No Enemy but Time (39 page)

‘Pat give him a fair old crack on the head,' Willie said.

Sean Filey glanced at the impassive young man sitting by the fireplace, cleaning his nails with a matchstick. He met a blank and hostile stare.

‘He could be concussed,' Sean said.

‘He could so,' Willie agreed. ‘I heard him bein' sick after we left him. That'll keep him quiet for a few days anyway.'

Filey got up. ‘Marie's coming in and out. You've got the rota for guarding him. She'll see to the food and one of you go up and hold a gun on him. I'll be round tomorrow. Watch yourselves meantime.'

Pat stayed the first night. He went up towards mid-afternoon, opened the door briefly and watched the man lying on his back on the bed. He was breathing and seemed asleep. Frank watched the dim figure through a slit of eyelid. The room was mercifully shaded by a little whitewashed window. Light hurt his eyes, and the pain in his head was a continuous throbbing ache. The nausea had stopped. The door closed again and he could hear the man's footsteps going down the stairs. He lay still, willing himself to sleep.

A full bladder woke him. Someone had been up and left a lamp burning in a corner, too far away for him to reach. There was a chamber pot, a roll of lavatory paper and a jug of water with a tin mug placed beside the bed. It should have been a difficult and humiliating task to relieve himself. Willie hadn't reckoned on him being left-handed when he fastened him to the bed. He lay back, listening. His head ached, but he felt no dizziness when he moved or sat up. His arm was very stiff, suspended above his head. He lay and he listened. There was no carpeting, just bare boards, nothing in the room but the bed and the lamp on the floor. He could hear a murmur of voices from below. He sat up again and looked down. The floor was thin. Modern planking, unlike the thick wood used in old houses. The ceilings were not soundproof. He was above them, but all he could hear was the murmur. He couldn't isolate any words. If he could make a hole, there was a chance … His pockets had been emptied. There was nothing he could use. He felt a great surge of rage sweep over him, followed by a helplessness that could have brought him to tears.

He passed the night in fits of sleeping, and starts of waking panic when he dreamed the door was opening and the man with murder in his eyes was standing there. But when it did open, it was late morning, and it was Marie Dempster with a tray in her hand who stood and smiled at him, with the gunman at her back.

‘How are you feeling, Frank?' she asked. ‘I've brought you a bite of breakfast.'

The alarm had been raised by mid-afternoon. The girl who'd replaced Marie as Frank's secretary phoned through to Meath when he didn't come in, because he had clients waiting. He had left for Dublin at his usual time, she was told. When she noticed his car in the parking bay, the senior investment consultant advised her to contact the police and the hospitals, in case he'd walked off somewhere and been run over. A detective came round with a constable, took details, examined the car and went back to report.

From the computer print-out on Francis Hugh Arbuthnot, the Chief Superintendent decided to call in the Special Branch. The item was on the early TV news and in the evening edition of the Dublin papers. ‘Banker vanishes', the headlines cried in thick black type. ‘Mr Frank Arbuthnot, prominent merchant banker, disappeared after leaving his car in the park outside the Boston Irish Bank this morning. Mr Arbuthnot left his Meath mansion at eight-thirty this morning and has not been seen since. There is growing speculation that he may have been kidnapped. The Arbuthnots are a wealthy Kildare family …' Sean Filey switched the set off.

The black Peugeot had been stolen in Wicklow at dawn that morning. It was left a mile away from the owner's house. Sean had told Willie to drop empty coke cans, sweet papers and a crumpled packet of cheap cigarettes inside. All the windows were left open and the door had been given a dent with a hammer. The infuriated owner was told by the local police it was teenagers joy-riding, and he was lucky the damage was so slight. Nothing was missing from the boot and nobody bothered any further. Arbuthnot had been swallowed up as if he'd stepped into a bog. And a bog was where he would end, as soon as they had got Claire Fraser in their hands. If Marie was wrong, and the sister didn't come, then he'd be executed as a warning to others.

