As Spicer plunged out through the doorway, Charlotte scrambled to her feet and moved towards Colin, who had slid slowly down into a sitting position between the umbrella-stand and a console table, leaving a barometer swaying on its hook like a pendulum above him. There was blood oozing between his fingers where he was clutching his left side, but he seemed almost to be laughing as he gazed blearily up at her.
‘Hello, Charlotte. Are you all right?’
‘Of course I am.’ She crouched beside him, consumed by a desperate wish that he should not die. It would make a bitter waste of all their efforts – hers and Derek’s and Beatrix’s as well – if Colin should die now, victimized by the Abberleys to the very end. ‘Let me see the wound,’ she said anxiously.
‘No. Phone for an ambulance. Better … use of time. Where … Where’s Spicer?’
‘I don’t know, but—’
The wail of a siren cut across her thoughts. It was near by and drawing nearer by the second. Colin heard it too and frowned at her. ‘You … You’ve already phoned?’
‘No. I don’t understand.’
‘Never mind.’ His voice faltered as his concentration seemed to drift. ‘Listen … There’s something … I have to tell you …’
But his words were swamped by an invasion of noise. There were two sirens now, both very close, each wail distorting and amplifying the other. Then there was a crunch of braking tyres on gravel, a slamming of doors, followed by a shout of ‘Put that down!’ and other shouts Charlotte could not catch. A second later, Chief Inspector Golding burst through the doorway, panting hard.
‘Miss Ladram! Are you all right?’ Then he saw Colin and shouted over his shoulder: ‘Ambulance! Straightaway. One wounded. Val! Come and do what you can.’
D.C. Finch hurried past him and knelt beside Colin, waving Charlotte aside. She stood up slowly and looked at Golding, aware there was much to say and ask but too battered and confused by the rush of events to do more than gape at him.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Spicer’s given himself up. We nearly ran him over in the drive. We moved in as soon as we heard the shot.’
‘Moved in?’
‘We’ve been tailing you since we let you go this morning to see if you’d contact the kidnappers. This isn’t at all what we anticipated.’ He nodded down at Colin. ‘Why was he with you?’
‘He was just … trying to help. How is he?’
D.C. Finch glanced up at her. ‘Well, he isn’t losing too much blood, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. The ambulance will be here soon.’
‘Hurts like buggery,’ mumbled Colin. ‘Not that …’ He tried to grin. ‘Not that I speak from experience.’
‘Miss Ladram,’ said Golding. ‘What was Spicer doing here?’
She was about to reply when Ursula appeared in the doorway, smiling hesitantly, as if what she had done could be atoned for with a brisk apology and an ingratiating word. ‘Thank God you’re all right, Charlie,’ she said softly.
‘Ask her what Spicer wanted,’ said Charlotte bleakly. ‘Ask her how she got the better of him.’
Golding frowned. ‘Mrs Abberley?’
Before Ursula could respond, an officer Charlotte recognized as Sergeant Barrett loomed up behind her. ‘Sir!’ he exclaimed. ‘Important news from Divisional HQ.’
‘What is it?’ snapped Golding.
‘Mrs Abberley’s daughter’s been released. She’s in the hands of the Spanish police – safe and well.’
27
COLIN FAIRFAX – WHOSE additional surname the National Health Service declined to recognize – did not die of his wounds. Unlike Tristram Abberley, he was destined to make a complete recovery. Indeed, after an initial twenty-four hours of alternate agony and oblivion, he quite enjoyed being a patient in Wycombe General Hospital. He realized he was over the worst as soon as he stopped regarding the nurses as mother substitutes and began indulging in sexual fantasies about them. From then on, he positively revelled in the celebrity status conferred on him by the dramatic circumstances of his admission and, but for the management’s puritan attitude towards drinking and smoking, could happily have contemplated a lengthy stay.
