The Evil that Men Do (18 page)

‘I know they are, but do you think you could find out? Without putting their backs up, I mean. I know you're not officially on the case, but they don't seem to resent your lending a hand.'

‘Probably, but to what purpose, Dorothy? We could go and inspect the shed and the farm it belongs to. We could talk to the owner of the phone; I'm sure they've established that by now. We could ask people all the same questions the police are asking, and annoy them no end, but why?'

‘You're saying we're helpless.'

The compassion in his face was answer enough.

‘There must be some way we can help.' I was talking to myself as much as to Alan, trying to convince myself. ‘Alan, do the police know about Sarah Robinson?'

‘What about her? He frowned doubtfully. ‘I know you're worried about her, but  . . .'

‘No, I mean, do they know she's a friend of Jo's? Have they talked to her, do you think?'

‘Hmm. I have no idea. Certainly, I didn't mention her to the police in Cheltenham.'

‘Then let's go talk to her ourselves! It would be something to do, anyway, to keep from feeling so useless.'

‘She wasn't exactly forthcoming the last time we spoke,' Alan pointed out.

‘Jo wasn't missing then. Or at least, she wasn't in trouble. Now she's in danger. I think Sarah will want to help. She called Jo her best friend, remember?'

‘No, I'd forgotten. I do remember quite distinctly her telling us to peddle our papers.'

‘Your American is coming along nicely, dear, but your accent needs work. And you still look English. Something about the way you walk  . . .'

We had a quick snack lunch at the cottage and then got in the car for the short trip to Broadway. It took about ten minutes. Walking it, even along the roads, would have taken most of the day. I began to appreciate Alan's point about the advantages, on occasion, of mechanized travel.

The arts festival was beginning to wind down a little, but the village was still crowded. We found a place to park, with some difficulty, and walked to the gallery where Sarah Robinson worked. It wasn't heavily patronized, on a Thursday afternoon, but a few customers wandered about, looking at paintings and drawings and sculpture, mostly sightseeing, I surmised. We scanned the ground floor quickly, then Alan went upstairs. He was down in less than five minutes. He shook his head.

‘Lunch?' I whispered.

He shrugged and walked over to the owner, who was being gracious to an elderly couple who looked as though they had money.

‘I beg your pardon,' he said in that stifled tone one adopts in galleries and churches, I have no idea why. ‘I'm so sorry to disturb you, but we were looking for Ms Robinson. We're friends; you may recall seeing us one day last week. I wonder if you know when she might return.'

‘Do forgive me,' she said to the couple. ‘I'll let you talk it over. I'll not be a moment.'

She led Alan to her desk in the corner of the room. I tagged along. ‘I don't think I remember your name, Mr  . . .?'

‘Nesbitt. Alan Nesbitt. And I'm not sure we were ever introduced, but I assume you own the gallery.'

‘Clarendon. Elizabeth Clarendon. Yes, this is my gallery. Have you known Sarah for a long time?'

‘Actually, we've only just met. In fact  . . .' He lowered his voice to an almost inaudible level. ‘In fact, we are quite worried about another friend of hers, a Ms Carter.'

‘Jo? Is something the matter with Jo?'

‘That's what we'd like to discuss with Ms Robinson. If you could tell us when she might return  . . .'

‘But you see, I don't know!' Her voice held a mixture of exasperation and fear. ‘She's been acting peculiar all week—'

‘Peculiar how?' Alan interrupted.

‘Nervy. Jumped at every noise, and  . . . well, clung to me, rather. That's not like her at all. She's a bit quiet, but not clingy. Determined, independent. But I expect you know all that.'

‘Go on.' If Alan was as impatient as I, he hid it well.

‘She came in this morning quite early, before I got here. She was looking  . . . well, like something the cat dragged in, if you want to know the truth. Pale and shaky. She said she hadn't slept well and thought she'd get a start on the work. We've done rather well out of the festival, so there's masses of paperwork to be got through. But then mid-morning she took a phone call—'

‘On her mobile?' asked Alan, interrupting again.