The publicity was just what they wanted. It made the six and nine o'clock news on BBC and the ten o'clock on ITV. Filey watched them both. The slant was different, but even better for their purpose. ‘The brother-in-law of Trade and Industry Secretary Neil Fraser is feared kidnapped from his merchant bank in the Irish Republic. Mr Frank Arbuthnot, member of a prominent Anglo-Irish family and Chairman of the Boston Irish Bank of Dublin, disappeared after leaving his home in Meath.'

Billy Gorman saw the item on RTE. He sat hunched in his chair, staring at the set, muttering ‘Jayney', over and over, because he was frightened out of his life by what he was hearing. Sallins had been buzzing with talk of the reward Arbuthnot was going to offer. A number of people said he should mind his own business. Others said worse.

Up at Riverstown, Claudia saw the same programme. She watched it right through and sat on with the sound turned down for a long time afterwards. ‘Your chickens are coming home to roost,' she'd said. It looked like a terrible prophecy now. Soon the phone started ringing. She answered it. She said the same thing to the next three callers.

‘Yes, it is frightful. But if it is the IRA, he brought it on himself. I just hope it doesn't mean trouble for the rest of the family.'

And then came the call she'd been dreading. The call from Claire in Gloucestershire.

Claire had taken the children to a birthday party. There were twenty little boys and girls. Lucy was the extrovert; she toddled forward to join in, while Peter hung back holding on to his mother. He was a shy child, and Claire had to coax him to play the party games. After a time he was enjoying himself. The noise was shrill and deafening. The little girl who was seven that day cut her cake and blew out the candles to screams of encouragement. There were balloons and a present for each guest. Claire knew the family slightly, but she was aware that her children had been asked because the Frasers were a social prize.

They drove home, the children playing with their too expensive gifts in the back. Claire remembered the simple presents of her own childhood, when a packet of coloured pencils was a treat. She switched on the radio as the news was finishing and listened to the weather forecast. Warm, south-easterly winds, maximum temperature twenty degrees centigrade.

It should be a nice weekend. And for once the house wasn't going to be full of people. Neil arranged house parties weeks in advance, and he had a long and varied list of guests. Most of them were connected with his political career. Claire had been bored by what she called his lobbying weekends for years. But she went through the motions. She arranged lunch and dinner parties, played tennis and walked with them on the Sunday afternoon, Neil's Labradors trotting obediently at their heels. This weekend she could swim in the pool and lie around reading without being interrupted. When they first moved to the house, she and Neil used to have crazy tennis matches, slamming the balls at each other and shrieking with laughter. That had stopped long ago.

She took the children upstairs to the nursery. The girl Claudia had engaged after Lucy's birth was still with them. They ran happily towards her.

‘I'll come and say goodnight after they've had their baths,' Claire said. She went back downstairs, poured herself a glass of wine and tucked herself up on the sofa. She switched on the BBC six o'clock news.

Neil had been driving flat out to get home after the call came through. Because of the family connection, he was told about his brother-in-law's disappearance before it became public. As soon as he came into the drawing room and saw Claire, he knew that she'd already heard. He saw her white and stricken face and hurried towards her.

‘Oh darling, I know. I know. Don't cry.' He put his arms round her.

She drew into herself as if he were a stranger.

‘I'll die if anything's happened to him,' she said. ‘It's the IRA. I warned him, I begged him. Oh, my God, my God …'

‘Claire,' he protested. ‘For God's sake, don't go to pieces like this! He'll probably turn up – he could have gone off somewhere without telling anyone. Don't work yourself up till we know a little more!'

She wrenched away from him. ‘Oh, it's easy for you to say that. They'll kill him. I know they will!'

He couldn't calm her. He couldn't reason. Nothing he said seemed to penetrate at all. In the end he said, ‘You stay here. I'll get through to London and see what I can find out. They may have more news.'

For the first time she seemed to listen.

‘Will you? Will you do that? Oh, get through now, for God's sake.'

When he came back she was quieter, as if she had worn herself out. Her face was blotched and the tears were still running unchecked. He gave her his own handkerchief and slipped his arm round her. This time she didn't pull away.

‘I've spoken to people who'd know the full details,' he said. ‘It does look as if he's been kidnapped. It could be for ransom.' He didn't mention the other suggestion. ‘It may be murder,' he'd been told. ‘He's been putting the Provos' backs up lately. If they don't find his body by tomorrow, then it could be a ransom job. Let's hope so, for Mrs Fraser's sake.'

