A Friend of the Family (27 page)

Tom snorted. ‘Ten Tors! He'll probably break his ankle going down the drive! Have you dug out those waterproof trousers, Cass?'

‘They're all here.' She indicated a pile of garments on the table. ‘Thank goodness I'm tall. Saul should be able to wear mine quite comfortably.'

Tom, having put his waterproofs on, was sitting tackling his walking boots when Saul appeared, looking white and tense, dressed in some sort of camouflage boiler suit, black laced-up boots and a woollen hat pulled on over his dark hair.

‘Heavens!' remarked Oliver. ‘Where are you going? Are they filming the siege of the Iranian Embassy? You look just like an extra!'

‘You must put on some waterproofs, darling,' said Cass, holding up the remaining trousers, ‘you'd be soaked through in five minutes dressed like that.'

‘I know.' Saul took them from her and prepared to put them on.

Tom shrugged himself into his waterproof jacket. ‘Saul can take the rucksack,' he said. ‘I want to find a good stout stick.' He went out into the hall.

‘Real
Boys' Own Paper
stuff,' observed Oliver, attempting to lighten the atmosphere a little. ‘You'll have to watch him, Saul. Thinks he's Bulldog Drummond, I shouldn't wonder.'

Saul stepped into the trousers and sat down again to deal with his boots.

‘Will you be all right?' Cass asked Saul, concerned by his silence.

Saul, wrestling with his laces, nodded and then glancing up at her gave her a quick grin. Cass saw at once that, besides his concern for Polly, he was filled with a blazing excitement. This was all his fantasies, the old war films and James Bond rolled into one and he was loving every minute of it. Cass, taken aback for a second, had a strong feeling that there was more in Saul's mind than merely going in search of the nearest telephone. She had a terrible twinge of misgiving.

‘Saul,' she began but, as she spoke, Tom could be heard shouting from the hall.

‘Come on, Saul. We really must be off!'

Saul stood up, hauled on the jacket, swung the knapsack on to his back and gave Cass a quick kiss. ‘See you, Ma,' he said and he was gone.

 

MICHAEL STOOD LOOKING DOWN
at Harriet, asleep in her hospital bed. This birth had been easier than Hugh's but she looked tired and pale.

No more, thought Michael. Two is more than enough. She'll be forty in a year or two and Hugh's a handful on his own without this
new one. He sighed. His thoughts moved to Polly. He'd just heard that there'd been a breakout from Princetown and that the prisoner's escape car had been abandoned at Merrivale. It was a chance in a thousand that he would turn up at Lower Barton but Michael felt that he must try to get back. He wondered whether to tell Harriet the truth, although it would worry her, or pretend that he wanted to get back to check on Hugh and pick up some stuff for himself. As he debated with himself, Harriet's eyes opened and she smiled up at him.

‘Hello,' she said. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing's wrong.' He'd made up his mind. ‘Do you think you could cope if I went home to pick up a few things? I'd love a bath and some clean clothes and I could say hello to Hugh and tell him about his new brother. What do you think?'

Harriet turned dreamy eyes to the window. ‘Would you make it in the snow?'

‘Oh, that's no problem,' said Michael easily. ‘The snowploughs have been right through but you mustn't panic if you don't hear from me at once. The telephone lines are down.'

‘Oh, dear.' Harriet looked concerned and started to struggle into a more upright position. Oh, in that case you'd better go. Poor Polly will be so worried.'

‘No she won't. At least, not yet. I've already spoken to her this morning, remember. But it might be a good idea to check up on things. I'll try to get back this evening.'

‘No, no. Don't do that. I'm perfectly OK and so is the baby. We're quite safe here. I'd rather you were with Hugh. If the telephone is off, the electricity may be off, too, and poor old Polly will be in a right two-and-eight. I shall be happier knowing that you're there. I don't want you driving back here in the dark.'

