The Chinese Egg

by Catherine Storr

  “But I’d have to be in it too! It couldn’t be just Vicky. I was there when we heard them saying that about the baby!”

  “Are you sure you were there? In the train with the girl? She didn’t merely tell you this story and you agreed to make it sound more probable by saying that you had been with her at the time?”

  It was all so horribly like the confabulations which had in fact taken place between him and Vicky, that Stephen was dumb. His father followed up his advantage by saying, “You know I’m not a snob, Stephen, but I have been wanting to have a word with you about those two girls you brought in here the other day.”

  Stephen said, “What about them?”

  “Just be a bit on your guard. I only want you to remember that with a girl of that class the standards are different from ours. I mean, she might seem to be taking the same sort of attitude about certain things as yours would be, and then, when it was too late, you might find her expectations were quite different from yours. That’s all.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stephen said, rage rapidly boiling up inside him.

  “I’m sure you do, Stephen. Consciously you may reject the idea that as your father I’m in a position to be able to advise you about certain aspects of life, but unconsciously you understand exactly what I’m dealing with. After all, your education in matters of sex hasn’t been neglected, I think.”

  “You mean that if I got a working-class girl pregnant, she’d expect me to marry her?”

  “Roughly, yes. I’m sorry it all has to be spelt out quite so crudely.”

  “I don’t see it’s any worse saying it straight out And I don’t see that it’s any worse getting one girl pregnant than another, if I don’t want to marry her anyway.”

  “I was just pointing out that in that class, when a girl gets pregnant. . . .”

  “And you can’t say you aren’t a snob. Class doesn’t make any difference nowadays. You’ll say next that Vicky or Chris is more likely to have taken that baby because they’re not middle class like us.”

  “At any rate, the police are more likely to suspect her.”

  “That’s no reason why you should.”

  “I suppose you realize, Stephen, that your springing so heatedly to this girl’s defence is a very clear indication that you are far more deeply involved with her than you realize. . . .”

  To Stephen’s own surprise, his instant reaction to his father’s disparaging reference to ‘this girl’ was to see under attack, not Chris’s pretty, flushed face, but Vicky’s; bonier, plainer, alive with intelligence and feeling. He almost didn’t believe what he saw. He still felt the stirring of rivalry with Paul for Chris’s affections. But for Chris he didn’t feel the need to protect, he didn’t feel that spark of recognition which proclaims, “This is my sort of person, this is what I understand.” He admired Chris, thought she was lovely and sweet and warm, but he realized, with the echo of a pang, that she was not for him. He could never feel completely at ease with Chris’s direct view of life, he couldn’t accept the black and white terms in which she saw her own and other people’s actions. He remembered now Vicky’s silences, Vicky’s embarrassments, how she’d looked when she told him she didn’t really belong to Chris’s mother and father, the warmth with which she’d claimed a relationship, through appreciation and love, to Mrs. Stanford and Chris. All this, while his father’s measured, cultivated voice sounded in his ears. He heard the end of the sentence, “. . . of course she is unusually good to look at, I’m not surprised you find yourself attracted, but. . .” and he interrupted, “Vicky’s not the pretty one,” and saw his father’s astonishment and felt glad that he had broken out of the parental pattern and had committed himself to something that was justified only by feeling, and not by the logical clauses of cold reason.

  Twenty Eight

  On Friday morning Stephen rang the number Price had given him, and heard his voice, a little impatient, immensely weary, “Price here.”

  “It’s Stephen Rawlinson. You said to let you know if anything happened. We’ve had another.”

  “When?”

  “Just now. About an hour ago. And I think it might be urgent.” “Where are you?”

  “In a call box near the tube station.”

  “Is the girl there too?”

  “She’s waiting outside.”

  “Right. Don’t tell me anything now. I’ll send a car for you. Can you be at that coffee place I saw you in the day before yesterday? Both of you?”

