costa del Sol hotel. He set the tray down on the table and she identified the predictable ingredients: coffee in a bowl and a hunk of bread smeared with honey.
‘Is there any news, Felipe?’
‘Bilbao won last night.’
‘What?’
‘El fútbol.’ He grinned.
‘About me!’
‘Ah!’ He scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Lo siento. There is no news about you.’
‘How much longer is it going to be?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You must have some idea.’ Ignoring her, he turned away. ‘What’s the date today, Felipe? The thirtieth of September or the first of October?’ He looked at her and shrugged. ‘Why won’t you tell me? It’s not much to ask.’
‘La fecha? I do not know.’
‘It’s one or the other, isn’t it? Which?’ There was a hint of weakness in his expression. She decided to persist. ‘Please, Felipe. Just the date.’
He moved to the bedside and leant over her. She caught a gust of cigarettes and stale garlic on his breath. ‘You will say nothing to Miguel?’ he whispered.
‘Nothing. You have my word.’
He deliberated a moment longer, then said: ‘Es el primero de octubre.’
2
‘I’M AFRAID CHIEF Inspector Golding’s out, Miss Ladram,’ came D.C. Finch’s voice down the telephone. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’m simply calling to see if there have been any developments.’
‘None, I’m afraid. Hasn’t Mrs Abberley been keeping you up to date?’
‘I haven’t liked to trouble her.’
‘Ah. I see. Well, there’s been no response so far to the appeal in the French press for Madame V to come forward. And nothing’s come to light in Spain either. So …’
‘We’re none the wiser.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Urgent enquiries are continuing. No effort’s being spared.’
‘I’m sure. But it’s a month today since my niece was kidnapped, isn’t it?’
‘Er … Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘And still nothing.’
‘Would you like Chief Inspector Golding to call you when he returns?’
‘No, thank you. I have to go out myself. I’ll ’phone him. Later.’
They were doing their best, Charlotte knew. But their best was pitifully inadequate. As soon as she had put the telephone down, she headed for the door. A journey to Rye lay ahead of her. She had not visited Jackdaw Cottage since putting it on the market two months ago. But the estate agent had now found a buyer, one who was eager to move in as soon as possible. The emptying of the house could therefore no longer be postponed and Charlotte had decided to put matters in hand without further ado. Part of her was glad to have a practical task to address. It was a distraction her mind badly needed.
At Lewes Prison, Colin Fairfax was grinning broadly at his brother across a bare table in the visiting room, which was otherwise deserted. ‘Word’s got round,’ he announced. ‘I can do virtually whatever I like here now. They know I’m not staying long.’
‘According to Dredge,’ Derek replied, ‘things certainly look promising.’
‘Promising? I should say so. Spicer’s been arrested, hasn’t he? It’s only a matter of time now before they find some forensic evidence linking him to the scene of the crime.’
‘Is that what Dredge told you?’
‘They know he did it, Derek. Where did he get the money to set himself up with a yacht in Burnham-on-bloody-Crouch if it wasn’t a pay-off from Maurice Abberley for services rendered?’
‘You don’t have to convince me.’
‘No. But I do have to thank you. Dredge tried to hog the credit, but it’s clear to me where it really belongs. With you. You’ve done more to help me than I ever deserved. And to think I doubted your commitment! You’ve come up trumps, Derek. I’d be proud of you if I weren’t so grateful.’
‘There’s no need to thank me.’
‘But there is. It’s why I was so glad you could come today.’
‘I was on my way to an auditing job in Newhaven. It was no problem to stop off.’
‘Tough job, is it?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Then why are you looking so glum? To judge by your face, you’d have thought I’d just been sentenced to hang, not thrown a lifeline.’
‘Because … Well, it was Charlotte Ladram who supplied the tape recording and the private detective’s report. Without them, the police would never have started looking for Spicer.’
‘And it’s good to know one member of that family has a conscience. But so what?’
‘So what?’ Derek bridled. ‘She’s lost her brother as well as her aunt, Colin. And her niece has been kidnapped. None of this was her fault.’
‘Nor mine.’ Colin sat back in his chair and cocked his head. ‘You haven’t taken a shine to the girl, have you?’
‘Of course not. I’d just like to be able to repay her generosity.’
‘By riding out on a white charger and rescuing her niece?’
Derek stared hard at his brother. ‘Imprisonment hasn’t blunted your sarcasm, I see.’
