Hand In Glove Part 41

"No."

Charlotte stared at Golding, hoping she had somehow misunder-stood. "Knows nothing? He said that?"

"He denies ever reading or possessing such letters. Hence he also denies they were stolen from him. By Mr Abberley or anybody else."

"But we saw them," shouted Ursula, stubbing out her cigarette so violently the ashtray vibrated beneath it. "At least we saw one of them."

"So you said." There was a flatness in Golding's voice, a deliberate suppression of meaning.

Charlotte looked straight at him. "Don't you believe us, Chief Inspector?"

"It's certainly hard to imagine why you should invent such an elaborate story."

"We didn't invent it."

He smiled faintly. "Well, that remains to be seen, doesn't it? As a detective, I have to keep an open mind. I have to consider every possibility."

"Including the possibility that we're lying?"

"Exactly so, Miss Ladram. Including the possibility that you're lying. "

CHAPTER.

NINE.

The first telephone call Derek Fairfax received after reaching the office on Wednesday proved what he had begun to suspect: that the death of Maurice Abberley amounted to rather more than the newspapers had revealed.

"Fairfax."

"Good morning, Mr Fairfax. My name's Golding. Detective Chief Inspector Golding of Thames Valley CID."

"Thames Valley?"

"I'm investigating the murder of Mr Maurice Abberley. Perhaps you've read about it."

"Er . . . Yes, I have."

"Your name's been given by the murdered man's sister, Miss Charlotte Ladram, as somebody able to corroborate certain aspects of the evidence she's laid before us."

"Really? What evidence?"

"I'd like to talk to you about it. Would that be possible?"

"Well . . . Yes, of course. But-"

"Could I call on you later? This afternoon perhaps?"

"You mean . . . here?"

"If it's not inconvenient."

"No, no. I'm sure-"

"Shall we say two-thirty?"

"Well . . . all right."

"Until two-thirty, then. Goodbye, Mr Fairfax."

Derek put the telephone down slowly, frowning as he did so. If he had not been so taken aback, he might have suggested a different venue. But it was too late now. What form of corroboration did Golding have in mind? he wondered. Why had Charlotte Ladram decided to involve him when she had previously been so eager to exclude him? Impulsively he grabbed the telephone directory, looked up her number and dialled it. But there was no answer.

He tried again ten minutes later, then at half hourly intervals H A N D I N G L O V E.

253.

throughout the morning. But the result was always the same.

Charlotte Ladram was not at home.

Charlotte was in fact driving west along the M4 to South Wales, intent upon extracting from Frank Griffith some explanation of why he had misled Chief Inspector Golding. By noon she was on the Brecon by-pa.s.s and less than an hour later was steering gingerly between the ruts on the rough and winding track to Hendre Gorfelen.

It was as she was approaching the last crest before the house came into sight that she suddenly had to stamp on the brakes as a Land Rover came pitching round the hillside. The two vehicles came to a halt virtually b.u.mper to b.u.mper, with no room to pa.s.s each other between the dry stone walls. And there, staring back at Charlotte from the cab of the Land Rover, unsmiling and motionless, was Frank Griffith.

Charlotte switched off the ignition and climbed out. The Land Rover engine rumbled on as she walked round to the driver's door and waited for him to look at her. Eventually, just when she thought he never would, he turned it off.

"Frank?"

He continued to stare straight ahead.

"You must have been expecting me."

Still there was no response.

"Why did you lie to the police?"

Now, at last, he did acknowledge her presence, with a faint nod and a stubborn extension of his lower lip. "I did what you wanted me to do," he said.

"What I wanted you to do?"

"Forget the whole thing. Leave well alone. Stop causing trouble to you and your family."

"I never said that."

"You meant it, though." He glared round at her. "Why else would you have left me that note? You didn't believe McKitrick had stolen the letters, did you? It was a lie. So, before you start demanding to know why I lied, perhaps you'd like to tell me why you lied."

"All right." She hung her head. "There seemed to be no way of proving what Maurice had done. Nor of preventing him from publis.h.i.+ng the letters. So I thought . . . I thought it would be for the best to . . . to . . ."

254.

R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

"Fob me off ?"

"Yes." She forced herself to meet his gaze, to admit the truth of his accusations as openly as she could. "But everything's changed now, don't you see?"

"No. I don't."

"Didn't Golding tell you about my niece?"

"Yes. He told me."

"She's in danger, Frank. Grave danger. Aren't you willing to do anything to help her?"

"There's nothing I can do."

"You can convince the police the letters really exist. That they're what this is all about."

"But they're not. They have nothing to do with it."

"They must have. Nothing else makes any sense. In his last letter, Tristram referred to a doc.u.ment he was sending-or intending to send-to Beatrix. And the kidnappers demanded everything Maurice stole from you. They must have meant that to include the doc.u.ment, but Maurice didn't have it."

"Because I didn't have it. Beatrix sent me the letters and that's all.

She never mentioned receiving anything else from Tristram, with or after his last communication."

"Don't you have any idea what it might be?"

"None. Besides, it makes more sense to me to believe your brother was the victim of one of the many enemies I'm sure he made in the course of his life. As for your niece . . ."

"Yes, Frank? What about Sam? She's just twenty years old.

Younger than you were when you volunteered for Spain. Younger than Beatrix was when she wrote Tristram's first poem for him."

His expression remained as unyielding as ever. "I can't help her."

"Won't you even try?"

"Beatrix asked me to keep her secret. Your brother's death means I can. It's a second chance I don't deserve. But it's one I don't intend to waste."

"What about Sam?"

"I'm was.h.i.+ng my hands of your family." He stared out intently through the windscreen. "I'm forgetting everything I've ever known about them. I'm doing what I should have done from the start."

"Which is?"

"Thinking of myself." He turned and looked straight at her.

H A N D I N G L O V E.

255.

"Now, why don't you reverse to the bridge? You can turn round there.

Then we can both go our separate ways."

CHAPTER.

TEN.

Derek's previous experience of dealing with the police amounted to clarifying some technical points for the Fraud Squad when a client of Fithyan & Co. was arrested for tax evasion. On that occasion he had been treated with a degree of courtesy not far short of deference and he had subconsciously expected the same of his interview with Chief Inspector Golding. But his expectations were not to be fulfilled.

Golding was a lean and outwardly languid man of about Derek's own age, smartly dressed in a dark suit, striped s.h.i.+rt and monogrammed tie. This and his expression of heavy-lidded scepticism gave him more the appearance of an Old Etonian stockbroker than a policeman. It enabled him to ask the bluntest of questions in the po-litest of tones and to disguise his opinion behind the blandest of smiles. When he invited Derek to confirm the existence of Tristram Abberley's letters to his sister, it was impossible to guess at the purpose of his enquiry. And when Derek emphasized, as he was determined to, that the contents of the letters supported his brother's protests of his innocence, Golding heard him out with patient inscrutability.

It was, indeed, only when their conversation seemed to be moving towards a close, with Derek none the wiser about why it had taken place, that Golding began to apply a steely edge to his questions.

"Why do you suppose Mr Griffith might deny possessing the letters, Mr Fairfax?"

"I don't suppose he would."

"But he has. There's my problem. He denies it point-blank. And you've never seen any of them, have you?"

"No, but-"

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R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

"So, strictly speaking, you can't corroborate Miss Ladram's account, can you?"

"I most certainly can. She-"

"Why do you think Mr Abberley was murdered?"

"I don't know."

"For the letters?"