Why Aren't They Screaming? (23 page)

‘Not me personally. I knew nothing about it till you started asking questions today. We're talking unauthorized operations here.' He paused. ‘Turns out I've got a couple of cowboys on my team, couple of guys who just got moved out of Managua. They don't know the difference between operating here and what we do in hostile territory.' He pronounced it
hostel,
Loretta noticed. They've been trying to throw a scare into your friend in the big house, trying to make her sell up and move on out.' He paused again.

‘And when she didn't ... they killed her?' Loretta was surprised to find her voice was steady, in spite of the audacity of the question.

‘No, they did
not.'
For the first time his tone had ceased to be conversational, matter-of-fact; the dark hollows of his eye
sockets mesmerized Loretta. She felt threatened, menaced, but stood her ground.

‘You expect me to believe that? When you've admitted bugging the house, all that nonsense with the tape recorder?'

‘Not me, I just told you –'

She interrupted him, reckless now. ‘So why did they call it off before she was killed – tell me that! They did, didn't they? They got into my cottage on Sunday night and removed the evidence, then they –'

‘Because they got scared! All that stuff going on at the camp, those guys firing the trailer Friday night, it got too hot.'

‘Oh, come on–'

‘Look, this is a friendly country. We don't mess with murder. You better believe it – if you don't want to end up like Fanny down there.' He nodded towards the grave behind her.

Loretta felt a shiver run down her spine and decided it wasn't the moment to point out the inconsistency in the American's last speech.

‘How did they do it?' she asked, trying to sound merely curious. The voices, I mean. You might as well tell me.'

He appeared to consider for a while, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK. Tape recorder in the shack in the garden, place where the American lived. Speakers hidden in the house, miniature ones with receivers in back of them. Kids' stuff.'

‘So they're still there, the speakers?' As soon as it was out Loretta regretted the remark; she'd been thinking aloud, pouncing on the chance to find more evidence of the plot against Clara.

The American laughed. ‘You're not so bright after all. I thought you'd spotted that as well. Or didn't she tell you?'

‘Tell me what? I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Guy turns up, says he wants to buy the house. Gets inside, has a look round. Smartest bit of the operation, and it's down to your guys, not mine.'

Loretta stared at him open-mouthed, remembering one of her conversations with Clara. ‘You mean he was...?'

‘You got it.'

There was silence. The man's gaze wandered across the dark churchyard, then returned to Loretta. ‘Any more questions?'

‘Yes.' She took a deep breath, more afraid now than at any time in the last fifteen minutes. ‘What happens now?'

‘Now ... we do a deal.'

‘A deal?'

He nodded, slowly and emphatically. ‘You hand over the tape, and you go home. The calls, the voices, they never happened. You forget the whole thing.'

‘And if I don't go along with this deal?'

He lifted a hand and drew it sideways across his neck. ‘What do you think?'

Loretta swallowed. ‘What if I haven't got the tape with me?'

‘But you do, don't you? After all those break-ins at that place you're living in, there's no way you'd leave it behind. Hand it over.'

‘Can I ask one last question?'

‘Make it quick.'

‘You say your men had nothing to do with the murder – all right, I believe you!' She felt him relax again. ‘But – do you know who did do it?'

‘Nope.' He shook his head.

‘And you don't know what's happened to Peggy – the woman from the peace camp?'

‘No. That's two questions. The tape.' He held out a gloved hand.

Loretta reached reluctantly into her bag. She took out the cassette and dropped it into his hand, taking care not to touch even his glove.

Thank
you.'
The tape disappeared into a pocket. ‘Now walk. You're going to get into your little car and drive away. You say nothing, got it?'

Loretta nodded.

‘OK.
Walk.'

Her eyes fixed on his face, trying to memorize at least the shape of his head, Loretta began moving sideways towards the church.

‘Faster. Move!'

She turned and walked as quickly as she could, given the rough ground and darkness. Every muscle in her body tensed as she tried to fight off the notion that a bullet was about to rip through her back. She tripped once and, panting, looked back to where she had left the American. He raised one arm in a threatening gesture and she forced herself up and on. She fumbled with the heavy gate, letting it slip from her grasp. Too afraid to go back and shut it, she threw herself into her car and turned the key in the ignition, pressing the accelerator so hard that it roared into sudden life. Then she swung the car round to face the road, without lights, desperate not to present a target; the brakes squealed as she took off much too fast for the dusty surface.

It occurred to Loretta afterwards that she remembered nothing of the ten-mile drive back to Flitwell. As fear was replaced by relief that she'd got out of the churchyard alive, a stream of unpleasant thoughts passed through her mind, preventing her giving full consideration to any of them. Chief among them was that she'd lost her evidence – the only concrete proof that people from the USAF base had been waging a campaign of intimidation against Clara. She could just imagine Chief Inspector Bailey's face if she went to him next morning with her unsupported story. And what would happen to her if she did tell? The American in Steeple Barford seemed pretty well informed about her movements, and the threats he'd uttered were unequivocal. But was she going to allow her course of action to be influenced by concern for her own safety? Theoretically, the answer was a resounding no: bringing Clara's killer to justice was the single most important thing. On the other hand, the American had been adamant that his men weren't involved in the murder – but then he
would
say that, wouldn't he? Surely she should tell Bailey the whole story and to hell with the consequences! Wait a minute, said the small, seductive voice of self-interest, what will that achieve? How will your death help Clara? Loretta swallowed, her throat dry, and argued back. Revealing what she knew was obviously her best means of protection – the Americans wouldn't
dare
kill her then! Oh no? the small voice persisted. Don't you think they're capable of making it look like an accident? And what if they really were innocent of Clara's death? She was still grappling with this appalling dilemma when she remembered Robert. She looked at her
watch and made out that it was just after nine o'clock. A whole hour late! Should she go straight to his house on the assumption that he'd long ago returned home, or check the cottage first? And what was she going to tell him? She'd have to think up a pretty good excuse if she wasn't going to reveal the whole story – but was it wise to confide what had happened to anyone other than the police? And in any case, would he believe her? She hadn't shown him the tape earlier in the day when she'd had the opportunity. The only decision she came to was to try the cottage first, in case he'd left a note. She'd have to decide everything else as she went along.

