Seven Days to a Killing

by Clive Egleton

  ‘They won’t be, and Jarman will look after the contractor. Now pull off the road and let me have the box of tricks.’

  Ruth Burroughs raised the lid of the central console between the front seats and took out an oblong-shaped radio some eight inches in length. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ she said sweetly.

  *

  The green Mini-Cooper travelling east along the A170, overtook the Scammel and cut in sharply. Before the angry lorry-driver had time to flash his lights, the car disintegrated, and a millisecond later the blast wave shattered the windscreen in the cab of the truck. Half blinded by the flying glass, the Scammel driver swerved off the road and overturned in a ditch. Although most of the blast had travelled upwards, the force of the explosion had left a small crater in the road which went right down to the core. All that remained of Goring and Findon would scarcely have filled an average-sized dustbin.

  2

  THE PHOTOGRAPHS ON THE DRESSING-TABLE MOCKED HIM, AND THERE WERE TIMES when Tarrant was tempted to get rid of them, but somehow he never did. The wedding photograph was getting a little faded now but after fifteen years that was only to be expected. Everything and everybody changes with the years and that was certainly true of Alex and himself.

  The photographer had caught them as they came out of the church under the archway of swords and Alex was laughing up at him. There had been a strong breeze and the wind had flattened the wedding dress against her breasts and long shapely legs, but her chestnut hair had stayed in place because she had worn it short in those days. He had been a lot thinner too, but of course he had been very young and his face was unlined then. It was a different story now and Tarrant didn’t need to look in the mirror to see the web of fine lines under his eyes nor the deep crease marks on either side of his mouth to know that he had aged more than most over the years.

  It was also a mistake to keep the portrait of David and Sarah, which had been taken in the living-room of their Quarter when they were both small and he was spending the year at the Staff College in Camberley. He had been very ambitious and hopeful in those days. Most of these days he felt a lot older than thirty- five and this was definitely one of them. Married at twenty, separated at thirty-two. Twelve years, with time out for separation when he had been stationed in Cyprus, Borneo and Aden, gone for nothing, because Alex couldn’t stand it any longer, couldn’t stand making the decisions when he wasn’t there, couldn’t stand being alone for month after month worrying about him and couldn’t face him when he came home from Aden and learned how the girl had died.

  It had been no one’s fault. Sarah, coming home from school, had run across the main road without looking and a ten-ton Leyland had done the rest. There had been no need to cross the road at all, but it was a hot day and Sarah had told her friends that she fancied an ice-cream, and the sweet-shop was on the opposite side of the street. Tarrant had been flown home for the funeral, but when he returned to Aden, Alex had taken David and moved in with her parents.

  They met from time to time at Speech Days, Exeats and end of term functions because David needed them both, but they were polite strangers. Twelve months after Sarah had been killed, Alex had found a flat in London and Tarrant had hopes that the umbilical cord had been severed. Her parents had never liked him, and divorced from their influence, he had thought there was a chance he might win her back. Three years later he was still nursing that hope.

  He lived alone now in a tiny apartment on the eighth floor of a block of flats off Thessaly Road which gave him an unrivalled view of the Battersea Power Station and parts of Pimlico across the river. It was conveniently near the Main Building of the Ministry of Defence where he worked, and that was about all that could be said in its favour. He was a lonely man for whom work was an antidote, but this was Sunday and all Sundays were bloody.

  The ringing of the telephone startled him out of his brooding and he went through to the sitting-room to answer it. It was, Tarrant thought, bound to be a wrong number; no one would call him on a Sunday evening. He was wrong, the caller was Alex, and since she rarely phoned him, he sensed trouble. Without preamble, she said, ‘John, a man has just phoned me about David.’ There was a note of panic in her voice which alarmed Tarrant.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ he said tersely.

  ‘I don’t know. He just said that David was in trouble and only you could help him. He said he would phone again at seven- thirty and wanted to speak to you.’

  Tarrant thought for a moment, and then said, ‘Did he say what sort of trouble David was in?’

  ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be ringing you now.’ Her voice had risen and it was shaky. Someone had really scared her and Alex was not the sort of person to be easily frightened. There was a whole string of questions which he wanted to ask her, but he knew that in her present state, he wouldn’t get a coherent reply to any of them.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll be with you in thirty minutes.’

  He had to wait for the lift and that set his nerves on edge, but he knew that if he ran down all eight flights he wouldn’t save any time. He got the Zephyr out of the basement garage, cut across to Queenstown Road and went over the Chelsea Bridge. Alex had a flat in Chiswick with a view overlooking the park and Tarrant was beginning to think that he had been optimistic in thinking he could make it in half an hour.

  He did it in less because the traffic was fairly light and he ignored the speed limit. He didn’t have to ring, she was there on the doorstep waiting for him and she looked like death. He took her by the arm and led her into the flat, and he could see by the expression on her face that a whole torrent of anxious questions was about to pour out and that what Alex really wanted were comforting words to allay her fears.

  Tarrant said, ‘Who else have you phoned apart from me?’

  ‘The school,’ she whispered. ‘I spoke to the Matron because the Housemaster was over in the Gym coaching the fencing team. She told me that David had booked out for the afternoon. He and another boy have gone on their bikes to Sutton-on-the-Forest.’ She blinked her eyes rapidly. ‘He’s had an accident,’ she said, ‘I know he has.’

  ‘You’d have heard from the police by now if he had.’ Tarrant picked up the telephone and began dialling.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ she said.

  ‘The school, I want to speak to someone in authority.’ Her teeth were nibbling at a thumbnail and he knew that he had to give her something to do to take her mind off David.

  ‘You can’t do anything here,’ he said firmly, ‘so why not go into the kitchen and make a pot of tea. We could both use a cup.’ He turned his back on her, cutting short any protest.

  A voice in his ear said, ‘Quinton House.’

  ‘Oh, good evening, Mr Dyson,’ he said, ‘this is John Tarrant. Just about an hour ago, my wife had a very strange telephone call from someone not connected with the school, saying that David was in trouble. I understand that Matron told Alex that David and another boy had gone to Sutton-on-the-Forest and I wondered if they had returned yet?’ He listened intently and then said, ‘It may not be anything serious, but if he isn’t back by seven, would you please call me immediately at 01-108-9984.’ He listened again, thanked Dyson and then hung up. Looking round, he saw Alex standing in the doorway.

  ‘What did he have to say?’ she said.

  ‘David and James Stroud went off together but Mr Dyson doesn’t think there is anything to worry about and he’ll call me as soon as they return. They’ve got to be back for Chapel at seven anyway.’ He walked across the room and placed both hands on her shoulders. ‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about either. The phone call was probably a hoax.’

  ‘Why would anyone do a thing like that?’

  ‘I don’t know, I honestly don’t know, it would be a pretty sick kind of a joke.’

  ‘You don’t seem sure?’

  ‘David is all right, I’m sure of that, and if it is a hoaxer—well, I’ll be here t
o blast him off the other end of the phone.’ He smiled, and in a quieter voice, said, ‘I could use that cup of tea now.’

  She hesitated and then turned away and went into the kitchen again.

  He had a very clear picture of the deserted airfield at Sutton- on-the-Forest and there were any number of places where a boy could get into trouble if he was careless. The old air-raid shelters and the Control Tower were potential hazards, but he couldn’t see David falling into or off either of them, and in any case, the message Alex had received tended to rule out the possibility that he had been injured. It might be that an irate farmer had caught them trespassing on his land, but it was scarcely likely that he would think of detaining them. If they had done any damage, a reasonable man would take their names and addresses and then call their parents.

  Alex said, ‘Here’s your cup of tea.’ She placed it on the coffee table in front of the couch.

  Tarrant said, ‘I’ve been thinking; perhaps a farmer caught them trespassing on his land.’