  “Yes, we’ll be there.”

  “See you.” Price rang off.

  “What did he say? Did he believe. . .?” Vicky asked as soon as Stephen was out of the call box.

  “He’s sending a car for us right away. He sounded as if he believed it.”

  “He didn’t on Wednesday. Not at the beginning.”

  “I thought he did by the end. It was something to do with the picture.”

  “Then why didn’t he say? If he knows it was there, wherever it was. He doesn’t tell us anything.”

  “That’s just because he’s police.”

  “You don’t think really he thinks it was me, like your father said?”

  “No, I don’t. I think that’s just my father being too clever by half. As usual.”

  “You don’t talk about him as if you liked him much, Stephen.”

  Stephen said, “Come on. We’ve got to get back to the café, He’s sending for us there,” and they started towards it. But Vicky wasn’t going to let him get off without answering and as they walked, she said again, “Don’t you like your father at all?”

  “Well, you’ve seen him. Would you?”

  “I only saw him for about five minutes. He might not be like that all the time.”

  “No, he isn’t, exactly. But rather. Making things more complicated than they need be and criticizing my mother.”

  “I suppose he’s very clever,” Vicky said.

  “He is, but it’s all. . . I don’t know how to express it. It’s all thinking. He’s stupid about people’s feelings. And he pretends not to have any himself.”

  “Have any what? Feelings?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Perhaps he’s frightened of them,” Vicky said.

  “Yes. You’re quite right. That’s what it is, he’s frightened. How did you guess?”

  “I know what it’s like. You feel it’s safer to work it all out by thinking. Then you won’t be made to look silly. Or get hurt.”

  “Do you feel like that now?”

  “How do you mean, now? Because of the police, do you mean?”

  “No. I meant with me.”

  Astonished, Vicky turned to look at him. To his fury Stephen felt himself blushing. Immediately Vicky blushed too and looked away again. Neither of them spoke. The next thing Vicky said was, “There’s the caff. Let’s get a table by the window where we can see when they come.” Stephen, glancing sideways, saw that her colour had returned to its normal smooth pallor. He followed her into the coffee shop.

  Forty minutes later they were again in the Kensington police station, sitting opposite Price, and he was saying, “Now then. Tell me about it.”

  “It was another flash,” Stephen said.

  “Where were you?”

  “In the café. Vicky and I were having coffee.”

  “Go on.”

  “I saw Mrs. Wilmington. . . .”

  “Mrs. Wilmington?”

  “Yes. It was dark. She was walking along a road.”

  “What road?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. It looked as if it might be in the country. There weren’t any houses. Only trees.”

  “If it was dark, how could you see anything?” Price asked sharply.

  “In the headlights of the car.”

  “So there was a car too?”

  “There were two. She was walking away from one. I’m not sure what make it was. Smallish. Could have been a Fiat, that sort of shape. I could see that bette
r than the other, because the headlights from the other car were brighter.”

  “Was there anyone else there?”

  “There was a driver in the other car, I could see the outline of his head. And a passenger beside him. I couldn’t see anything else.”

  “How was Mrs. Wilmington dressed?”

  Stephen was uncertain. “I’m not sure. Trousers, I think, and a sort of jacket. But there was one thing. . . .”

  “What?”

  “She was carrying something in her hand.”

  “A handbag?”

  “No. Smaller. Like a book.”

  “An envelope, could it have been?”

  “Yes, it could easily.”

  “Did you see this too?” Price asked Vicky.

  “Not quite the same. I saw more inside the other car.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I couldn’t see much. It was dark, like Stephen said. Only I could see their heads against the light of her car. Mrs. Wilmington’s. There were three of them. It was like as if I was looking in through the window at the back.”

  “Could you see their faces?”

  Vicky shivered. “They had stockings on over their heads. It was horrid.”

  Stephen said, “But you heard them say something.”

  “I heard one of them say, ‘Don’t let her see the kid’s not here.’”