‘OK. But you must promise not to worry if you don't hear from me. I'm sure I shall get there quite safely but I shan't be able to tell you that I have.' He bent to kiss her. ‘I'll be in bright and early tomorrow morning. Might even bring Hugh.'

Oh, that would be lovely.' She reached up to return his kiss. ‘But only if it's absolutely safe.'

Of course. Don't worry, I shan't take any risks.'

 

POLLY WAS FEELING ILL
at ease. It was, as much as anything, Max's behaviour that was beginning to unnerve her. He barely took his eyes from Jon and when Hugh, after lunch, went to sit in the armchair beside the Aga, Max got up, too. He sat in front of the armchair with Hugh's slippered toes digging into his big furry neck and continued to stare at Jon.

‘He's always been like this with Huge,' lied Polly, trying to laugh. ‘It's rather touching, really.' She wanted to go and check the fire in the sitting room but for some reason felt afraid to leave them. Ozzy, sensing Max's antagonism, was watchful and alert without being openly hostile. This is silly! she said to herself. He's Michael's cousin, for goodness' sake! But still she sat on at the table, cradling her coffee mug in her hands.

Jon made no attempt to approach Hugh or even to speak to him. He just continued to watch the child who, always cautious with strangers at the best of times, ignored him completely. He sat now, surrounded by stuffed animals, thumb in his mouth, absorbed in a picture book.

‘Do you think he's like Michael?' asked Polly. ‘He's dark, of course, but then both Harriet and Michael are, too. I forget whether you've met Harriet?' Jon shook his head, his eyes still on Hugh. ‘He's got Michael's brown eyes and he's a very quiet child . . . ' She stopped speaking, listening to her voice dying away in the silence. ‘More coffee?' she asked desperately.

‘Thank you.' Jon pushed his mug towards her.

Polly got to her feet. She filled a jug with water and topped up the heavy Aga kettle. Whilst she waited for it to boil, she turned and rested against the rail of the Aga and looked at Jon. She thought that she had never seen a man sit so still. He's like one of those waxwork
figures in Madame Tussauds, she thought, lifelike enough for you to go up and ask where the loos are but with an inhuman look. Or, she thought, letting her imagination have its head, like a robot from a
Star Trek
movie: on the outside a real human being but on the inside nothing but a machine.

‘Are you married?' asked Polly, unable to stand her thoughts and the silence another moment. ‘Have you any children?'

For the first time since he had entered the kitchen, Jon turned his light gaze upon her. ‘My wife and child are dead,' he said. ‘They died in an accident.'

Polly's hands gripped the Aga rail and she found herself quite unable to utter even the conventional words of regret or sympathy. She swallowed once or twice and shook her head slightly. Jon watched her. After a moment, that change of expression which passed for a smile touched his eyes. It had a chilling effect.

‘How . . . how ghastly,' she stammered and turned with relief to make the coffee. Perhaps, she thought, her hands shaking slightly as she measured the coffee granules into the mugs, perhaps that's why he stares so. Perhaps his child looked like Hugh. Oh, God! What on earth does one say or do now?

That problem was answered for her by Jon himself. ‘I need a leak,' he said, and stood up. So did Max. Ozzy raised his head from his paws. Polly put the mugs of coffee on the kitchen table and went to Max.

‘Oh, dear,' she said, in as light a tone as she could manage. He's being a pain, isn't he?' She ruffled Max's hair.

‘Never mind,' said Jon, in the same light tone. ‘He'll need to go himself some time, won't he?' He slipped out of the kitchen while Polly was still taking in what he'd said and she heard him going upstairs.

He reappeared a few minutes later. ‘ Come and have your coffee,' she said in her ‘bright' voice, ‘and then, since you must be exhausted after all your traumas, I was wondering if you ought to go and have a sleep? I'm sure it would do you good.'

They both sat down again at the table and Max resumed his position in front of Hugh's chair.

‘I might at that,' said Jon. He took a sip of coffee.

Presently his glance slid round until it rested once again on Hugh.