  Her face brightened visibly. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Well, there’s one way of finding out, we could phone the Strouds and ask them if they too have had a telephone call. Do you know their address?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Do you know where they live?’

  ‘Leeds, I think, or is it Wakefield?’

  ‘I’ll call Dyson,’ said Tarrant, ‘he’ll have their number if they are on the phone.’

  Dyson answered his call and anticipated the wrong question.

  He said, ‘I’m afraid they haven’t returned yet, Major Tarrant, but of course there’s still some time to go before Chapel.’ There was a note of disquiet in his voice. ‘However, I have been on to the North Riding Police, but they’ve had no report of an accident involving two boys.’

  Tarrant said, ‘As a matter of fact, I think we can rule out the possibility of an accident. I believe they might have been caught trespassing on someone’s property.’

  ‘I very much doubt if that is the case, Major Tarrant. They go to the airfield every Sunday to fly David’s Spitfire, and we’ve never had a complaint about their behaviour before.’

  ‘Perhaps the radio control packed up and the plane strayed on to the adjoining farmland. You never know, it could have crashed into a greenhouse or something like that.’

  There was a longish pause and then Dyson said, ‘I hadn’t considered that possibility.’

  ‘I thought I’d ring the Strouds and see if they’d had a complaint too. Do you happen to know their number?’

  ‘I think it would be best if I spoke to them, Major Tarrant,’ Dyson said coolly, ‘we don’t want to alarm them unnecessarily. I’ll phone you back immediately after I have been in touch with them.’ He rang off before Tarrant had a chance to object.

  ‘I knew you shouldn’t have bought him that bloody Spitfire for Christmas,’ Alex said vehemently. ‘I’ll never forgive you if anything has happened to him.’

  Tarrant drank his cup of tea; it was lukewarm. ‘Don’t let’s anticipate bad news,’ he said, ‘we don’t know for certain that anything has happened to him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have gone to Sutton-on-the-Forest if you hadn’t given him that damn model to play with.’

  ‘He’s been going there for weeks and nothing has happened to him.’

  ‘Don’t shout at me.’

  ‘I’m not shouting.’ He walked over to the sideboard, poured out two whiskies, added a splash of soda and gave one glass to Alex. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘drink this, you’ll feel better.’ Tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. ‘Nothing’s happened to David, has it? I couldn’t bear it if…’ He took the glass out of her hand and placed it on the table with his, and then he put his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest and he could feel her shoulders shaking as she cried into his shirt front.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he said lamely, ‘you see if it isn’t. Now, come on, try and keep your chin up.’ The words sounded trite and banal but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He kept glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece and willing Dyson to ring back. They had to wait long, drawn-out minutes before they heard from him.

  Dyson said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t get in touch with the Strouds, they’re not answering their phone. Perhaps they’ve gone away for the weekend.’

  ‘Never mind about the Strouds, what about my son?’

  ‘David and James still haven’t returned.’

  Tarrant said, ‘You’d better get on to the police again, Mr Dyson.’

  ‘I already have. They’re sending a car out to the airfield. I’ll call you as soon as I hear from them.’

  Tarrant replaced the receiver slowly and turned to face Alex. She was sitting hunched up on the sofa as if she was cold. Her eyes were red and puffy and the glass of whisky trembled in her hand.

  ‘What do you think has happened to him?’ she said huskily.

  Tarrant lit a cigarette. ‘They’ve probably decided to cut Chapel,’ he said savagely, ‘and we’re sitting here stewing our insides out.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s been kidnapped?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘It happens. Babies are often taken from their prams.’

  ‘He’s no baby, he’s thirteen, and there’s another boy with him. Can you see anybody trying to snatch two thirteen-year-olds?’

  ‘He’s only a child, John,’ she snapped, ‘he’s not a grown man who can defend himself.’

  Tarrant stubbed out his cigarette and poured himself another whisky. ‘Put that idea out of your head,’ he said quietly, ‘you’re making yourself ill.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t understand. I’m his mother.’