He decided at the outset to plead total ignorance where the events of 10 October were concerned, claiming to the police that he had driven Charlotte to Swans’ Meadow at her request and without the first idea what might be happening there or in Spain. When she and Derek told him the whole story, he was confirmed in his judgement. The less of the truth the police knew the better. Not least because he was in sole possession of one vital fragment of it. Charlotte seemed to have forgotten his attempt to share it with her, which was understandable in view of all that she had on her mind. And now, as the future stretched out enticingly ahead of him, he began to think it might also be providential.
On the day Colin was discharged, Derek drove up from Tunbridge Wells to collect him and take him back to his flat above the Treasure Trove. An heroic effort on Charlotte’s part had rendered this almost homely in his absence. She was waiting to greet him with champagne and canapés, which he deemed an ideal way to inaugurate a convalescence during which his surgeon had urged him to forgo alcohol.
It was clear to Colin from the popping of the first cork that Charlotte and Derek had more to celebrate than his recovery or, indeed, the formal dropping of all charges against him by the police. Their faces glowed with conspiratorial happiness and, though they were too bashful to say as much, it was obvious that love had blossomed during his stay in hospital.
‘So,’ he innocently enquired halfway through his second glass, ‘What are your plans?’ Deliberately, he had failed to specify which of them he was addressing.
‘Well,’ Derek replied defensively, ‘they’re a bit up in the air, actually. As of the end of the month, I shall be joining the ranks of the unemployed.’
Colin choked. ‘You mean Fithyan & Co. have sacked you?’
‘Not exactly. We’ve agreed on a parting of the ways.’
‘You mean they’ve sacked you.’
Derek grimaced. ‘Chartered accountants don’t use such expressions. I was … allowed to resign at short notice. But don’t worry. With FCA after my name, I should be able to find somebody who wants my services.’
‘But before he starts looking,’ Charlotte interposed with a smile, ‘we’re going on holiday. A few recuperative weeks in the sun.’
Noting but not remarking on her use of the collective pronoun, Colin said: ‘Splendid idea! No objections from the police, I trust?’
‘I’m not being charged with anything, if that’s what you mean. Sam’s safe return seems to have defused their wrath. And Golding’s given up asking questions. He knows we slipped something past him, but I don’t think he’s going to be allowed to spend any more time trying to find out what. The Spanish police are still investigating the matter, but Sam’s given them so little to go on I imagine they’ll soon lose interest.’
‘And how is Sam?’
‘Up and down. Ecstatic one minute, depressed the next. I told her as much as I could, but I’m not sure she can bring herself to believe the truth about her father. She’s taking it out on Ursula, I’m afraid – refusing to talk to her, excluding her from her life. She’s even staying with friends until she goes back to Nottingham. It’ll be a long time before she trusts her mother again – if she ever does.’
‘You aren’t expecting me to sympathize with the wretched woman, are you?’
‘Of course not. I certainly don’t. In fact, I haven’t spoken to her since … well, since you last spoke to her. And I don’t plan to. I’ve decided to forget about my family – what’s left of it – and concentrate on myself.’ She glanced at Derek. ‘And on those who I can be sure won’t let me down.’
‘A sound policy,’ said Colin, holding out his glass for Derek to top up. ‘I should have done the same long ago.’
Charlotte smiled. ‘And what are your plans, Colin?’
‘Mine? Oh, business as usual. Re-open the Tr
easure Trove ASAP. Scout around for new stock. Then sell it all at a huge profit in the run-up to Christmas. Some hopes, eh?’
‘Nothing else?’
‘What else should there be?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just … When the police arrived, that day at Swans’ Meadow, you were trying to tell me something. But you never finished and in the confusion I forgot to ask you what it was. I’ve been meaning to ever since.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It seemed to be something quite important.’
‘I don’t remember.’ Colin grabbed at a cocktail sausage by way of distraction. ‘If and when I do, I’ll be sure to let you know.’ He grinned uneasily and cast around for a change of subject. ‘Where are you going on this holiday, then?’
‘The Seychelles,’ Derek replied.
‘Perfect! And so appropriate for a pair of lovebirds.’