‘No. I prefer that mobiles not be used in the gallery. No, it was on the phone here. I answered, and the voice on the other end was so scratchy I could hardly make out what he said. Eventually I caught the word “
Sarah
”, so I called her to the phone. She listened for only a few seconds, then she dropped the phone, picked up her handbag, and said, “I have to go.” And she was out the door without another word, and I swear, Mr Nesbitt, she was as white as that paper.'

Her voice had risen as she spoke, and the elderly couple, looking alarmed, slipped out the door, as did two other customers.

‘I'm sorry,' Alan murmured. ‘I'm costing you custom. If it weren't important  . . .'

‘Never mind. I'm more worried about Sarah than about lost business.'

‘Two more questions, and then we'll leave you in peace. Does your telephone keep a record of recent calls?'

‘Yes, a few, at any rate. But there've not been many today, so perhaps  . . .' She was pushing buttons as she spoke. ‘Yes, this must be the one. Nine twenty-two this morning. No name, I'm afraid, just the number of a mobile.' She read it off, and Alan wrote it down.

‘Second, do you have any idea where Ms Robinson might have gone?'

‘She went up the High Street. I know, because I ran to the door to ask her what was wrong, and she was running as if the hounds of hell were after her.'

It was a turn of phrase I would not have expected from the woman, who was bland and conventional, or so I had thought.

‘I suppose she might have gone home. She lives up that way. But I did try ringing her later, around noon, and there was no answer.'

‘Can you tell me exactly where she lives?' Alan's voice was steady, and probably no one but I would have noticed the underlying urgency.

‘I don't remember the number, but it's in the Upper High Street, not far from the end, on the south side. Masses of yellow roses in front.'

‘Thank you. You've been most helpful.' Alan shook her hand.

‘And you'll let her know I'm worried about her!' she said as we opened the door.

‘Alan, that's the house  . . .' I said as soon as we were well outside.

‘It may be,' he said cautiously. ‘Yellow roses aren't exactly a rare commodity in this village.

‘No. But I don't remember any others that far up, on that side of the street.'

‘We'll soon know.'

We left the car where it was and walked up the street at a pace that left me breathless. ‘Alan, I know you're eager to find out what we can, but remember my knees!' I cried plaintively, panting along in his wake.

‘Sorry, love. I can't help feeling anxious about this whole situation.' He slowed a trifle, but I was at least as worried as he, and I hurried as best I could.

We rounded the bend and saw plainly the house with the cascades of yellow roses. We stopped at the same moment and looked at each other. ‘Alan, I don't like this,' I said in a small voice.

The house was, as I had been sure it would be, the one we had seen Paul Jones leaving on our first night in Broadway.

As we approached, Alan straightened his shoulders. His face changed in some indefinable way. I understood that it was Chief Constable Nesbitt making this call, and that he wanted me as silent and inconspicuous as possible.

Even the rap on the door sounded solid and official.

We waited.

There was no answer, but I saw the curtain twitch. It was only the slightest movement, but Alan caught it too, and held his finger to his lips.

The silence was alive – the tense silence of fear, not the dead silence of an empty house.

‘Ms Robinson, it would be better if you would open the door. It is of the utmost importance that we talk, and privacy is essential.' Alan's voice was quiet, but carrying. These houses were solidly built, but with someone obviously in the front room, he could certainly be heard.

‘We have information that you need, Ms Robinson, and we believe you have information that we need. We mean no harm to you or yours. This concerns your friend Ms Carter. Please let us in.'

The silence took on a different quality, a hesitancy. Then with no warning creaks or clicks, the door opened a crack.

Paul Jones, aka Peter James/Matthew Browne, stood in the doorway.

TWENTY-ONE

‘
H
ello, Paul,' I said in as normal a voice as I could muster. ‘I thought we might find you here. I believe I'm entitled to a lunch with you.'

‘What are you talking about?' His voice was low and hoarse. ‘For God's sake don't stand there on the street. Anyone could see you!'

He opened the door just wide enough to let us in, then closed and locked it. I took Alan's arm. I wanted to cling to him, but I managed to keep my touch light.

Sarah Robinson was in the front room, standing by the window. She dropped her hand from the curtain and came towards us, moving slowly and carefully, as if she were afraid a sudden movement would cause her to disintegrate. ‘What information?' she asked Alan, her eyes never leaving his face.