She listened, wiped her eyes and then said, ‘I want to ring my mother. I want to talk to somebody who understands. I told him to get out.'

Neil said nothing. Yet another secret kept from him. It wasn't the moment to ask about it.

‘I'll get the number for you,' he said. ‘Would you like a brandy; calm the nerves?'

‘No, thanks,' Claire shook her head. ‘It was just the shock. I'd been worrying for days, ever since he phoned. I'm all right now. Sorry I made such a scene. I haven't got the stiff upper lip, I'm afraid.'

He so wanted to be gentle and comforting. He wanted to forget how much he hated that half-brother and wouldn't have really minded if he'd got what he deserved. Perhaps Claire knows, he thought suddenly. Perhaps that's why she put up the shutters again. Someone who understands. That hurt him, and for a moment he was selfish enough to be angry. Claudia wouldn't be sorry. She felt the same about Frank as he did. He went to the telephone and dialled.

‘Don't cry,' Claudia said. ‘It doesn't help to upset yourself. We've just got to hope it's all a mistake. He may turn up. You've got to keep calm and think of Neil and the children, darling. The Gardai came round a little while ago, and they've promised to let me know if anything comes through. It was that nice boy, Joe Burns. You remember, the father worked for us for years and he used to help out at times. Don't worry, he's probably all right.'

‘He isn't, Mother,' Claire said. ‘And you know it.'

There was a pause, then Claudia said, ‘He did come here after that poor old fellow Donny was murdered. He was talking rather dangerously, I must admit. He wanted to offer a reward for information. I said it was the IRA and he knew perfectly well it was too. I wouldn't have anything to do with it, but you know Frank. He hasn't listened to any of us for years.'

Claire said, ‘He rang me and told me he was finished with them. Mother, I'm coming over.'

She heard Neil say, ‘No!' very loudly in the background.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Claudia spoke sharply. ‘That's absurd. Rushing over and leaving your husband and children. It certainly wouldn't be safe, and you're not staying here. I've decided, I'm not staying either till this is cleared up. I shall go down to Maura Keys in Limerick for a few days. Put Neil on, please, darling. I want to talk to him.'

Claire said distinctly, ‘No, I won't. You'll only gang up together. Poor Frank. My poor brother. Nobody gives a damn about him except me.' Then she rang off.

Neil came towards her. ‘Claire, for God's sake, darling.'

‘I know what you're going to say,' she said. ‘But please don't. Not tonight. I couldn't stand it if we argued. Mother was bad enough. I can't stop thinking about it. They're merciless, Neil; they won't just kill him. If they think he's betrayed them in any way, they'll hurt him.'

‘Has he betrayed them? Why didn't you tell me?'

‘We don't talk about him,' she pointed out. ‘We only row if we do. He phoned me some days ago. He said he was finished with the IRA. I wanted him to get out and come here. I would have asked you if he'd said yes. But he wouldn't. They can't touch me, that's what he said. Oh, Neil, I'm so frightened of waking up in the morning and hearing something dreadful.'

‘You won't,' he assured her. ‘Our people said tonight that no news will be good news. They're usually right.'

There were sleeping pills in the cupboard. He insisted that she took one. He lay awake beside her. He heard her catch a breath in her sleep, as if she were crying in a dream.

If he's dead, I've probably lost her, he thought. She'll never get over it. If he isn't and there's a long nightmare ahead, God knows what will happen …

In the morning she woke before him and switched on the radio for the early news. Frank's disappearance was not among the headlines. Claire lay back against the pillows. After a night's rest it was easier to think rationally. Her response last night had been hysterical with shock. No news would be good news, Neil had said. The day was not over; there was plenty of time for the nightmare to become a news item. ‘Banker found dead'. She shuddered and shut the thought out. What had he said when they spoke last … how long ago? It was only days, but it seemed like a lifetime.
They won't touch me
. Yes, but something else …
I can always hole up for a few days. Remember Reynard?
She turned and grabbed Neil by the shoulder.