Colin raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. If you and she … Well, what can you do to help?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Hence the gloomy physog?’
‘I suppose so. Besides …’ Derek leant forward and lowered his voice. ‘It hasn’t been made public, but the kidnappers have said they’ll kill the girl if they don’t have what they want by the eleventh of
October.’
Colin whistled. ‘And today’s the first.’
‘Exactly. Time’s running out. All too quickly.’
3
CHARLOTTE HAD JUST begun to take stock of what needed to be removed from Jackdaw Cottage when Mrs Mentiply arrived, intent on discharging her housekeeping duties to the bitter end. Well-intentioned though the dear soul undoubtedly was, Charlotte had hoped to avoid her, since they had not met since Maurice’s death and Mrs Mentiply could be relied upon to be as curious as she was sympathetic. In the end, it seemed easier to surrender to her eagerness for information, to let her make coffee for both of them, then answer her innumerable questions as best she could.
‘Mr Mentiply and I were terribly shocked to hear about your brother, my dear. And your niece as well, of course. How is Mrs Abberley bearing up under such an awful strain?’
‘Remarkably well in the circumstances.’
‘Is there still no news of the girl?’
‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘Perhaps it’s a blessing dear old Miss Abberley isn’t alive to witness such sad times for her family.’
‘Perhaps it is.’
‘Whether she’d approve of the people who’ll be living here I don’t know. Have you met them?’
‘No. But the estate agent said—’
‘Stuck-up lot. None of Miss Abberley’s refinement. I shouldn’t care to work for them even if they asked me.’
‘Well, that’s for you to decide, of course. But they made a good offer. I couldn’t—’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean you should have turned them down. Not on my account. You have more than enough to worry about without pandering to my likes and dislikes.’
‘It is a worrying time.’
‘Of course it is. And if there’s anything I can do – or Mr Mentiply – anything at all, you’ve only to say the word.’
‘It’s kind of you, but—’
‘Haven’t the police any clues as to what’s become of the poor girl?’
‘Precious few.’
‘Or why she was kidnapped?’
‘They’re trying to find a recipient of a letter Beatrix sent. A woman in France whose surname begins with V. They think she may know something.’
Mrs Mentiply clicked her tongue. ‘Sounds like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘It is, rather.’
‘I mean, whereabouts in France?’
‘Oh, in or near Paris. It doesn’t narrow the field very much, does it? If Beatrix had ever mentioned knowing somebody in Paris, it might be different, but she never did. I don’t suppose she ever said anything to you about Madame V?’
‘No. I’m afraid she didn’t. V, you say?’
‘Beginning with V.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Mentiply shook her head dolefully. ‘It means nothing to me.’ Then she summoned a smile. ‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t bring any biscuits. If I’d known you were coming …’
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
‘Only it’s always nice to have a biscuit with coffee, isn’t it, or a choc—’ Mrs Mentiply broke off. Her face slowly compressed into a frown.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Or a chocolate,’ she said slowly.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Mentiply?’
‘What?’ She looked across at Charlotte, then down at her empty coffee-cup. ‘Why, I’ve just had the strangest thought.’
‘About what?’
‘Miss Abberley used to give me these chocolates, you see, Christmas and Easter, regular as clockwork. “You have them,” she’d say. “They’re from a friend. I haven’t the heart to tell her I don’t like them.” Well, as you know, she didn’t have a sweet tooth, not her, but I— They were sent to her twice a year for as long as I can remember. A gift from a friend.’
‘I don’t quite—’
‘They were French chocolates, Miss Ladram. From a shop in Paris. And the name of the shop began with a V. I’m sure it did.’
Charlotte felt the sudden acceleration of her thoughts almost as a physical sensation. She sat forward and clasped Mrs Mentiply by the wrist. ‘What was the name?’
‘Vac … Val … Vass … Something like that.’
‘You must remember. For God’s sake!’
‘I don’t think I can.’
Charlotte clamped her eyes shut for an instant to stave off frustration. ‘Please try,’ she said as she re-opened them. ‘It’s absolutely—’ Then she stopped. Mrs Mentiply was smiling.
‘There’s no need for me to remember. They came in smart green tins with a label inside the lid showing the name and address of the shop.’
‘Quite possibly. But—’
‘They were too good to throw away when the chocolates had been eaten!’ Mrs Mentiply’s smile broadened.