 

Twenty-eight

 

AT THE BOTTOM OF
the drive—which Saul negotiated without breaking his ankle—they met William Hope-Latymer in his Land Rover.

‘Just coming to see if you're OK,' he called, keeping the engine running. ‘Jack Halliwell's been out with the tractor, taking some feed out, so I thought I'd chance it. I imagine you're cut off, too? Jack reckons the worst's over.' Suddenly he took in their dress and Saul's rucksack. ‘What are you two up to? Off to do the Ten Tors?'

Saul grinned but Tom took charge. ‘Did you see that there's a prisoner on the run?' he asked. ‘That girl we had staying—you know? Polly?—is over at Harriet's all on her own with their kid.' Too late he remembered Cass's injunction that Saul should not know the details and he prayed that William wouldn't know them either.

‘Christ!' William looked shocked. ‘I saw it on the news just before we lost the juice. They said he killed his wife because she went out leaving their kid on his own and he got up and set the house on fire, or something. Died of burns. Only three years old. I gather that he took a hatchet to his wife and he's got an obsession about kids and hates women. Bloody hell! And they found his car off the road at Merrivale. That's not far from their place, is it?'

Tom glanced quickly at Saul, took in his horrified expression and looked at William. ‘Do you think Meavy will be on?' he asked, ignoring William's question. ‘Any chance of a lift that far? Do you think this thing will get through?' he added, hammering his fist on the bonnet.

‘Have a bloody good try !' replied William cheerfully. ‘If Jack's got out, we can follow along. In you get.'

Tom and Saul hurried round to squeeze in the front with William and he started off gingerly. Saul sat in silence, adjusting his ideas. Some of the pure excitement had gone out of the adventure but an iron determination had entered in its place.

‘Jack's got stock out on Lynch Common,' William was saying. ‘So we should be OK that far, at least. It's getting down the hill and over the bridge that worries me. Still, we'll have a go.'

Sure enough, at the turning towards Sheepstor the tractor's tyre marks bore away to the right and the Land Rover continued slowly and cautiously towards Meavy. The road started to fall away to the bridge and the three of them sat barely breathing as, slipping and sliding, they began to descend. The snow had drifted into the narrowing valley and was soon piling up in front of the Land Rover. At the bottom of the hill, the road swings round to the right and left again over the narrow stone bridge which spans the River Meavy but, at this point, the Land Rover showed no inclination to remain with it. Despite William wrestling with the wheel—and Tom's shouted instructions—it left the road to follow the old track which led to the now generally unused ford. William decided that if he could not make the turn towards the bridge he would try to use the ford instead.

‘Hold tight, chaps,' he said as he straightened the wheel and gently accelerated. The wheels gripped and the Land Rover picked up speed as they followed the old track until suddenly there was a loud crash and they came to an abrupt halt.

‘Damn and blast!' cried William. ‘Now what? Can you get out, Tom?'

They all scrambled out and waded through the snow round to the front of the Land Rover. The nearside front wheel had hit a pile of stones hidden by the snow and the hiss of air announced that the tyre had punctured.

‘We'll have to change that wheel if we can. Have to move her back
up a bit to get at it,' said William. ‘You two shove and we'll see what we can do. It's worth a try.'

With William in the driving seat, Tom and Saul heaved and strained but all to no avail. There was no prospect of moving it without more help.

‘Forget it,' said William, switching off the engine and joining the others. ‘Why don't you two go on and try and find a phone? See if you can get someone with a tractor to come and give me a pull out. You needn't worry about me, I'll be all right.'

‘OK,' said Tom. ‘Don't forget the rucksack, Saul,' he added as he set off to cross the ford. The words had hardly left his lips when, slipping on a stone, he fell with a great splash into the icy cold water.

William went down to help him. ‘Come on. Give me your hand.'

‘Christ!' groaned Tom as William hauled him to his feet. ‘I've twisted my bloody ankle—or broken it!'