Charlotte arched her eyebrows. ‘Who said anything about lovebirds?’
‘Nobody. But I heard their distinctive song among the branches.’
Derek laughed to cover his blushes. ‘Why so appropriate, may I ask?’
‘Well, the Seychelles are home to the coco de mer, aren’t they?’
‘The what?’
‘Haven’t you heard of it? It’s a species of palm unique to the islands. The nut of the female tree is shaped exactly like … But you’ll find out for yourselves soon enough. Why should I spoil the fun? Just think of me sometimes, labouring away here, while you’re … Well, just think of me.’
‘We will,’ said Charlotte. ‘And when we come back—’
‘You can tell me what date you’ve fixed for the wedding.’
By late afternoon, the party was over. Colin stood at the window, sipping at a last glass of champagne as he watched Charlotte and Derek walk away along Chapel Place. They were holding hands and Charlotte had leant her head on Derek’s shoulder. Colin smiled indulgently at the sight and dismissed any lingering doubts he might have had: he would soon be acquiring a sister-in-law.
Not that he objected. Quite the reverse, in fact. Charlotte was a likeable girl, just the spirited but sensible wife his brother needed. As for her curiosity about what he had been on the verge of telling her at Swans’ Meadow, he reckoned he could deflect it for as long as it took to fade away completely. What else could he do? To tell her now would be to revive so much she wished earnestly to forget. It was kinder by far to guard his tongue. Indeed, he had only to imagine the words he would have to use to explain it to her to realize how unwise such an explanation would be.
‘Well, Charlotte, it’s like this. Remember when I called at Ockham House that morning to tell you Sam had been released – and we decided to drive up to Bourne End to put Ursula out of her misery? Of course you do. How could you forget? How could I? You went upstairs to change, leaving me in the lounge. While I was waiting, I gave your late aunt’s Tunbridge Ware work-table the once over. A lovely piece, as I said at the time. And easier to examine because it was empty. Or almost empty. I noticed the lining in one of the drawers had become detached from the wood – or rather had been detached. And then I noticed the reason. A sheet of paper had been inserted under the lining. I pulled it out and took a look at it. It was pretty old and yellow at the edges: a hand-drawn map, with place-names and directions written in Spanish. I was still looking at it when I heard you coming down the stairs. There wasn’t time to replace it, so I slipped it into my pocket, intending to mention it to you later. While I was waiting in the car at Swans’ Meadow, I transferred it to my wallet for safe-keeping. Then, when I was lying on the hall floor with blood pouring out of me, wondering if I might actually be going to die, I tried to tell you about it – without success. Later, in hospital, thanks to what you and Derek told me, I realized what the map was. And how it came to be there. At least, I guessed. Beatrix must have stopped short of destroying it at the last moment and hidden it in the work-table. The irrevocability of what she’d planned to do must have stayed her hand. I can understand why. I couldn’t bear to destroy it either.’
No, it would not do. It would not be fair. Charlotte believed it was all over. And so it was, as long as the existence of the map remained a secret. His secret. Worth the small matter of forty million pounds.
Colin took out his wallet, slid the map from behind a wad of old credit card receipts and examined it reflectively. The route from Cartagena to the abandoned copper mine was clearly shown. It could be followed on any large-scale map of the locality. Or in a car, for that matter. If one wished to.
What was he to do with it? Post it to Delgado? Definitely not. Wait for the old fascist to die, then offer it to Galazarga? Hardly. Auction it at Sotheby’s? Difficult, since he was not the rightful owner. Burn it? That would be a shame, after it had survived for so long. Donate it to the Spanish nation? Too philanthropic for his taste. What, then?
Colin put the map back in his wallet, drained his glass and wondered if there was another bottle somewhere. Perhaps tomorrow he would turn his mind to finding out where Spanish law stood in relation to treasure-trove. Yes, on balance, that would probably be the best thing to do. To begin with.