‘You mean …’
‘I’ve got several at home. I use them to store all sorts of bibs and bobs in. And I’m sure the labels are still on them.’
Mr Mentiply had already departed for his lunchtime imbibition at the Greyhound Inn when they reached the bungalow. Without pausing even to take her coat off, Mrs Mentiply bustled into the sitting room, yanked down the flap of the bureau and pulled out a round tin about six inches in diameter. It was dark green, edged in gold. In her eagerness to remove the lid, she spilt most of the contents – pens, pencils, rubbers and paper-clips – on to the floor. But she paid them no heed as she held out the lid for Charlotte to see. On the inside, as promised, was a label, printed black on gold, scratched and ink-stained but clearly legible.
CONFISERIE VASSOIR
17 RUE DE TIVOLI
75008 PARIS
Visiting Colin had left Derek more uncertain than ever how to bridge the gap ten days of contrasting fortune had opened between him and Charlotte Ladram. He wanted to give her help and support, but in practical terms there was none he could offer. Nor could he avoid reminding Charlotte of the hopeful turn Colin’s case had taken – a turn to which she had made a significant contribution – while her niece’s plight seemed only to worsen by the day.
Yet he was also reluctant to let events stifle their friendship before it had properly begun. It was the sort of mistake he had made too often in the past and accounted for him standing on the brink of a lonely middle age. Driving back from Newhaven to Tunbridge Wells that afternoon, he had only to think of the empty house and the solitary evening awaiting him at Farriers to rebel against caution and risk a diversion to Ockham House.
But his small rebellion did not bring him even a modest reward. Charlotte was out. Where she might be he could not imagine and the gap between them seemed perceptibly to widen as he sat waiting in his car for a doleful hour of encroaching twilight. When he eventually gave up and drove away, he was weighed down by a leaden conviction that he would never return.
4
CHARLOTTE’S RESPONSE TO her discovery had been so instinctive, and the action it had prompted her to take so urgent, that it was not until late afternoon, aboard a train drawing ever closer to Paris, that she began to consider the difficulties and possible consequences of the task she had set herself. She had, after all, promised Chief Inspector Golding she would pass any information she obtained on to him immediately. In the event, however, she had not even thought of doing so. Instead, she had sworn Mrs Mentiply to secrecy, driven back to Tunbridge Wells to collect her passport, then raced to Dover just in time to catch an early afternoon hovercraft to Boulogne.
She had justified her behaviour to herself on the basis that the police would have been much slower and more painstaking. Their heavy-handed approach might also have deterred Madame Vassoir – if there was such a person – from co-operating, whereas Charlotte was uniquely well placed as Beatrix’s niece and Samantha’s aunt to appeal to her on behalf of the whole family. But there was, as she had realized, another less worthy motive driving her on. She wa
nted to find the solution to the mystery on her own and to flourish it beneath the noses of those who had doubted her ability – or her right – to do so. She wanted to finish what Maurice had begun.
Wanting and achieving, however, were not the same. She had looked no further till now than finding Confiserie Vassoir, trusting to luck and French shopping hours that it would still be open when she arrived. The train reached Paris at half past six. A drizzly dusk was settling on the city and the imminence of nightfall had an instantly erosive effect on her confidence. But she succeeded in holding it at bay. From the Gare du Nord she took a taxi, stating her destination as ‘Dix-sept, Rue de Tivoli’. Fortunately, it was not far. She was set down in a quiet side-street near the Madeleine. Most of the shops seemed already to be closed and her heart sank as she identified the unlit frontage of number seventeen. All she could do was stare glumly at the sign hanging inside the door – CONFISERIE VASSOIR: Ouvert 9.30–18.30 Mardi à Samedi – then glance at her watch, which confirmed she was fifteen minutes too late.
Suddenly, there was the hint of a reprieve. It took the form of a blaze of light at the back of the shop. A stocky male figure entered from a room at the rear and began looking for something beneath the counter. Charlotte rapped on the window with her knuckles. He looked up, made a shooing gesture with his hand, then returned to his search. She rapped again and shouted ‘Monsieur Vassoir!’, praying he was indeed Monsieur Vassoir and could hear her. But, having found what he evidently wanted, he only frowned and waved her away once more. ‘Monsieur Vassoir!’ she bellowed, striking the glass so hard she thought it might break. ‘S’il vous plaît! Très important!’ He stared, then, with an enormous shrug of reluctance, walked to the door, unbolted it and edged it open.
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