‘Hang on, don't put any weight on it. Come on, Saul, you take that side and we'll try to get him back to the Land Rover.'

Between them they helped him to hop and hobble to the Land Rover, water cascading from inside his waterproof clothing, and up on to the front seat, his face clenched with pain.

‘We'd better get his boot off,' said Saul, ‘in case it starts swelling. Look, the best thing is for me to get on up into the village and try to find some help. It's no good,' he said firmly, as Tom began to protest. ‘You can't go any further like that and it doesn't need both of us to go for help. I'll find a telephone even if I have to go on to Yelverton. If I don't come back with the rescue party, you'll know that Meavy's off and I've pressed on.' He reached for the rucksack, took out one of the flasks and divided up the sandwiches, keeping for himself the slab of chocolate that Cass had put in.

‘He's quite right, Tom.' William was already struggling with the soaking laces of Tom's boot.

‘I've left you a flask,' said Saul, shouldering the rucksack. ‘I'll be back in a minute if the telephones are on. If not . . . 'he shrugged, ‘see you when I see you.'

‘Well, for God's sake take care,' said Tom and cried out with pain as William started to ease the boot from his swelling ankle. ‘Christ, William!'

‘Sorry, old chap. It's got to be done. Hang on!'

‘And no silly heroics!' shouted Tom after his son.

But Saul was already climbing the hill to the village and continued on his way without a backward glance.

 

MICHAEL HAD NO DIFFICULTY
in getting out of Plymouth. The lorries had been through behind the snowploughs, salting and gritting, and the traffic had made sure that the main roads were kept open. But, when he passed through Roborough and away from the shelter of the buildings and hedges, conditions rapidly deteriorated as the wind drifted snow on to the road and all signs of grit and salt had long since gone.

As the open moor came into view, he caught his breath. The great white waste stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction, all landmarks obliterated. He could have been crossing a desert. It had stopped snowing but the sky was as white as the snow itself and Michael felt a sense of desolation.

If Hell wasn't supposed to be hot, one could imagine it to be something like this: endless emptiness. Cold, bleak, featureless and oneself doomed to travel on in it for all eternity.

He pulled himself together and switched on the car radio. ‘. . . is still at large. People in the area have been warned not to approach him as he is known to be dangerous. The severe weather conditions are hampering the police in their search . . .' Michael switched it off and pushed his horn-rimmed spectacles more firmly on to his nose. He did not know the full details of the case, having heard of it secondhand from one of the nursing staff. Even so, he was beginning to feel very anxious. ‘Bloody hell,' he muttered to himself. ‘It would all have to happen together. If only I'd insisted on bringing Hugh with us!' He pushed a tape into the slot and switched the radio back on. Hummel's Piano Concerto Number One filled his ears and he tried to relax.

He crawled on, passing a number of abandoned cars. As he approached the outskirts of Tavistock a car appeared, travelling in the opposite direction. It grew closer, seemed to waver and then started to slide towards him.

‘For God's sake!' cried Michael. ‘Get over, you blasted idiot!' He steered as close to the left as he could but the other vehicle struck his front wing. Michael had a glimpse of the set terrified face of an elderly woman before his own car slid out of control to plunge headfirst into a great wall of snow at the side of the road.

‘Hell and damnation!' shouted Michael. He got out of the car but the woman was continuing on her way, veering first this way and then that, without a backward glance.

Michael shut his eyes for a moment as various choice phrases concerning women drivers passed through his mind, then he opened them and looked at his car. It was obvious there was no possibility of returning the heavy Volvo estate to the road without the help of a number of strong men or another vehicle. He glanced round. For the first time he realised that he was almost opposite the turning that led down to Whitchurch—and in Whitchurch lived Kate and Chris. Without hesitation he switched off the engine, changed his shoes for gumboots, took his Barbour from the back of the car and, locking up, set off for Whitchurch.