  “Could you see her? Mrs. Wilmington?”

  “Not properly. I could see someone coming down the road. But their heads were between her and me.”

  “Do you agree with Stephen’s description of what she was wearing?”

  “I didn’t notice. It all happened so quickly.”

  Price sat and looked at them.

  “What did you think was happening? You,” he said to Vicky.

  “I thought she was going to give them money so as to get the baby back.”

  “But the baby wasn’t there?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “What did you make of it?” Price asked Stephen.

  “I thought she was handing over the ransom money too. I didn’t know about the baby not being there, though. Not until Vicky told me.”

  “What makes you think this is urgent?” Price said to them both.

  “Because she mustn’t do it, must she? Not pay a lot of money and not get the baby back.”

  “How do you know it hasn’t already happened?”

  “Always before we’ve seen things that were going to happen. Why? Has it?” Stephen asked.

  “Not as far as I know. Is that all?”

  “I think so. Can’t think of anything more. Can you, Vicky?”

  “No.”

  “Would you recognize that man’s voice again?” Price asked her.

  “I might. I don’t know. There wasn’t anything special about it.”

  “The man you saw before—Purfitt. Was he one of the men in the car?”

  “I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell through those masks.”

  “Not difficult, impossible,” Price said.

  “So I don’t know.”

  “Did you see anything of the road? Notice what sort of trees they were? Bushes? Anything like that?”

  “Not really. Big trees. They hadn’t got many leaves on them, though.”

  “Not pines, then.”

  “Their branches were sort of flat. Sort of like layers, not twiggy like some trees are,” said Vicky, the town-bred child.

  “Beeches possibly. Anything else? What about sounds? Owls? Traffic? Anything?”

  “Terribly quiet. I did notice that. Did you, Stephen?”

  “Yes. Now you say so, of course that’s partly why I thought it was country. I could hear her walking along the road.”

  “I did, too. Wait a minute..

  Price waited.

  “Her feet. The sound they made. It was different from London roads. You sort of go clop on the roads round here. She didn’t. It was. . . gritty.”

  “Not Macadamized,” Price said.

  “Pardon?”

  “An unmade road. Loose stones, uneven. That’s a very bright bit of observation,” he said.

  Vicky flushed slightly and said, “Is it any help?”

  “Could be.” He got up. “Have to get going. If you’re right and it hasn’t happened yet, there’s a lot I’ve got to do.”

  “You mean. . . . You do believe we’re not just making it all up?”

  “If you are, and I catch you at it, God help you,” Price said, suddenly stern.

  “We’re not. I know it sounds crazy. We didn’t ask to get mixed up in it. . .” Stephen began.

  “All right. I didn’t say I didn’t trust you, did I?”

  “What were you going to ask us yesterday when you came round and we weren’t there?” Vicky asked.

  “Just a few more details. Only I think we’ll leave them for the present.”

  “Will you tell us about this? I mean, when it’s happened?” Stephen asked.

  “You’ll be hearing from me. And if you get any more flashes you’ll let me know. If you’re really on to something, it means we’ve got a chance of being a move ahead of this little lot. Which would give me a great deal of pleasure,” Price said, standing up.

  “I’ll ring you if there’s anything,” Stephen said.

  “Do that. And I’ll be in touch.”

  “He does believe us,” Vicky said as they left.

  “I can’t think why. I wouldn’t if I was him.”

  Twenty Nine

  Sally Wilmington looked at her wrist watch for the hundredth time in an hour, and saw that she was still much too early. She mustn’t be late, but also she mustn’t be hanging around the place, wherever it was, for hours. She’d been warned against that. She moved over from the middle of the motorway to the slow lane and dropped her speed to just over thirty. Agony to have to do this, when what she wanted most was to go quickly, quickly, impossibly fast. But then yesterday and today had been an agony of impatience and frustration, of having to pretend and to keep a watch over herself and to appear to be as hopeless as she’d been all the last week. Of having to lie to everyone and at the same time set up a whole system inside which she could do what she knew she had to do without anyone guessing.