She slowed in the road as she reached the wooden gates that led to the front door. She was half out of the car before she realized that the gates were already open and a car was parked in her space; she saw the glowing tip of a cigarette bobbing its way towards her.

‘Loretta! Is that you? Christ, where have you been? I've been worried to death!'

‘John! What are you doing here?' Loretta stood in the road, astonished to hear Tracey's voice.

‘Come on, let us inside, there's no point in us all standing out here in the dark.'

The cigarette end retreated and Loretta heard another voice in the garden. Her heart sank; she was fairly sure it belonged to Robert, and she could think of few people in the world she'd rather have kept apart. She sighed, went back to her car and locked it. Then she made her way round what she now recognized as Tracey's black Golf to the front door. Robert was standing several feet away, his face a pale, unreadable shape in the darkness. She put her key in the door and, as it opened, felt inside for the light switch.

‘Nice place you've got here,' Tracey said conversationally, following her in. ‘Bit small.'

Loretta turned to Robert, who was staring at her grimly from the doorway.

‘Robert, I'm
so
sorry. I tried to ring you but you were out. I can tell you the whole story –'

‘Yes, where
have
you been?' Tracey demanded shortly, stubbing his cigarette out in the sink. ‘Roger here –'

‘Robert,' interrupted Loretta, casting an anguished glance in his direction.

‘OK, Robert. He says you were supposed to be here at eight o'clock, that's over an hour ago. What's going on?'

‘Look, I –' Loretta stopped, looking from one angry face to the other.

‘Come on, what've you been up to? I
know
you, Loretta, you're up to no good! I've driven all the way from London –'

‘Yes, what
are
you doing here? I don't remember giving you my address.'

‘For Christ's sake, Loretta, credit me with
some
intelligence. The name of Clara's house is all over the newspapers. You were hardly difficult to find.'

Loretta closed her eyes, completely drained. The scene in the churchyard had exhausted her, she had no resources to cope with this.

‘Um, have you introduced yourselves?' she asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘Oh yes,' said Robert, speaking for the first time. ‘John's explained that he's your husband.'

‘
Ex
-husband,' Loretta said viciously, glaring at Tracey as he lit another cigarette.

‘Well, we're not actually divorced,' Tracey said, inhaling deeply.

‘Either way, I think I'll be off,' Robert said coldly, moving away from the door-frame on which he'd been leaning. ‘I only hung around to make sure you were safe – that you hadn't had a car accident or anything.' He lifted a hand in farewell and stepped into the garden.

‘Robert, wait!' Loretta started to follow him and got to the door in time to see his narrow frame disappear into the darkness beyond the hedge.

‘Now look what you've done,' she cried, whirling round to face Tracey. Tears started in her eyes, she felt for a chair, and collapsed weeping. She heard Tracey shut the front door, then he rested a hand on her shoulder.

‘Loretta, what's the matter? It's not just that creep, is it?'

‘He isn't a creep ...' She sat up, took the handkerchief he was holding out, and blew her nose. ‘No, it isn't just that. But why did you have to upset him, all that stuff about being my
husband? Couldn't you have been a bit more discreet?'

‘OK, I'm sorry. But how was I to know you and he were ... you know how you keep these things to yourself. I was banging on the door when he appeared and wanted to know who I was – I didn't like his manner so I said I was your husband. I'm sorry. Can I get you something?'

‘Yes, please – some tea.'

‘A nice cup of tea coming up. Then you'll tell me what's got you into this state?'

Loretta nodded, wiping away a few last tears with Tracey's handkerchief. What was she to do – about the sinister American in the churchyard, about Robert? He could at least have waited, allowed her to explain about her relationship with Tracey, instead of going off in a huff like that. She watched Tracey move across the small kitchen, peering at the range as though he'd never seen anything like it before, complaining about the lack of an electric kettle. Eventually he placed two cups of tea on the table and took a seat opposite her. She took a sip, decided it was too hot, and put the cup down.

‘OK–begin.'

‘I don't know if you're going to believe this –'

‘Oh, I am.' Tracey helped himself to a biscuit from the packet he'd put on the table. ‘That's why I'm here – I knew you were up to something. Biscuit?' He pushed the packet towards her.

Loretta hesitated, then took one. This domestic scene – teacups, biscuits – was making her wonder if she'd dreamed the entire episode in Steeple Barford. But she knew she hadn't; she only had to look in her bag to find the tape was no longer there.

‘What would you say if I told you the Americans
were
involved? In trying to frighten Clara, I mean?'

Tracey thought for a moment. ‘Who d'you mean by the Americans? And what's your evidence?'

Loretta sighed, wishing he wouldn't adopt this courtroom manner.
‘I
don't know who they are. People from the base – the – CIA, I expect.'

‘Unlikely, if they're from the base. The CIA tends to work out of–'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Not a great deal, no. I was about to say – well, let's not get into that. It's never easy to get to the bottom of who's working for who. Go on.'

Loretta paused, then told Tracey everything that had happened since she arrived back at the cottage and found the anonymous note. When she finished he got up and lifted the kettle back on to the hob.

‘More tea?'

‘Is that all you can say?'

‘I'm thinking.' He waited in silence for the kettle to boil, added more water to the teapot, and held it over her cup.

‘Oh, all right. As you've made it.'

Tracey refilled both cups and sat down.