  ‘And I’m his father.’

  ‘Then try acting like one.’

  Tarrant bit back a retort; a slanging match was the last thing he wanted. He watched the clock as if his life depended on it.

  The telephone rang promptly at seven-thirty and he snatched up the receiver.

  The voice was calm, almost soothing. It said, ‘My name is Drabble. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting one another, Major Tarrant, but I feel I know you very well. I believe you have a son called David.’

  ‘What is this…?’

  ‘He’s at a boarding school in York, and your father-in-law, who is a Bradford wool merchant, pays the school fees.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Tarrant said angrily.

  ‘He has a friend called James Stroud, and every Sunday for the past few weeks, they have been riding out to Sutton-on-the-Forest where David flies his model Spitfire.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what has happened to him?’

  ‘He’s in my care, Major Tarrant.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘You might say he’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘Oh Christ. Why? I haven’t got any money. How do we get him back?’

  ‘Well, I’d rather like to know what action you’ve taken so far?’

  ‘I’ve rung David’s Housemaster and he has been in touch with the local police.’

  ‘That’s very satisfactory. I don’t think you need bother to tell anyone else at this stage. Now listen carefully. I want you to return to your flat where you will find an envelope waiting for you. Inside the envelope you will find a key to a left luggage compartment in St Pancras Station. The number of the compartment is thirty-six—have you got that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. There is a letter waiting for you at St Pancras which will tell you what you have to do.’

  Tarrant licked his lips. ‘How do I know you’ve got my son?’ he said quietly.

  ‘I thought you might ask me that question. Perhaps this will put your mind at rest.’

  Tarrant heard the spool hissing on the tape recorder, and then David started speaking, and the boy was badly frightened because his voice was high-pitched and unsteady, and he was saying that they weren’t to worry bu
t would they please do what Mr Drabble wanted. And Alex could hear every word because she was standing at Tarrant’s shoulder and the tape recorder was running at maximum volume, and then the brief message ended in a long- sustained hiss and Alex tore the phone out of his hand.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ she screamed. ‘I’ll kill you if you lay a finger on him.’

  The threat didn’t excite Drabble, he sounded bored. Tarrant heard him say, ‘Would you please get your wife off the line, we still have business to do.’

  Tarrant prised the phone out of her grasp. ‘All right,’ he said loudly, ‘what do you want now?’

  Drabble said, ‘I shall be telephoning your wife again tomorrow evening at ten past eight and I want to speak to someone in authority.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’ll know who,’ said Drabble.

  *

  The Swiftsure Detective Agency was in Long Acre across the road from the Talk of the Town. Sandwiched between a bookshop and a philatelist’s, it was on the first landing with Troy Fashions (Ladies’ Lingerie) beneath, and a call-girl operating under the name of Gina—Secretarial Services, on the floor above. Worn linoleum covered the floor of the office and the walls needed distempering, but the steel desk, steel filing cabinet and tubular steel chairs looked new. Propped on the windowsill behind the desk, were copies of the Trade Directory, Whittaker’s Almanac, Debrett, The Army Gradation List, the Navy and Air Force Lists, Who’s Who and Kelly’s Handbook 1968 edition. The Swiftsure Detective Agency sounded big, but it consisted of just one operative, a man called Penfold, and it was difficult to see why he needed to be so well-informed about the Armed Services and the Peerage.

  Penfold was a plump, shabby-looking man in his early forties. Frayed shirt cuffs showed below the sleeves of his blue pinstripe, dandruff speckled the lapels of his jacket, and there were food stains on his waistcoat. He was something of a character actor, for the Agency was merely an elaborate front for his other activities. Penfold was The Contractor.

  Normally, he would not have come into the office late on a Sunday evening, but he was there to meet Crosby who had been very insistent that the matter was urgent. He had smoked several cigarettes, and he was beginning to get a little tired of waiting for Crosby to show up, when a soft tapping noise brought him to his feet and he walked across the office and opened the door.