‘May we sit down?' he asked quietly. ‘Some of what I have to say will come as a shock to you.'

‘Sit, stand, do as you like!' Sarah's control was slipping. ‘But tell me!'

Paul took her hand and pushed her gently on to a love seat. He stood behind her. ‘What is it?' he demanded.

Alan sat in front of her. His voice was very gentle. ‘We have reason to believe that Jo Carter is being held prisoner.'

Paul caught Sarah as she slumped in a dead faint.

Alan is trained in basic medical skills. While he ministered to Sarah, I shooed Paul out to the kitchen, where we made tea. ‘Is there brandy somewhere, or whisky?' I asked. I was quite sure he would know.

He found a bottle of brandy. I added it to the tea tray and returned to the lounge.

Sarah was sitting upright again. Her skin was so pale it was nearly transparent, and her eyes were sunken, with purple circles underneath. She opened her mouth to speak, but I shook my head. ‘Not until you've got some of this in you.' I poured the tea and added three lumps of sugar.

‘I don't take sugar,' she said in a near-whisper. ‘Just milk.'

‘You're having sugar now. It's good for shock. And no milk. The brandy might curdle it.'

I had found a rather tired lemon on the kitchen counter and sliced it. I dropped a slice into the cup and added a healthy dollop of brandy. ‘There. Now drink that as soon as it's cool enough.' I stood by her side until I was sure her hand was steady enough to hold the cup without spilling hot tea all over herself, and then retired to a dim corner, giving Alan a quick glance. He nodded. My role now was to watch and listen. Paul sat down beside her, close enough to steady her if she felt faint again.

‘Mr Jones,' Alan began, and then hesitated. ‘I hardly know what to call you, young man. You have many names.'

‘Paul will do, sir. Peter James is my professional name.' He had lost his belligerence, but there was deep fear and distress in his eyes and in his manner. Even so, he couldn't keep a small note of pride out of his voice.

‘And you are  . . . Ms Robinson?' Alan allowed his scepticism to show.

‘I, too, have many names,' said Sarah, with great sadness. ‘I was born Susan Browne. But you can call me Sarah.'

‘And Paul here is your son.'

In my corner, I suppressed a triumphant cry. I had been sure, from the moment Paul opened the door, of the truth, but I had feared Alan would ask, and be lied to. I should have had more confidence in my experienced policeman.

‘I'm not sure how you found that out, but yes, he is. My oldest child.'

‘You have other children?'

‘Two daughters. I've sent them to stay with a friend for a little.'

Alan didn't ask why. Her situation here at home was plainly difficult at the moment. He simply nodded. ‘There's a good deal more I need to know and understand, but the first, urgent matter is: have you heard anything from Jo Carter?'

‘Nothing!' It was an anguished cry from Paul. ‘I've been phoning her for days. Her mobile doesn't answer. The shelter doesn't know where she is, or won't say. She's  . . . she's vanished from the face of the earth, and now you say she's a prisoner?'

‘We very much fear that is the case. When I say “we”, I mean the Gloucestershire police, with whom I am cooperating. A fairly complicated series of events, in which you are very much involved, Paul, led us to believe she might be in danger.' There was a quiet moan from Sarah, which Alan ignored. ‘A great many people have been looking for her. Last evening the police received a nine-nine-nine call from her, or from a person claiming to be Jo Carter. She said she had escaped from a captor and was hiding. She gave the police careful directions to her location. When they got there, no one was there.'

‘What do you mean, a person claiming to be Jo?' Some of Paul's belligerence was back.

‘She was using someone else's mobile phone, apparently stolen. The phone was found, smashed to pieces.'

‘But  . . . why would she steal a phone? Jo isn't  . . . she wouldn't  . . .'

‘We believe she was not able to take her own with her when she ran away. We don't know how she managed to find someone else's. What we do know is that the woman who made the call was in great distress.' He let that remark hang in the air. I watched Sarah, who was crying quietly, her tea cup still in her hand, forgotten. She had drunk some of it. Enough, I hoped, to help a little. I moved forward, took the cup from her hand, and put it on the table.