THE END
About the Author
Robert Goddard was born in Hampshire and read History at Cambridge. His first novel, Past Caring, was an instant bestseller. Since then his books have captivated readers worldwide with their edge-of-the-seat pace and their labyrinthine plotting. His first Harry Barnett novel, Into the Blue, was winner of the first WH Smith Thumping Good Read Award and was dramatized for TV, starring John Thaw.
Robert Goddard can be found on the web at www.robertgoddardbooks.co.uk
Also by Robert Goddard
In order of publication
PAST CARING
A young graduate starts to investigate the fall from grace of an Edwardian cabinet minister and sets in train a bizarre and violent chain of events.
‘A hornet’s nest of jealousy, blackmail and violence. Engrossing’
DAILY MAIL
IN PALE BATTALIONS
An extraordinary story unfolds as Leonora Galloway strives to solve the mystery of her father’s death, her mother’s unhappy childhood and a First World War murder.
‘A novel of numerous twists and turns and surprises’
SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
PAINTING THE DARKNESS
On a mild autumn afternoon in 1882, William Trenchard’s life changes for ever with the arrival of an unexpected stranger.
‘Explodes into action’
SUNDAY INDEPENDENT
INTO THE BLUE
When a young woman disappears and Harry Barnett is accused of her murder he has no option but to try and discover what led her to vanish into the blue.
‘A cracker, twisting, turning and exploding with real skill’
DAILY MIRROR
TAKE NO FAREWELL
September 1923, and architect Geoffrey Staddon must return to the house called Clouds Frome, his first important commission, to confront the dark secret that it holds.
‘A master storyteller’
INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY
CLOSED CIRCLE
1931, and two English fraudsters on a transatlantic liner stumble into deep trouble when they target a young heiress.
‘Full of thuggery and skulduggery, cross and doublecross, plot and counter-plot’
INDEPENDENT
BORROWED TIME
A brief encounter with a stranger who is murdered soon afterwards draws Robin Timariot into the complex relationships and motives of the dead woman’s family and friends.
‘An atmosphere of taut menace…heightened by shadows of betrayal and revenge’
DAILY TELEGRAPH
OUT OF THE SUN
Harry Barnett becomes entangled in a sinister conspiracy when he learns that the son he never knew he had is languishing in hospital in a coma.
‘Brilliantly plotted, full of good, traditional storytelling values’
MAIL ON SUNDAY
The scion of a wealthy Cornish dynasty reinvestigates a 1947 murder and begins to doubt the official version of events.
‘Satisfyingly complex…finishes in a rollercoaster of twists’
DAILY TELEGRAPH
CAUGHT IN THE LIGHT
A photographer’s obsession with a femme fatale leads him into a web of double jeopardy.
‘A spellbinding foray into the real-life game of truth and consequences’
THE TIMES
SET IN STONE
A strange house links past and present, a murder, a political scandal and an unexplained tragedy.
‘A heady blend of mystery and adventure’
OXFORD TIMES
SEA CHANGE
A spell-binding mystery involving a mysterious package, murder and financial scandal, set in 18th-century London, Amsterdam and Rome.
‘Engrossing, storytelling of a very high order’
OBSERVER
DYING TO TELL
A missing document, a forty-year-old murder and the Great Train Robbery all seem to have connections with a modern-day disappearance.
‘Gripping…woven together with more twists than a country lane’
DAILY MAIL
DAYS WITHOUT NUMBER
Once Nick Paleologus has excavated a terrible secret from his archaeologist father’s career, nothing will ever be the same again.
‘Fuses history with crime, guilty consciences and human fallibility…an intelligent escapist delight’
THE TIMES
PLAY TO THE END
Actor Toby Flood finds himself a player in a much bigger game when he investigates a man who appears to be a stalker.
‘An absorbing display of craftsmanship’
SUNDAY TIMES
SIGHT UNSEEN
An innocent bystander is pulled into a mystery which takes over twenty years to unravel when he witnesses the abduction of a child.
‘A typically taut tale of wrecked lives, family tragedy, historical quirks and moral consequences’
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