  The worst thing had been getting the money. Sally had never realized how difficult it could be if you wanted a great deal of cash in a hurry. She’d been to the bank and asked the manager. Said she wanted to put down a deposit on a place in the country, but he’d told her it was impossible to let her have more than ten thousand. Ten, when she needed two hundred. She’d pleaded, but she hadn’t dared to allow him to see how much it meant to her, because no one must know the truth. She couldn’t risk his ringing Andrew and asking him to confirm the need for urgency. So she’d pretended to be satisfied. She’d gone home with ten thousand and had gone through her possessions to see what she could turn into cash. In the afternoon she’d taken her pearls, the diamond star, the gold collar and most of her rings to a place she’d heard of in Knightsbridge where they advanced money on the security of jewellery. Gwen had told her about it when she, Gwen, was being blackmailed by that horrible woman. But altogether she’d only raised just over fifty thousand. She’d almost broken down and cried. The man—he was surprisingly nice, quiet and businesslike and quite incurious—had suggested she might have something else at home which could go towards making up what was required, and she’d remembered the Picasso. Andrew had paid over a hundred thousand for it, it must be worth more now. She’d told this to Mr. Franklin and he’d agreed to look at it, if she could get it to him within the hour. She’d gone straight back, and, in what she thought was an inspiration, she draped her two mink coats over the arm that held the Picasso and directed the waiting taxi to take her back to Knightsbridge. In the end she’d raised just over a hundred thousand. She’d have to persuade them it was as much as she could get. She’d promise them the rest once she had Caroline Ann back. She must get her back, she must. The hundred thousand would show
that she was in earnest. They must believe her. She’d make them believe her. She’d. . .

  She looked at her watch again. Only nine. She’d speeded up too much again. Ten o’clock the voice had said, and don’t hang around before and don’t be late. We shan’t wait more than a minute for you. Take the Henley exit from the Motorway and go on through Henley on the Oxford road, and just four miles outside the town you come to a stretch of road through woods. Take the turn to the right marked Mocking End. Drive a hundred yards and stop. Keep your headlights on and walk towards the car you’ll see parked there. Hold up the money so we can see it.

  The money was in an envelope, a big one. It made quite a bulky packet. She put her hand out and touched it in the glove compartment. Nearly all old notes. They must let her have Caroline Ann back, they must. She was doing everything they’d told her, wasn’t she?

  Don’t tell your husband. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And if you tell the police, you’d better start getting the next kid on the way as quick as you can, because you can count this one out. If you want any help, if your husband isn’t too keen, one of us’ll be happy to oblige. . . . Dirty sniggers. Hateful. If there’s anyone with you or you’ve been followed, if you’ve tried to be clever, you’ll see us do the kid in. Better be careful. No tricks. Just do as you’re told. Do as you’re told. Do as you’re told. She was doing as she was told, wasn’t she? They would see that she was.

  She’d had to lie to Andrew. When he’d come back yesterday evening and asked at once, “Any news?” she’d said No, nothing new. She’d lied to the nice Chief Superintendent when he’d come to see her. She’d told him, no more telephone calls, she’d asked if he had any more clues. He’d told her that he had one or two, that they had an address the Edmonton landlady had given them. The girl had mentioned Brady Drive as a place she’d stayed at in Birmingham. There wasn’t such a road in Birmingham, but there was in Walthamstow and he’d got a man going from door to door asking if anyone had seen a girl answering to the description. It didn’t mean much to Sally, but he’d seemed to think it might lead to something. When he’d left he’d said, “You won’t go doing anything on your own without telling us, will you, Mrs. Wilmington?” And she’d looked straight at him and said, “No, Superintendent, I won’t.” She hadn’t known she could act so well.