 

‘
I MUST SAY,' SAID
Jon, putting down his spoon and fork with a sigh, ‘it was a very good idea of yours to get stoked up first. I really enjoyed that.'

‘I didn't think that it was very sensible to risk life and limb on an empty stomach,' said Freddie, leaning back in his chair and glancing around the bar. ‘Thank God that the Bedford still has its electricity on. You must have been starving.'

Jon stretched out his long legs to the fire while Freddie went to get some coffee. If the truth be told, he was rather enjoying his adventure . He usually took his holidays fishing in Scotland and this was his first trip to the West Country for many years. He'd been back in the
London office for just long enough to enjoy this rumpus and he was looking forward to his first sight of Dartmoor, even if it were under several feet of snow.

Freddie returned with a tray on which stood a large pot of coffee. ‘Chap's been telling me that there's been a breakout.'

Jon looked puzzled. He received his cup of steaming coffee and piled sugar in. ‘Sorry?' he asked, taking a gulp. ‘Breakout? I'm not with you.'

‘A breakout from Princetown,' explained Freddie. ‘The prison up on Dartmoor. It's only a few miles away. Not far from your relations' place. A car was left for him but he didn't get far in it. Ran it off the road at Merrivale.'

‘Merrivale?' Jon wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. ‘That rings a bell. I think Michael said something about Merrivale.'

He paused. ‘That's right. He said that if I came over the moor I would come through Merrivale and then I was to turn off to the right just after a cattle grid.' He looked at Freddie. ‘Does that sound about right?'

‘Absolutely.' Freddie nodded. ‘Well, it looks as if we might find your cousin having tea with an escaped prisoner.' He laughed and swallowed the last of his coffee. ‘All set then? Fancy a man-hunt?'

‘Lead me to it!' said Jon enthusiastically and gathering up their belongings they went out of the bar, down the steps and into the street.

 

‘IT'S NO GOOD.'CASS
threw her book down. ‘I simply can't concentrate. I wonder how far they've got. It's awful to be so completely out of touch.'

‘No good getting in a state, Ma,' advised Oliver. ‘They could be hours yet. It's a long haul over to Yelverton in these conditions.'

‘I know, I know.' Cass got to her feet and wandered over to the fire. Crouching beside it, she poked at it aimlessly and then put another log amongst the flames. ‘It must have been perfectly ghastly in the old days. No television, no radio, no telephone, no lights. I can't imagine how they filled the hours. And that reminds me. It's getting on and I'd better get the paraffin lamps down. I hope they'll be home before dark.'

As she straightened up, the front doorbell pealed several times. Cass clutched at her heart and stared at Oliver. ‘Who . . . ? Could it be . . . ?'

‘Only one way to find out.' Oliver pulled himself out of his chair. ‘And that's to go and answer it.'

Oh, Oliver. Be careful. If only we still had Gus. He was such a good guard dog.'

‘Come on, Ma. Get a grip. Homicidal maniacs don't go about ringing on doorbells. Perhaps it's Saul and Pa back already.'

He went out into the hall and, after a moment, Cass picked up the heavy brass poker and followed him. As they went down the hall, the doorbell rang again.

Oliver pulled back the bolt which Cass had earlier put across and opened the door. Abby Hope-Latymer stood on the doorstep, her eyes wide and frightened in her small face as she hurried past Oliver into the hall.

‘Abby!' cried Cass, trying to hide the poker. ‘How lovely. But should you be out on your own? Haven't you heard . . . ?'

‘I certainly have!' interrupted Abby. Her eyes fell on the poker. ‘And so, I see, have you. My God, Cass! William went out hours ago and he hasn't come back. I waited and waited but I'm all on my own up there and my nerve finally cracked. I started to hear footsteps and doors opening. Jesus! What a man! Did you see what he did to his wife? She only went out for a drink with some chums. She wasn't to know that the blasted kid would get up and burn the house down! Anyway. I decided to come down to you. Have you seen him?'